Rusty

It was nineteen eighty-six or -seven.  I had gone with Fave Aunt to watch my cousin's rec league basketball game.  He was 8 or 9.  I didn't know any of the other kids on the court, but one stood out. I gathered from the parents cheering around me that his name was Rusty.

Rusty's head was cocked to the side a bit, his shoulder slightly raised.  Sort of like if you were trying to hold a phone between your ear and shoulder to free up both hands, then backed it off about halfway.  It was obