Beautiful Boy

There's this thing you do where you press your fists to each side of your face the entire time you're eating.  I would say it was the most adorable thing ever, but then, there are so many from which to choose.

Your mother and I love every single thing about you.  The way both your arms jolt out to the side when it seems like something startles you.  Your grumpy old man face.  How you frequently extend one fist into the air above your head.  (We say it's your power-to-the-people pose.  Sometimes I call you "my little activist" and chant "Ber-nie! Ber-nie!")

You were due on the twenty-sixth of November.  Iron Bowl Saturday.  You arrived nine days early.  I guess you couldn't wait to meet us.  Either that, or you didn't want to enter the world amidst the domestic assault which surely would have been occurring once daddy insisted on watching the game on his phone in the delivery room while your mother was exploring the sundry delights of labor.

Often we had debated whether you would be a Luke or a Harper.  We would wait until your arrival to find out, all the while buying lots of neutral-colored clothes -- greens, grays, and whites.

You turned out to be a Luke.  A seven-pound, fifteen-ounce, twenty-inch-long bundle of perfect.  Your birthday fell one day before your beautiful aunt's, your daddy's sister.  (And no, I didn't proclaim, "Luke, I am your father!" as you exited the womb.  Though I may have uttered it a few times since.)

It was hard not to feel unprepared to be a Dad.  I had never even changed a diaper.  On my very first, I was assisting your mother, or more accurately, observing the proper technique.  Part way through, the moisture from the baby wipe she was using squirted into my face, onto my glasses and forehead.  

Or so I thought.  

Turns out it wasn't the baby wipe.  Maybe that was your little way of indoctrinating me into Dad-dom.

You have a single patch of white hair near your forehead, contrasting with all your brown.  Same as your grandpa and great-grandmother.  I think about all your great-grandparents and wish they were here to enjoy you.

They say you have my mouth and chin.  I think your mother might get a tad tired of hearing how much you look like me.  But let me tell you something about your mother, Luke: Your mother is amazing.

She gets up at least twice every single night to feed you, and at least as often just to console you.  She has done so much research, asking, and reading to try and ensure she is producing all that you need.

She probably hasn't had six hours of sleep in a night since you were born.  I am sure she is more tired than she has been in her whole life.  But when she looks at you, it is unfailingly obvious she is completely in love with you.  I know you won't remember these first months, but in case you ever read this, I wanted you to know that.

I hope you get her persistence.  Her loyalty.  Her love for travel.  Her freakishly healthy teeth.

I hope that as you grow up, she and I set a good example for you, not only as parents but as a married couple.  I hope that we gross you out by kissing in front of you, with tongue!  (Don't worry, you'll learn all about that one day.  It's one of the best things about life.)

I hope so much for you.  Much, much more than I ever had.  I suppose that is every parent's wish.

Yet while I cannot wait to see what you become, what your passions and personality will be, I try and cling to all these fleeting moments right now.  Moments I know I will soon miss.  Like how easily you fall asleep on my chest.  The precious coos and noises you make.  How you smile when I come home from work and start talking to you.

My beautiful boy, when you smile it's as if all the troubles of this world and problems of adulthood are as far away as a thing could ever be.

Oftentimes when you are asleep, I will go and check to make sure you are still breathing.  I am sure it seems a silly thing.  But in that moment, to see you peacefully asleep, everything is right in my world.

We have been wrestling with the decision to put you into daycare.  You, so completely reliant on your mother and me.  It's as if my heart has leapt outside of my body, and letting it/you out of my sight -- with a complete stranger, no less -- terrifies me like no thing ever has.  I know it terrifies your mother, as well.

I would give anything if one of us could quit our job.  But no matter how we crunch the numbers, we can't seem to make it work.  It's impossible not to feel like a bad parent.

This will all get easier, right?  (And all the parents of the world laughed and laughed.)

It is the opinion of some, and even I may have thought at times, that having a child is an entirely selfish act.  I have no idea if that is true.  What I do know is since you came along I have been on a crash course in unselfishness.

Of course I knew parents made many, many sacrifices.  Heaven knows my parents did.  The thing I didn't realize was that most of the time, you don't even think of it as a sacrifice.  Maybe there's no time for such thoughts.  You simply do whatever you have to for this precious creature who depends on you in every way.

All my decisions are made in the context of how they will affect you.  I want to be healthier so that I can be around longer for you.  I want to be a better person so that I might be a decent example for you.

You have brought so much change, so much new to our lives.  Many are simple things, such as the feeling I have when I carry you into a restaurant or any public place, or knowing I am the person family and friends will hand you back to when you start to cry.

Even my apps have changed.  WebMD Baby, Lyfeline Milestones, and The Wonder Weeks have claimed their place alongside Subway Surfers, Word Streak, and GolfStar.   

Having the opportunity to see the world anew through your big, beautiful eyes has reminded me of the wonder that has always been there.  I try to imagine all the new things you must be continually discovering.  Realizing the hope and possibilities that lie before you has renewed my own hope.

You have given me a new perspective on a lot of things.

Driving, for example, has become one of the single scariest experiences of human existence.  Bringing you home from the hospital, I was constantly on edge.  What if that car doesn't stop at that stop sign?  Why are these lanes so narrow?  What if that truck crosses over the median, breaks through the concrete barrier, and comes into my lane?  And why must everyone drive the speed limit???  I think ten miles per hour under is plenty fast, ya bunch of crazies!

I have a whole new appreciation and admiration for anyone who has ever raised a child.  No one tells you how hard it is going to be.  Or maybe they do, but there is no way to grasp it until you are the one doing it.

And single parents?  I stand amazed.  I cannot begin to comprehend how you do it.  You are real-life superheroes.

Sweet Lucas, you have even given me a new perspective on God.  Knowing how much I love you, I think, gives me a new appreciation of how much He must love His children.

Sometimes I am certain I learn more from you than you ever will from me.

If e'er I wondered if miracles still occur, I can now answer without doubt or hesitation: They absolutely do.  You are our perfect miracle.  It is an honor to be your dad, and the most enormous responsibility of my life.  

God help me not to mess it up.

"Before you go to sleep / Say a little prayer / Every day in every way / It's getting better and better / Beautiful boy..."

One night in December

For almost everyone in attendance, it would have been nothing very remarkable.  One child, just one of thirty or so on the stage, singing, ringing his bell, and making hand motions with all the other kids as they sang along to "O Come All Ye Faithful" during the Christmas program at the county Christian school.

But remarkable, it was.  To those who had seen him the year before stand with his back to the crowd the entire time, not moving or saying a word.  And the year before that had watched him put his hands over his face and cast his head downward, again not uttering a sound.

There I sat, in the audience, more teary-eyed than any parent or grandparent who was there.  Because I knew how far he had come.  I had been through the days of not being able to understand what he was saying even though he was trying so hard.

To watch a child struggle, to speak or to do any other seemingly simple task, melts away whatever hardness might be inside you.  It puts life in perspective in a way only a few things can.

I thought of his mother.  She who repeatedly told doctors something wasn't right until they finally listened.  She who still spends hours on the phone fighting with the insurance company as they try to deny coverage of his therapy.  And she who makes the 90-minute round-trip three times a week so that he can receive what she believes is the best-available help for his apraxia.

I looked over at her, sitting in the next section, her 5-foot-1 frame having to strain to see over the people in front of her.  She had a smile as wide as the building.  It's the smile she always has when she is trying not to cry.

She had struggled with whether to put him in public school, eventually deciding against it.  She started him here in hopes that he would get more attention.  It was a hard decision.  We were public school kids.  But if there were still any doubt, this night was absolute validation she had made the right choice. 

A little later we listened as one of the older kids, a young man who had overcome autism, stood in front of the audience and read the Christmas story.

When the program ended, I high-fived my nephew and told him how proud I was of him.  He seemed rather unimpressed by it all.  I thought of his great aunt, a wonderful and kind southern woman he would never really get a chance to know, lying in rest twenty minutes away.

A couple of days before, she had slipped from this realm of sickness and dying.  Her visitation was the same night of his program.

His uncle and her nephew, I managed to make it to both.

Life was beautiful. And sad.

"Some of it's magic / Some of it's tragic / But I had a good life all the way..."

A new (year's) memory

The call came early on New Year's Eve, just as I was beginning my annual revelry of struggling to stay up until midnight.  Most years lately, I let midnight Eastern time suffice. 

"Bone, this is your Aunt Ida.  Listen hon, since your momma and sister are at the beach, Aunt Ida wanted to invite you over for New Year's dinner tomorrow."

My New Year's tradition has been to go to mom's for black-eyed peas, hog jowl, collard greens, and fried potatoes.  But Mom, my sister, and nephews (there are two now) had taken a last-minute trip to the coast.

Even so, another year I might have said no, being my usual anti-social self.  But not this year.  Not this winter.  In the span of three weeks, I lost an aunt and an uncle.  Then on the way home from my uncle's burial, Fave Aunt was in a serious car accident, suffering several broken ribs and a fractured sternum.

Aunt Ida lives on this dirt road, at least five miles from the nearest traffic light.  When I was little, it used to seem so far back in the woods and we'd almost always go at night to visit.  Plus it was a dead end.  It all made for a bit of a scary place to a kid.

I'm sure that was exacerbated by the fact they had a basement where we hid during the '74 tornadoes.  Probably my earliest memory of life.  I remember the lights going out and huddling in the dark.  Years later I would learn that one tornado had passed within a couple miles.

Driving out there on New Year's Day, I discovered Aunt Ida only lived three-tenths of a mile off the paved road.  (I nearly said main road, but you have to take two more roads to get to anything that might even remotely be considered a main road.)

When my uncle retired,  or maybe even a bit before, they bought an old bus and customized it for traveling.  It would have been the mid '80s, and I'd never seen anything like it.  To me, the inside looked like a rock star's tour bus.  I remember once they drove up through Canada and over to Alaska.  Were gone for like 3 months.

My uncle passed on years ago, and as I pulled into the drive, I was struck by how empty the whole place looked without the bus parked there, or the enormous garden which used to stretch out forever behind the house.

My cousin, who's always seemed more like an uncle, and his wife were there.  New Year's Day still means bowl games.  And we enjoyed watching Auburn lose almost as much as we enjoyed the home cooking.  Almost.

It was a quite lovely day.

So lovely, in fact, that I called and invited myself back over for breakfast this past Saturday.  This time, I stopped by and picked up mom on the way.  After enjoying gravy, homemade biscuits, pear preserves, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and hash browns, we sat and talked. 

Well, mostly I listened, as the two sisters went on about growing up, kinfolk, and "whatever happened to so-and-so."  They talked of businesses that had closed thirty years ago, houses that were no longer there, of getting a ride up to the highway so they could catch the bus into town.  I soaked up all of it.

By the time we got up to leave, morning had become afternoon.

And there at the site of my earliest life memory, I'd made another one.

"We can stop and go to church with your sweet Aunt Ida / Have supper at the Chattanooga Choo Choo Diner / We'll be talkin' 'bout this trip when we're two old-timers..."

Twilight

 It's a beautiful evening here as I sit on the back porch writing.  Twilight is setting in.  The clouds are a mix of pink and and purple and a weird blue-gray.  The moon is out -- a waxing gibbous, I think it's called.  Looks like it'll be full in a few days.  It's a painting.  God doing his best Bob Ross.  Or maybe God let Bob paint this one...

I don't know what it is about Father's Day that makes me think about my dad.  Just one of life's little mysteries, I suppose.

Saturday, the plan was to meet Dad and his wife and go to supper and to the cemetery where his parents are buried.  (I've written about the cemetery here.)   Dad wanted to meet at 3:30.  It's about a 45-minute-to-an-hour drive to the cemetery.  So I'm thinking we'll get there at 4:30, leave the cemetery around 5ish, and be at the restaurant by 5:15 or so.  I know they like to eat super early, so that seemed like a good compromise.

I cannot adequately describe the moment of surprise and just wanting to burst out laughing out loud as Dad blew past the exit to the cemetery and I realized, "Oh, my dear Heavenly Father, we are about to eat supper at 4:15 in the afternoon."

But that's exactly what happened.

As we were ordering our drinks, my step-mom got water and whispered, "I didn't figure I oughta have any caffeine this late in the day."  Meanwhile, I was looking much forward to my sweet tea and thinking, "I'll be doing great if this is the last caffeine I have today!"

After force-feeding myself a rather delicious meal of a cheeseburger, chili dog, (What?  They're really small!  Everybody gets multiples!) and banana pudding for dessert, we left for the cemetery.

Dad took a different way -- an old way -- and showed us the house where he grew up.  As we continued on the drive, I asked where his high school was, and he started peering off the road to the right.  He said, "You can probably see it behind these new buildings."  The buildings turned out to be the new school. He didn't realize they had built one.  And though I'm sure it didn't bother him, I felt bad for him in that instant.

Later, he took us clear across town to the cemetery where his two half-brothers are buried.  They weren't buried near each other and they obviously weren't buried by their parents.  I wondered why.  Dad didn't seem to know.

At some point as we walked amongst the peaceful rows of markers and flowers Dad mentioned that he and his wife had already purchased their spaces at a cemetery near where they live now.  It's not something I wanted to think or talk about, so I left his words to linger and fade without a response.  At the same time, I marveled at how he spoke of his own mortality with such matter-of-factness.

I think Dad is in a really good place these days.  There's an ease in him now that wasn't always there.  A contentment.  He seems to have found the answers to some of life's many questions.  It gives me hope that I, who take after him in so many other ways, will do the same.

He's all over Facebook now.  He mentioned it on at least six separate occasions during our excursion Saturday.  And when I called to see if he wanted to do this for Father's Day, he was at the gym.

We leave each other with a hug instead of a handshake anymore.  And the "I love yous" are no longer just implied.

But not everything has changed. He's still playing the guitar, still working, still driving the same old Chevy truck, which seems to always be barely running.  He's still in church every Sunday morning and night.  And he remains quite taken with his role as a grandpa.  "Peepaw," Nephew Bone calls him.  Some might say it's the role he was born to play.

Me, I always kinda thought he made a pretty good dad.

"I notice I walk the way he walks / I notice I talk the way he talks / I'm startin' to see / My father in me..."

Thoughts of home

It's not the town where I was born.  Nor is it the town where I live now.  But it's where I've spent the most of my days.

None of my family live there anymore.  But it's still the one place I'm more likely to recognized than anywhere else.

I still think of it as home.

There, I'll always be my parents' son, or my sister's older brother.  The kid in the brown smock and pink knit, square-end tie who bagged groceries at the Piggly Wiggly.  The underachiever who frustrated more than one teacher because he cruised through high school finishing sixth in his class rather than daring to stand out by, oh I don't know, actually trying.

There's something reassuring in the knowledge that whether you go off and make it big or whether you never amount to much of anything, in your hometown you're still just you.

I had occasion to visit my hometown a few weeks ago.  The only accountant I've ever used has her office there.

A lot sure has changed in that little town.

To someone only passing through that would probably seem strange to hear.  For it's nothing you would notice at first glance.  Just a lot of little things that only someone who spent a number of years there --  who grew up there -- would see.

The four-way stop has been replaced by a traffic light.  The shopping center once home to the Winn Dixie, a Bargain Town, and the Elmore's five-and-dime now houses a different grocery store, a gym, and an H&R Block.

They've built a new courthouse out on the four-lane.  The old courthouse is just a building now.  It's three stories serving as an unintentional monument of the town square which has changed so much around it.  Thirty years ago, it was still the center of commerce.  And every Friday and Saturday night, there would be a solid line of cars -- teenagers in Trans-Ams and old pickup trucks and Novas -- cruising the square.

I remember when the "new" four-lane was first coming through.  Before it opened, you could go around the orange roadblock signs and drive on the fresh, jet-black pavement.  It's where Dad would take me to practice driving, since you didn't have to worry about traffic.  And I realized he was younger then than I am now...

They finally tore down the old Star Theatre.  It was an old-style art deco theatre with half-moon doors.  And even though it was never open as long as I can remember, seeing its ticket window and big marquee, I always liked to imagine how alive it must have been on some long ago day.  Every so often, there would be talk that somebody was going to open it back up again, but nobody ever did.  

I drove past the spot where the old lumber company used to be.  A few years ago, it burned to the ground.  I knew a fireman who died there.  The obvious void in the landscape seemed fitting for the gaping hole I know he left in the lives of his wife, and children, and grandchildren.

Somewhere around this time, it began to dawn on me how virtually every street in this town held a memory for me.  Almost every building, some significance.

The old Texaco, which is now a used car lot, is where I used to stop every evening on my way to work (under the guise of buying a snack) to see a girl who worked the counter.  She even stopped in to see me at work a couple of times, but I was too naive or unskilled to ever go any further.

That's just a few blocks from the intersection where I killed my Jeep umpteen times one night when I was learning to drive a stick.  We must have sat through at least 5 green lights, me panicking while my baby sister sat in the passenger seat telling me it was going to be OK. She loves recounting that story at family gatherings for some reason.

Just off the square, there's the Western Auto where I once bought a 10-speed.  It was all covered with dust and the tires were flat and I remember thinking they must not sell too many bikes.

Out on the four-lane, now next to the new Walmart, is the church of Christ where I had my sins washed away.  I can still remember the feeling of freedom and purity I felt that day, and the guilt I've felt so many times since.

If you head south, on the outskirts of town, there's the Baptist church which none of us attended, but we sure made good use of their outdoor basketball court.  The goals are no longer there, the church having installed an indoor gym many years ago.  The old court now serves as a parking lot for the church buses.  As I'm writing this, I just now remembered there would sometimes be an older gentleman, probably in his 70's, who would occasionally come and bring a lawn chair and watch our pickup games.  I hadn't thought of that memory in probably twenty years!

A part of me will always be bound to that little town, held fast by so many memories, people and places, a lot of them no longer there anymore.  But I can still see them, in my mind, frozen in time exactly as they were ten, fifteen, twenty-five years ago..

I smiled when I thought about the barber shop where old Mister Albert used to cut my hair.  I never saw him when he wasn't wearing dress pants and a button-down shirt.  Dad and I would both get our haircuts the same day.  I'll always remember the story about Mister Albert having a mild heart attack while cutting someone's hair.  He sat down in a chair for a couple of minutes to rest, then got up and finished the haircut before he would go to the hospital.

It feels like I could go on forever.

Not surprisingly, the accountant asked about my mom.   There, I'll always be my parents' son...  I just had to sign some papers.  We exchanged a bit of small talk and I was on my way.

A lot of times I would have taken a couple minutes to drive by our old house: an unassuming three-bedroom brick on a sleepy little street with a carport, gravel driveway, and a maple tree in the front yard.  It's the last place my parents lived together.

But on this day, I did not.

Maybe I was afraid it had changed and wouldn't be as I remembered it. Maybe I'd seen enough change for one day.

Besides, I can go back there most anytime.

All I have to do is close my eyes.

"Southbound breezes blowin' / This town ain't my home / You can slow me down / But I'm goin' / If I can turn this road I'm on / Southbound..."

A blogger grapples with forty

It is a largely nondescript Saturday evening.  A group of people have gathered in a restaurant.  There are candles on a cake.  Presents on a table.

There are forty-two or forty-three people in all.  I would count them later.  Why were they all here?  It must be bingo night.  Or they must be having a raffle or something, giving away cash.

No, they are here for me.  Some by choice, some because they're family -- they're required to love me.  There are aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, even a former co-worker and her husband.

I am caught off guard.  When my sister asked me out to dinner, I had been suspicious at first.  But by the time we arrived at the restaurant, I had forgotten to be.

There is a face cake, with me as a kid of probably seven or eight, with my Bo Duke hair, wearing a football jersey, shoulder pads, football pants, full uniform.  Funny thing, I never actually played football on a team or anything.  But still, a face cake!

My Mom was nice enough to bring an essay I wrote in grade school, "The Person I Admire The Most."  The person I chose to write about?  Axl.  He is at the party, and he is LOVING this.

"Come on, we were in the fourth grade!" I really thought we were.
"Bone, we were in seventh grade."
"What?  So I wrote this when I was like thirteen?"
"Yep."
"Oh... well... that is a bit more embarrassing."

He will milk the essay for every last drop.  I wouldn't expect anything less.  That's not to mention all the "You write like a girl" comments the essay drew. 

Elsewhere, Nephew Bone is proudly displaying Uncle Bone's age with his fingers. (Is this really the sort of thing we want to be teaching our children?)  Or attempting to anyway.  More times than not he winds up holding up four fingers on each hand.

There are the requisite gag gifts.  At least, I hope they are gag gifts -- Polident, chocolate laxative, and a Viagra bottle filled with M&M's.  At least, I hope they were M&M's.

It strikes me more than once during the evening that the next time this many people show up for me will be at my funeral.  Or wedding.  Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. (What? Either way, I'll most likely be in a suit and people will be crying.)

There is an ease to the evening.  A comfortableness.  But still, there is an underlying feeling I can't seem to escape.  A feeling of "I can't believe this is me."

And yet, it is.

I still feel twenty-five most of the time, save for maybe Friday evenings when a week of work and waking up at 5:30 has caught up with me and I fall asleep on the couch by 8 PM.  And yet, these candles on the cake betray me.

For...... ty.

There, I said it.  I admit it's been a little tough for me.  And yes, I know that if I live long enough, someday forty will seem oh so young.  I guess I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do now, how I'm supposed to handle it.  Do I just pretend to take it all in stride, when suddenly life doesn't seem quite as long as it used to seem?

Am I not supposed to say that?  Is it taboo?   It's sure easier not to think about it, if only for sanity's sake.  So much more convenient to put it out of mind.

And yet, we mark the passing of these years with, of all things, candles.  Has ever there been a thing more symbolic of the life's impermanence than one of these?  Coming to life, burning to its peak of brightness, flickering for a little while, and then gone, all in a matter of moments.  (I don't know about you, but I think this is shaping up to be one of my funniest posts ever!)

I read a quote recently that I would butcher badly if I tried to paraphrase.  But the gist was that life is made up of a million instants.  There is this instant, and that instant, and as soon as they are here they are gone, a part of our past.

So there is right now, then there all the days of our past and all the days of our future.  And I suppose I have always tended to yearn for the larger of those.  When I was young, I longed to be older.  And now that I am older...

People have been saying all the usual things to try and be helpful/keep me from losing it:  "Life begins at forty."  "Forty is the new thirty."  Or even better, "Forty is the new twenty-five."  "You're just a baby."  (I gotta admit, it was refreshing hearing that from someone other than a current or ex-girlfriend.)   "You're not really forty,  you're eighteen with twenty-two years experience."  And my personal favorite, "Studies have shown that people who have the most birthdays, live the longest."

Still, it's just weird for me to think about not being here someday.  Me!  Bone!  I mean, take a moment and try and picture each of your lives with no Bone in it....

Not a few seconds, a moment...

Not a pretty sight, is it?  Didn't think so.  Here, have one of these odd-shaped blue M&M's.  They've sure been making me feel better.

I'll close with a photo.  My aunt who snowbirds in Florida sent me a birthday card.  Inside, she had included the newspaper clipping of my first birthday.

(My God, was I adorable!  I could have been the Gerber baby!   Kinda makes you wonder what in the world happened.)

She wrote, "I came across this handsome little boy.  Thought you'd like to keep it as I have all these birthdays.  Lots of love..."

Wow.

It brought me to a complete stop.

Out of life's million little "instants," only a cherished few are able to do that.

"Guess my life's moved / At near light speed / Since I started this wild and crazy run / Such a long way / From that first birthday..."

The cemetery trees

It's nothing grandiose.  Sitting on the littlest of hills, surrounded by a chain-link fence, just far enough away from everything so that you can barely hear the cars from the nearest paved road.  A few trees watch over irregular rows of hewn stones, and the bones of those dearly departed.

I have come here at times alone -- to think, and to talk.  To my grandma (mamaw), or maybe just to the wind.  But I have not been here in a long while.  Too long.  Usually it is quiet.  I find a peacefulness here.  But not today.

Today is Decoration Day at the cemetery where most of my mom's family is buried.  It's a day for socializing.  I speak to relatives.  Most I know and recognize.  Some I remember after they introduce themselves.  A couple I pretend to know and wait until I can grab the arm of an aunt or uncle later to ask who that was.

"There's fewer of us every year."

My youngest aunt says this to me, perhaps verbalizing what others are only thinking.  I give a resigned nod.  Though I'm not certain about every year, I definitely notice it this year.  Of twenty-nine first cousins, I only count ten of us there, including me.  Five of my mom's seven living brothers and sisters are there.  This is often the only time of the year I see my one uncle and aunt.  They have a grandson that looks to be twelve or thirteen that I probably haven't seen since he was a baby. 

Don't get me wrong, there were still a lot of people there.  Just not as many as I remember.  The sparseness perhaps exacerbated by the presence of two giant barren trees in the midst of the cemetery.  For as long as I can remember, those two trees provided ample shade near most of my family's graves.  They played the songs of the wind.  But something has killed them since the last time I was here.  And as I stand there in the unrelenting sun, I realize like too much of life, I have only come to truly appreciate them in their absence.

One highlight of the day is my 86-year-old great uncle.  He is the last one living of his siblings, the last link to my mamaw's generation.  And he has no kids, so it has been left to my mother and a couple of her siblings to see after him.  On this day, my youngest uncle has gone by to get him and rolled him out to a shady spot.  There he sits in his wheelchair as people walk up and talk to him.

I get into a conversation with an uncle and a cousin about my great grandmother, who was half-Cherokee.  My uncle did some genealogy research a few years ago and tells us that during the Indian Removal my great-grandmother and her family identified themselves as "black Dutch," denying their ancestry in fear of being sent West.  These are the stories I love, and crave.

But it's a hotter-than-normal May morning, and with the lack of much shade, we are not long at the cemetery.  After maybe an hour, several of us head over to fave aunt's for a cookout and more family time.  My great uncle is there, too.  I watch him eating and I wish all his days were this good.  He was recently diagnosed with cancer and decided against treatment.

Later I see that he has just about dozed off.  One of the kids runs by and bumps his chair, jolting him awake.  He smiles at her and nods.  And in that instant -- the kind eyes, the almost sad smile -- I see my mamaw, so clearly it scares me.

Eventually, after everyone has eaten, another uncle sits down at the piano.  My mom and two of my aunts join him to sing, mostly old gospel hymns.  Like so much of the rest of this day, this is a family tradition.

During one of the songs, I start to feel overcome with emotion.  Maybe it's thinking about my aunts and uncles getting older, or maybe it's just the culmination of the entire day.  Whatever it is, it hits me out of nowhere.  I hurry to the bathroom so no one will see, close the door, and I sob.  For thirty seconds.  Then I'm OK again.

I get a moment away from the others to speak to one of my older cousins.  I tell him I wonder what will happen to Decoration Day once our parents' generation is gone.  He says it will be up to us.  I know "us" may only mean a few of us.  But I feel better knowing it matters to him.

Tradition, family, the future -- I ponder these things often the next several days.  And I decide I should see about planting a new tree.

"On the other side / Do you ever see me cry / Do you know how much I miss you / Wish I could have said goodbye..."

The pilot

You guys really have me thinking about this reality show idea. I've been trying to figure out who I would get to narrate it. While Bill Curtis might seem like the obvious choice initially, I'm afraid he might be a bit too dramatic. You know, for a reali-com. (I just invented that term.)

I'm thinking maybe Mark-Paul Gosselaar. After all, he is the man who gave me the best nine minutes of my life. Also, just once I'd like for him to call me "Preppy." Of course, I'll need a backup plan in case he's unavailable. And if finding a narrator for my own reality show is anything like finding a date for senior prom, I'll need three or four backup plans.

While I continue to ponder this, as well as possible title ideas, I've decided to do a test run to see what an episode of the Bone reality show might include. Today I will be doing a written storyboard, if there is such a thing, of Bone's Thanksgiving Week. Consider this sort of a faux-pilot, purely for my benefit. As well as any TV execs who might be reading.

Today's episode of A Show With No Name begins with Bone on his way to pick up Nephew Bone for a trip to Chuck E. Cheese on Tuesday evening. The action quickly turns exciting as Bone sees blue lights in his rear-view!

As "Theme Song From The Dukes Of Hazzard" begins to play in the background, a low-speed chase ensues, lasting approximately fifteen seconds, until Bone is able to safely pull into the parking lot of a nearby bank. The officer approaches the car. What will the charge be? Another speeding ticket? Hit-and run? Texting while driving? (This is where we'd cut to commercial for added suspense.)

Turns out Bone was guilty, allegedly, of that most heinous of traffic offenses: following too closely. Are you kidding me? That doesn't even make a good story. It's embarrassing to even tell. In fact, just forget I said anything. We're gonna have to seriously edit this part to make it exciting.

Less than an hour after his latest run-in with the popo, Bone is spotted across town laughing it up at the aforementioned nightspot playing the football toss game. So adept is he at tossing mini-footballs through the little holes that he eventually runs the game out of tickets. At the prize counter, Nephew Bone chooses a lizard and some (temporary) gangsta tats, while Bone opts for some Pop Rocks.

Bone's athletic exploits continue to be on display in our next scene, as we see him at home -- alone -- playing Wii. After a couple of hours, he sets a new personal best by Wii bowling a 279! Then he remarks aloud, "If only Walter Way Williams could see me now!" Um, is Bone aware no one else is in the house? In other news, Bone's right shoulder is quite sore for about four days.

Next it's time for Thanksgiving with the Bones, a great opportunity for viewers to meet the Bone family. If you're wondering why everyone is shouting, it's because Daddy Bone doesn't have his hearing aid today. After breakfast at Daddy Bone's and before supper at Momma Bone's, Bone enjoys a Thanksgiving lunch of chips and salsa in his modern, yet practical bachelor pad. He dozes off and much like the rest of America, misses the second half of the Patriots/Lions game.

This week's episode ends on the highest of highs. It's Saturday night and Bone is home alone again, which is peculiar for sure. We see him at his computer, looking to spend the rest of the $25 iTunes gift card he received last Christmas. In the show's emotional climax, he discovers that iTunes has added "Hands To Heaven" by Breathe! At long last!

Bone is seen swaying back-and-forth in his office chair while singing along as the camera fades.

Executive Producer: Charles Rosin

"So raise your hands to heaven and pray, that we'll be back together someday. Tonight I need your sweet caress, hold me in the darkness. Tonight you calm my restlessness. You relieve my sadness..."

Lakeside revelations

I've discovered that I now divide the nation/world into regions by bloggers that I know. For instance, my dad is in North Carolina this week. North Carolina is (a) Sage's old stomping grounds and (b) near Pia. I refer to this as Geoblography. And that is the end of the Geoblography part of this post.

In other keeping-tabs-on-my-parents-until-God-help-us-all-they-start-tweeting-someday news, we got Mom moved into a house a couple of weekends ago. It's funny, had I typed "home" there in place of "house" that would have had a whole other connotation, even though it is her home. Anyway, we had five men of the Bone extended family on hand for the proceedings.

There was my cousin's husband and me; my sister's husband, who'd just received a cortisone shot in his back the previous day; my uncle R, who had back surgery earlier this year; and my fave aunt's 72-year-old husband, which I know makes him my uncle, but as it's her second husband I guess I'm slow to acclimate, even though they've been married for fifteen years. With a crew like that, who needs Two Men & A Truck?

After all that heavy lifting, plus the added pressure of Blogust and the general stress of just being me, I decided to take a three-day weekend this past week. And I spent much of it near, on, or in the lake. Which makes me think of a joke I heard on the radio recently:

What's the difference between a pond and a lake?

If cattle relieve themselves in it, then it's a pond.

So this was definitely a lake. I hope.

One highlight of the weekend was getting to drive/ride around on this little two-seater motorized mini-catamaran-like watercraft. I had never seen anything like it, and apparently a lot of other people hadn't either, as it seemed to be the talk of the lake. We got a "That's pretty cool!" and a "What is that thing?" or two.

At one point Saturday, this pontoon boat slowed down and waved us by, then one of the guys yelled, "Where do you buy something like that?" At first, I thought they were talking about my trusty gray Gilligan hat, but no. Later, when we docked to have lunch at a lakeside restaurant, one guy quipped, "That's all motor, no boat." There's no comeback for that. I spent a good ten to fifteen minutes trying to decide if "all motor, no boat" could possibly be a euphemism, but was unable to come up with anything.

Recounting other less exciting events, I managed to not roll the jet ski, and I may or may not have fallen asleep on the boat, but most likely did. You put me in the sun and stop talking for about twelve seconds, I'm gone.

There were a couple of points where the lake houses and noisy jet skis gave way to quiet, narrow channels. These no-wake zones were lined with trees, wildflowers and more lily pads than I have ever seen. We also were fortunate enough to see a couple of blue herons perched along the banks. I thought of the oil spill.

All in all, it was a super relaxing weekend, letting nature fill my senses and having no other place in the world to be. I'm pretty sure my blood pressure dropped about fifty points, if blood pressure is even measured in points.

I'm also pretty sure I realized that a sparrow and a robin are the only two birds I can identify for 100% certain. (I thought the blue heron was a crane.) Maybe a cardinal, unless that's different from a redbird.

The lake isn't quite the beach. (It also isn't a pond, but that's neither here nor there.) But it's still water, and there's still a breeze. Sitting on the pier in the evening, watching the sun reflecting across the water until the very last sliver dips below the horizon, there's nothing quite like that.

After all, we only get so many sunsets.



"Stars are dancin' on the water here tonight. It's good for the soul and there's not a soul in sight. This boat has caught its wind and brought me back to life. Now I'm alive, and well..."

In a summer swelter

I think I finally understand what that song means. Well, that line anyway. Well, that part of that line. If ever was a summer swelter, we are in it. All except for the minor detail that it's not quite yet officially summer. I golfed yesterday, was already glistening with sweat on the first hole, and by the end of the round my shirt was like you had dipped it in water.

We're in another one of those stretches of twenty days of temps in the nineties and heat indexes normally reserved for the surface of Mercury. I have a standard line that I use in times like these: "Cold enough for ya?" It gets a laugh like a tenth of the time, but it's a decent conversation starter. OK, maybe decent is too strong a word there.

Of course, leave it to me to get a cold in the midst of all this. How does that even happen? I caught it on a Wednesday night and kicked it by the following Tuesday.

Being sick did give me additional time to realize there is nothing to watch on TV. Not any sports I'm very interested in. Not a Newhart rerun. Nothing. Just the World Cup. When is that over? I want my ESPN back. I can get into pretty much any sport you throw out there -- curling, Australian Rules Football, I've even watched the National Scrabble Championships. But soccer? I'm sorry, it's just not happening. Oh well, just 77 more days 'til football season. And I'll be asleep for like 15 of those.

I wish I could blame my being sick for my lack of blogtivity. But let's face it, I've been mentally lamenting -- if that's possible -- the excruciatingly slow death of my blog for awhile now. I want to write, but either I have no inspiration or I get sidetracked playing Family Feud on Facebook while singing along to Rob Thomas on iTunes. (I can't believe I just admitted that. The Family Feud part, I mean.)

I need discipline. Someone to say, "Bone, you can't go out to play until you've done your homework." By "go out to play" I mean "retreat further from social interaction by playing games online." And by "done your homework" I mean "written for thirty minutes."

I thought about re-instituting my Blogtober rules for June, but decided I'd wait until at least August, as Blogust sounds better than... well, whatever Blog-plus-June would be. On the other hand, Blogust also sounds a little like one of the ten plagues.

We shall see. Meanwhile, if you Boggle online, hit me up. I'm "Bone" or "Roll Tide" on the 4x4 board.

Finally, I'd like to close today with a Father's Day anecdote. I had contacted Dad's wife earlier this week for some possible ideas for Father's Day gifts, hoping maybe to surprise him. That went something like this:

"Have you heard him say anything he might want or need for Father's Day?"

"Yeah, there are a couple of things he's mentioned."

Alright! I'm thinking. She continues.

"The band on his underwear tore the other night and he was going to buy some new ones but I told him Father's Day is coming up and the kids might get you some."

Short pause to wait for response. There is none.

"He wears the white briefs."

"OK. Anything else?"

"He also needs some of the Mach 3 razor blades."

Sigh. OK, first of all, I'm not buying tightie-whities for anybody, especially not anybody related to me. Second of all, this is exactly the same thing Dad asked for last Father's Day, except I think he also wanted batteries last year.

As the week wound down, my sister and I were still void of ideas, so I decided to just call Dad and ask him directly if there was anything he wanted.

"Ya'll don't have to get me anything. Just keep being my kids." His usual response.

"Dad, it's Father's Day. You know we are going to get you something, just as we have every Father's Day, lo, these many years."

"Well, I guess I could use some new underwear. Mine's got holes in them."

Audible sigh.

"I wear the white briefs."

Yes, Dad, I am aware. Some of my most vivid childhood memories are of you walking around the house at night in ONLY those white briefs. Everyone's father does that, right? Actually, you know what, don't answer that.

"Alright. Is there anything else you can think of?"

"Oh, you know what, there is something else I need."

Finally! At long last!

"Ya'll can get me some of those Mach 3 razor blades."


"Man, it's a hot one. Like seven inches from the midday sun..."

Who goes bowling at one o'clock on a Saturday?

Friday marked the passing of another year in the life of Bone. As I commemorated the occasion, my Dad commiserated, "You're not a year older, you're only a day older than you were yesterday." Which sounded pretty good until I realized that I was on day number thirteen thousand, five hundred fourteen.

Phew. That's a lot of times hitting the snooze button.

It also reminded me of one of my favorite all-time George Costanza quotes: "If you take everything I've accomplished in my entire life and condense it down into one day, it looks decent!"

In other birthday weekend news of note, Wolfgang had started texting early in the week asking if I wanted to come bowling Saturday at 1 PM to meet his new girlfriend. My first (and second, and third) reaction was, "Who goes bowling at one o'clock on Saturday afternoon?" Not to mention that Wolfgang had pretty much dumped LJ and I since acquiring said girlfriend and I hadn't seen him in three weeks. But mainly, I just kept thinking, "Who goes bowling at one o'clock on Saturday afternoon?" So I resisited. Still, he was oddly persistent and would not relent until, at last, I acquiesced.

Or to shorten that paragraph, I went bowling Saturday.

As I pulled into the parking lot of the bowling alley, I saw my sister's vehicle. What is my sister doing--- Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! Before I could even finish my thought, I knew. It was a surprise party for Bone. They fooled me! Augh! I was lied to by people I trusted!

It turned out to be quite the event. Worlds collided somewhat as the Darryls met the parents, which was... awkward at best. There was also the second meeting of Nephew Bone and the godson. They mostly stared as they appeared to be sizing each other up. It was kinda like when Godzilla first meets King Kong.

Some people were hesitant to bowl at first, but Nephew Bone finally got the ball rolling. Literally. He used a bowling ramp. And someone had to put the ball on top of it. And most of the time he didn't wait around to see how many pins he knocked down. But he did push the ball down the ramp.

Even my Dad bowled! He said he hadn't been since he was 17 or 18, which I think is true. Or he could have just been making up excuses for his score, I'm not sure. It was hard to tell which one of them had more fun. I'm gonna go with Nephew Bone, but it was close.

I had a good day on the lanes. There was just the right amount of oil on the ball and pizza grease on my fingers. Wanting to set a good example for Nephew Bone, and with images of all my bowling heroes -- Norm Duke, Kelly Kulick, and of course, Walter Ray Williams, Jr. -- running through my head, I threw a 186-179-161 series. They gave me a real bowling pin and three balloons! Turns out that was for my birthday and not for my bowling performance, but still.

Also, AMF Bowling Centers apparently has their own syndicated radio station. They were giving shout-outs throughout the day to people having birthday bowling parties all across the country. Of course, most of them were under 16. But let's not nitpick. Besides, it helps to answer the question, "Who goes bowling at one o'clock on a Saturday afternoon?" Apparently, 14-year-old Megan from Grand Rapids and all her friends.

Finally, I would be remiss if I failed to mention that I also got a Wii this weekend. I figure that's right in keeping with my tendency to be on the trailing edge of technology. I could foresee 2011 being the year I finally get a DVR. OK, maybe 2012.

By the way, does it seem odd to anybody but me that all the other people in the Wii bowling center have no legs?

Anyway, that was my weekend: a Wii and a birthday party at the bowling alley. A day older? Yes. A day more mature? Maybe next year.

"Too old to be wild and free still. Too young to be over the hill. Should try to grow up but who knows where to start..."

Thanksgiving revisited

I was googling "can you put tennis shoes in the dryer?" last evening when it hit me, I should probably look into getting a life. But more than that, I needed to blog. So here goeth.

It may seem odd, and a bit late, to blog about Thanksgiving on the Thursday following the holiday, but perhaps it is closer to keeping with tradition than you think. I mean, do you really think the Pilgrims got up Friday morning and blogged? No, they got up early and waited for the morning news courier to ride into town so they could get the latest on the John Alden horse-accident scandal -- aka the story that "rock"-ed Plymouth. (Source: Bone's Revisionist History of the 1600's: Vol. 34.)

Alden claimed it was a private matter, but there were too many questions. I mean, who's going for a ride around the village at 9:15 PM? Unless your name is Paul Revere and the British are indeed on their way, it's a little bit odd. And an auger in the bridle? How does that even happen?

Thanksgiving with the Bones may not have been historically significant nor had as much media coverage as some, but it was no less special. Breakfast at Dad's has become the tradition for Thanksgiving morning in recent years. It sort of has a "Breakfast At Wimbledon" ring to it, and is every bit as classy. If we had our own reality show, you would have learned on this week's episode that the Bones prefer their eggs scrambled and Mountain Dew is the beverage of choice.

For lunch, I went with a bit of non-traditional fare, enjoying some Chef Boyardee Beefaroni. It wound up being just enough to tide me over until dinner at Mom's. The menu there was turkey and ham, dressing, cranberry sauce, green beans, macaroni & cheese, cucumber salad, corn on the cob, coleslaw and mashed potatoes, with strawberry pretzel for dessert. (Once again, no cherry pie. I bet Marie Callender's family had cherry pie.)

Friday was the annual Alabama/Auburn game, also known as the day you don't schedule your wedding or funeral, that is if you actually want anyone to show up. (Personally, I don't believe you should schedule them on any day when there's a game, but then again I was raised strict orthodox Bama, so I'm old school like that.) The good guys pulled out an exciting 26-21 victory, turning Black Friday into Crimson Friday, and making my momma cry.

It's so easy to take for granted these holidays, time with family, and always having plenty to eat. But Thanksgivings and Christmases seem to get here faster every year. And they never last long enough. Already it's December. I swear I don't know where the years get off to anymore.

I just remembered one more little anecdote from the weekend. After Breakfast at Dad's, he and I were in the garage putting a new hood lift support thingy on my Jeep. He gave me his annual ya'll-don't-spend-too-much-on-me-for-Christmas-this-year speech. Then waxing philosophical said, "Son, the older you get, the less important gifts become. What I really appreciate about the holidays is all of us just getting to spend time together."

Which I took to mean that Santa will not be bringing Bone a new laptop this year.

"Eat that turkey all night long. Fifty million Elvis fans can't be wrong. Turkey lurkey doo and turkey lurkey dap. I eat that turkey then I take a nap..."

That first year

You turned one yesterday. I'm fairly certain you didn't even know it. We had a small gathering at your house. All your grandparents, both your uncles and your Mom and Dad were there. You looked around at everyone, as if you couldn't believe we were all in the same place at one time. You have another party on Saturday. It's a big week for you.

Oh to be like you and have no sense of the time passing. When you wake up, you look around for a couple of minutes then a smile breaks across your face. It's as if you're thinking, "Alright! Time to play some more!" I can't figure out if every day is a new day for you, or if every day is just a continuation of one long play party occasionally interrupted by naps and eating.

You're the happiest baby I've ever been around. Sometimes I lift you high above my head, lower you down quickly, then lift you up again. Over and over. This seems to be one of your favorite things right now. Your mouth is wide open and it looks like you want to laugh, but the sensation of rising and falling is just too much and you can't stand it. When I finally stop and hold you still, you let out a giggle. It's the most wonderful sound I've ever heard.

Sometimes as you're laughing or playing or otherwise entertaining us, I'll look over at your mother as she watches you. I've known her for twenty-eight years, yet there is a look on her face, a gleam in her eyes, an utter joy to her being that I have never seen before. We are all in love with you.

Just because you're happy doesn't mean you don't have some adorable little intricacies. Your mother claims that you pull all the toilet paper off the roll when she isn't looking, but I find that hard to believe. She also says you've dropped three remotes into the toilet. I say, at least you're consistent and they always know where to find them.

When I think that it has been a year since you arrived, it blows my mind. I thought the time went fast before, but this year has gone at near light speed.

Just the other day, you were crawling. Well, you sort of scooted at first. Then crawled. Then held onto our hands as you learned to walk. You were walking before you were eleven months old. I am thankful every day that you are healthy and seem to be growing and learning as you should.

You've gone from falling asleep in my arms to walking up to me, tugging on my pants and lifting your arms so that I will pick you up--which by the way is my current favorite thing.

And while I know you probably won't remember anything about it, I will never forget that first year.



"Thank God for kids, there's magic for awhile. A special kind of sunshine in a smile. Did you ever stop to think or wonder why the nearest thing to heaven is a child?"

A part of me

I do hereby proclaim this National Blog Something From Draft Week. This marks the second big year for this great but scarcely observed occasion which was begun way back in 2008. It is a day, er week, for posts that otherwise would have never seen the light of day, and maybe never should have. Remember our slogan: "Someday we'll look back at this and cringe!" Feel free to join in, if you dare. It's the next best thing to not blogging at all. And so without further ado, here is my entry for NaBloSoFroDraWe 2009.

A part of me will always be seven years old. I remember being woken up in the middle of the night when Momma told Daddy it was time to go. It seemed so inconvenient then. That was the only time I ever saw him run a red light. And I remember sitting in the waiting room by myself, feeling lonely but not scared. Then they told me you've got a baby sister. It's funny, but now I can't remember much at all about those first seven years.

A part of me will always be nineteen at the foot of those stairs. Coming home that night, I remember thinking it was odd that Momma's car wasn't there. Daddy met me at the door, and there was that kicked-in-the-stomach feeling as I shook my head at the words I wished he wasn't saying. I think that's the first time I ever truly felt death--the shock and the sense of loss. I remember trying to cry when they laid Mamaw to rest. And thinking to myself, "I'll miss you." But I just didn't know. I'll always hate that cursed day and harbor that emptiness.

A part of me will always be barefoot on that beach. I was twenty-three but I felt like a kid the first time I ever saw the edge of dry land. I remember breathing in that sweet air and rolling up my jeans to let the cold water run over my feet. And thinking this was the place that I was always supposed to be. Everytime still feels a lot like that first time, and I still feel like a kid. However far away I go, I'll always long to be there, knees pulled to my chest, listening to the song of the sea and feeling like I'm home.

A part of me will always be on the phone with you at 6 AM. I remember the daylight through the blinds and realizing we had talked all night long. Yet and still I didn't want to let you go. Love was new and it felt so good to let your warmth wash over my soul. And I remember two years later trying to hold on and feeling helpless as you moved further from my grasp. We haven't spoken since and we probably never will. But now and then I will always wonder where you've gotten to.

I don't know if the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. And I've heard it said that you lose parts of yourself along the way. But I might disagree. I think I carry all those parts with me as I go, these and a thousand more, somewhere inside. I think I always will.

"You're on every highway just beyond the high beams, right beside me in all of my sweet dreams. No matter where you choose to be, in my heart I'll always see you everywhere..."

Ye olde dog days

Apparently, I mention the dog days of summer in a post every July. Last year, I tied it in to National Blog Something That's In Draft Week, or NaBloSoThaDraWe as you most likely know it. I may still have to do that in the next few days. After all, I'm nothing if not cyclical...

I always figured the phrase "dog days of Summer" had something to do with how dogs mostly just laid around in the shade or under the porch looking for relief from the heat. Thankfully, in these progressive times, we have Wikipedia. Else I may have gone my entire life thinking that and thus never knowing the true origin of "dog days."

According to Wikipedia, it has something to do with Sirius--not that satellite radio people--also known as the Dog Star. In olden times, people would sacrifice a brown dog at the beginning of dog days. Why brown? Well, that's what I'd like to know. Unfortunately, Wikipedia didn't say, which pretty much can be taken to mean no one alive today knows the answer.

On a related note, we had a brown dog when I was growing up. Just wandered up one day, which is how we got most of our pets. I named it Brown Dog--there was sort of a clever descriptiveness to it, I thought. We also had a pet named Whiskas. It was a cat. But I digress.

While sources differ on the exact dates of the dog days, they roughly run from early July through mid-to-late-August in the northern hemisphere on planet Earth. And so, these are they.

Maybe they also could be referred to as the Blog Days of Summer. Because it seems that while physically I've been doing lots, my mind has mostly been lying around under the porch hiding from the sun. Thus resulting in an even greater lack of blog posts than usual.

I figured that I would try and catch you up on all that's been going on in Bonetropolis the past couple of weeks with a series of bullet points. But then I thought maybe that sounded too violent, so I'll just continue in paragraph form.

Last week was the birthday of someone very important to my existence: he who bore me. We commemorated with dinner at a Mexican restaurant. Then Dad regaled us with tales of what it was like when man landed on the moon, which occurred the day before his birthday, coincidentally.

Sunday, they left on a two-week cross country trip to the Grand Canyon. Currently, they are in Flagstaff, Arizona. He called Monday from near Dallas. It was raining. "Don't you have some way of checking the weather radar on the Internet?" As if I know a secret trick no one else knows.

But I suppose it's kinda nice to feel like he still needs me now and then. They grow up so fast.

Speaking of, Nephew Bone has been doing well. He is walking upright with the skill of someone six weeks his elder. He'll be a year old three weeks from today! And I thought time flew before. Oh, and he also swallowed a leaf. Don't ask how we know.

Meanwhile, yours truly has just been doing the usual--work, sleep, running, pondering my eventual retirement from competitive Scrabble, and of course, golf. This past weekend, I came within 18 inches of my first ever hole-in-one. That would have been the single greatest moment in my life--not to be confused with the greatest nine minutes of my life.

So, that's the story from Bonetropolis. The dog days are almost over. Hopefully, my mind will soon crawl out from 'neath the porch of no ideas to once again frolic through effervescent fields of minutiae and skinny dip in streams of hilarity.

"Babies squalled as August crawled past old folks in the shade. The weather vane was stuck, and White Oak Creek would drop, when dog days came around..."

Growing up cousins

Now that I think about it, it only makes sense that fave aunt would beget fave cousin. Though I had other cousins closer in age, he was the one I spent the most time around growing up.

It probably didn't hurt that fave aunt always lived in the coolest houses. There was a ranch house with a huge backyard that sloped away like it was specifically designed for a Slip 'n Slide. There was a two-story house with a glassed-in kitchen that overlooked a bluff.

But my favorite of all was another two-story house with a staircase on each end, so that you could run in a complete circle--up the stairs on one end, down the hall and through two rooms on the second floor, then down the stairs on the other end--without stopping. Although I'm sure that's not why it was designed like that.

Upstairs was fave cousin's room, where we spent countless hours playing RBI Baseball, Commando, Rush'n Attack, and other Nintendo games until our thumbs blistered, and then we played some more. There was also the exercise room, which contained the pinball machine.

There was an open field adjacent to the house where we'd take turns riding his 50cc motorcycle. There was a trampoline in the front yard and a pool out back. I remember so many summer mornings fave aunt cooking eggs, bacon, gravy, and fried bologna for breakfast. And putting Karo Syrup on my biscuits, as we ate in the dining room looking out the windows at the pool, sparkling and ever so enticing. That's where I learned to swim.

Fave cousin and I always seemed to be into most of the same things. Nintendo, baseball cards, WWF (back when it was real), and wiffle ball, to name a few. He was five years my junior, and I guess he looked up to me, though I didn't know it at the time. I remember years later, he told me that when we'd play basketball, he thought I was as good as Michael Jordan. In his defense, I did imitate His Airness by sticking my tongue out when I played. Also, I had some game.

As it invariably does, time began to change things it has no business messing with. I vividly remember sometime after I turned sixteen, fave cousin wanting to come over and spend the night one weekend when I had a date. He came over anyway and stayed with Mom and Dad until I got home. I don't think he understood. Or maybe it was me who didn't understand. But that was the beginning of the end of something.

A tornado came through and ripped part of the roof off that two-story house and destroyed the trampoline. A fire a few years later took care of the rest. I don't get out that way much, but when I do, I always glance over where that house once stood and miss that part of my life.

Fave cousin and I grew older and both kinda did our own thing. We still managed to hang out occasionally. We've golfed together a few times and even gone to a Bama game or two over the years. And though I'm sure I've fallen a few notches from the Jordan-esque image he once had of me, I've always been proud of him. Even if I've never told him.

This past Sunday, we had a going away gathering for fave cousin. He's decided to join the Army. He leaves next Monday.

As I have been remembering these things--things that still seem so vivid and so close--I am simply blown away by the passing of time.

Sometimes it felt as if life was a ride in the back of a pickup truck going sixty miles an hour down the highway. And time was the wind, whizzing by, taking your breath away. And once in awhile, you'd stick out your hand to try and catch it.

But you can never catch it.

"It almost seems like yesterday. Where do the good times go? Life was so much easier twenty years ago..."

Lessons learned

Last week, Momma Bone shared a little anecdote with me about dialing directory assistance. First of all, I'm pretty sure my mother keeps 411 in business. She dials it more than anyone I know. Come to think of it, she's the only person I know who ever uses it. Anyway, she had gotten some automated message that the system could not process her request.

"So I called back and went Mummummumm," she continued, putting her hand over her mouth as she mumbled the last few syllables.

"Mummummumm?" I asked.

"Yeah, if you do that, a real person will pick up."

I laughed, wondering to myself how Mom figured this out. How long it took her. And what other little tips and tricks she has devised and discovered that I don't know about yet.

I decided that from Mom, I learn the practical things in life, to get me through everyday situations. Things like where's the best public restroom in town; how to bypass the automated system on 411; and maybe most importantly, if a restaurant undercooks your steak, always eat your baked potato before sending it back because they'll bring you a whole new potato after they recook your steak. She'll kill me if she finds out I told that last one.

Meanwhile from Dad, I have learned things about how to survive and preserve myself during times of natural disasters and other dire situations. Things like don't shower during a thunderstorm; the best place to be in a tornado is driving around in the car, despite what every weather person and tornado safety manual ever printed says; and of course, eating more fish will help fight off radiation poisoning in case of a nuclear attack.

Will it? I have no idea, but I probably eat more fish than most land lovers. Also, it wasn't until the last couple of years that I would dare get into a bathtub if it was thundering outside. And I'm still not crazy about the idea.

As he is wont to do, Dad was imparting even more infallible wisdom when he took me out for birthday lunch recently. "Son, I still have the mind of a 16-year-old. It's just the body doesn't want to cooperate anymore."

The mind of a 16-year-old? Really, Dad? Well, at least I come by that honest.

Do you ever wonder how your parents even got this far in life? Sometimes I just shake my head in amazement. Mom still refuses to learn to set a digital watch or the clock in her car. She's never had a mozzarella stick in her life, ever. And she thought Warren Sapp was "The Refrigerator" the whole time he was on Dancing With The Stars, and still does.

Dad called me just tonight to tell me they'd ordered the Bible on mp3, then went on to ask, "How much would an mp3 player cost?" And the whole VCR fad completely came and went without either of them ever learning to program one, I think.

If I asked Dad how he got this far in life, his answer would in all likelihood begin with the phrase, "Well son, when you're this good-looking..."

Both my parents turn 59 this year. For so long, they appeared invincible and always just kinda seemed the same age. Then one day, something happens. Probably not even anything major. Just some little something occurs and it smacks you in the face that suddenly they're twenty years older.

I want them to always be 35. Mom riding her bicycle for miles every Saturday afternoon, taking my sister and me to pick up Mamaw and carry her to town on summer mornings. Dad doing his woodwork out in his shop, reading his encyclopedias and watching the Discovery Channel to learn about thunderstorms and fish and the like. Keeping every sort of harm and danger away from our door. And there never being a problem they couldn't take care of.

When I think about my childhood, that's what I miss the most.

Seeing my parents get older is one of the hardest things about life. Few things get to me like that does. It's one of those things that if it creeps into my mind, I try and push it out immediately. I don't want to think about it.

Some lessons you don't ever want to learn.

"Wish change would just leave well enough alone. Those days are gone now, when Daddy was a strong man and Momma was a blonde..."

A thousand words doesn't begin to cover it

It was one of those mid-December days in the teens--the thirteenth or seventeenth, maybe--that all seem to run together. A lady came by looking for my mother. She was accompanied by a younger woman and two girls who I would later learn were her daughter and two granddaughters. Not recognizing them, I was reluctant at first to share any information.

Then as she started to leave, she said, "We're related to her."

"Oh... well, I'm her son."

Upon hearing that she sat her purse down and opened it. In a few seconds, she produced a small, somewhat worn flip photo album.

"Here's what I wanted to show her."

She opened the album. It was filled with pictures of my aunts and uncles when they were kids, teens, and newlyweds. In all, eight of Mom's eleven brothers and sisters were in at least one pictures. And most of them were in several. There were pictures of Mamaw and Papaw, great aunts and great uncles, and even my great grandmother. Pictures I had never seen. Most of them black and white.

I was overwhelmed. I had never seen more than a handful of photographs of my family from those days. As she flipped to each new picture, she would pause to see if I recognized the people in it. Sometimes I did. And if I didn't, when she told me who it was, I would see it immediately and smile and shake my head in amazement. Each photograph was priceless.

One picture had an old wall calendar in the background that dated it at 1968. Another had my fave aunt in it as a teenager. She was wearing a Bama t-shirt and looking a tad mischievous. Then there was one of Mom's elementary school pictures. And near the end of the album, a picture of Mom and Dad together, with Dad holding a guitar. I guess some things never change.

Some of the pictures would elicit a story from her, this lady who I found out during the course of conversation had married one of Mom's first cousins. The people I didn't know were almost as interesting to see and hear about as the people I did.

One picture was of my Uncle R with his arm around some girl I didn't know. They looked happy and young and full of life. I knew Uncle R wasn't married until he was in his forties.

"That's Alice," she said, as if sensing I was about to ask. "Oh, they were so in love. Those two would have gotten married but her daddy stopped it."

"Did her daddy have a problem with Uncle R?"

"He didn't want his daughter to marry R because of his..." She motioned her hand, unable to think of the word.

"Epilepsy." I finished her sentence. Uncle R had pretty severe seizures as long as I knew him. He died when he was fifty, just three months after Mamaw passed away. Hearing this story, I was very sad for him.

There was a picture of my Great Uncle J, who I'd never seen. His hair was slicked back and he had a Clark Gable moustache which caused me to remark that it looked like he was a ladies' man.

"Oh, you have no idea." She then proceeded to tell a story of how he got a job at a restaurant and dated a waitress there until his first paycheck, then he quit. He called the waitress and told her he couldn't work anymore because he'd been in a bad wreck and broke his arm, his leg, and several ribs, none of which was true.

There must have been fifty pictures or more, and I guess we sat there thirty or forty-five minutes looking through every one and talking about them. My eyes had already gotten moist. Then when we were done, she held out the album as if to give it to me.

"Oh, no. I couldn't possibly..."

"Yes. That's what I brought it for. I figured your mother would like to see these."

I was floored. There were no words to express my gratitude or emotions in that moment.

An idea occurred to me, so I asked her if it would be alright if I wrapped up the photo album and gave it to Mom "from Santa" for Christmas. She said she would like that very much. I promised her I'd guard them with my life. I told her I'd be sure Mom knew that she was the one responsible for the pictures, and even had her write her name and number on a piece of paper and slipped it inside the front cover.

I'm sure I told her thank you at least ten times. And before she got up to leave, still shaking my head in amazement, I said, "This is Christmas."

And it was.

"Here's the last one that we ever took of Daddy. We tried hard to make him smile but never did. And here's one I caught of you when you weren't ready. And here I am when I was just a kid..."

"I have waited for tomorrow from December 'til today..."

Sleep never came easy for me on Christmas Eve. The excitement and anticipation of Christmas morning was just too much. Every creak, every thud, every noise sounded exactly like sleigh bells or reindeer hooves or someone on the roof. One year, I know I must have gotten out of bed five times, walked into the living room in my baby blue Dallas Cowboys pajamas and told Mom I couldn't sleep.

I was always the kid who woke everyone else up on Christmas morning. Well most years. One particular Christmas, I remember I got out of bed at 1:30 in the morning. I'm still not sure I fell asleep at all that night.

My "big" gift that year was a little mini Casio keyboard. It had four settings: piano, flute, violin, and something called fantasy. I turned the volume on the lowest setting and sat on the couch and played with it until everyone else woke up. I think Dad was the first to venture into the living room that morning, around 5:30.

I was afraid my parents might be upset. Normally they liked to watch as we found what Santa had left us scattered around the living room. But Dad didn't seem to mind. Then again, I was fourteen.

For awhile, my sister would tell me to wake her up on Christmas morning. But that only lasted a few years. Then she got too old. But I never did.

I still find it hard to go to sleep on Christmas Eve. Back then, it was the anticipation. Now it's because I don't want it to end. That magical feeling of Christmas Eve and Christmas morning.

When you're a kid, those first twenty-four days of December seem to take forever. And when it's over, the next Christmas seems a hundred years away. The years pass a lot faster these days. Still, for just a little while tonight, I wish that I could stop time. It all goes by so fast.

Or maybe I'm still just a kid.

Merry Christmas, from my home to yours...


(Bone's Christmas tree and presents, circa 2008.)

"I'm as slow as christmas. I'll be up before the dawn. I'm not gonna miss this. I know that old saying's wrong. Every Christmas day makes every other day seem long. And what seemed would never get here has so quickly come and gone..."

Take me home...

A few weeks ago I found myself on a road I've been on many times before. A two-lane country road not all that distinguishable from any of ten thousand others. It wasn't the most direct way to get to where I was going that day, but it was the way I needed to take. As I drove, I remembered. And though I never lived on that road, it felt like years of my life had been spent there.

Almost immediately, I recalled an icy night some years ago that resulted in a scarcely visible dent beneath the passenger side door of my Jeep. Suffice it to say the fourth mailbox on the right side of the road used to be wooden. You never forget your first.

A little further down I passed the old ball field, still standing but barely. The roofs gone off both of the concrete dugouts. The outfield fence rusted and torn down in places. The grass grown high. I remember when it came to life almost every summer night with bright lights, kids playing, parents cheering, coaches yelling.

If you take a left across from the ball field, it'll take you past the high school and the football field where one cold January morning I ran headfirst into the goalpost while not wearing a helmet. (Not intentionally.) Being knocked unconscious isn't loads of fun when it happens, but it makes for a decent story later.

But I didn't drive out by the school. I stayed on my current path, and I knew what was next. It's the fifth road on the left after you pass the Baptist church. The memories started to come. I pressed on the gas a little harder, maybe hoping I could outrun them. I loved a girl who lived down that road, and probably always will.

Almost to the top of the hill is the cut off to Roller Coaster Road. I'm sure I smiled as I passed it, thinking about all the afternoons spent running wide open up and down those hills. Top down. Stomach flipping. And time to burn.

The thought of turning around and taking one more ride on Roller Coaster Road briefly crossed my mind but I continued on, down the hill and finally to the stop sign. There on the corner is a little country store. Or used to be. It's been closed for years now, but the building is still there, looking dilapidated at best.

Some nights we would stop there and get a cold drink out of the machine after parking in the cotton fields, if we had enough change and enough time before daylight. I don't know what good it would have done, but part of me wished the store was still open. And I probably would have stopped off for a coke if it had been.

If you go straight at the stop sign, the paved road ends and dirt roads lead through miles of cotton fields. There are a couple of sharp curves and if you don't know the road well, perhaps on a foggy night, your friend's car might end up in a cotton field, on its side. And you might have to go back the next day to help him push it over so that another friend can tow it home.

I turned left at the stop sign. It was Thanksgiving day, and I had decided to visit the cemetery. Mamaw and Uncle J had been such a huge part of Thanksgiving for so many years, it just felt right to pay them a visit.

As I left that two-lane country road behind for another, I was astounded by how many memories were associated with that single stretch of highway. I felt a sense of home. I felt grounded.

There's something comforting in a place like that. Knowing that the memories are always there, just waiting until the next time I take a slight detour from life and go for a drive down that road. A road I know so well it feels like I could drive it with my eyes closed.

And sometimes I think I did.

"Ain't that just like a dream, runnin' wild and runnin' free. We were rebels chasin' time against the wind. Sometimes I long for just one night of the way I felt back then. But ain't that just like a dream, it always ends..."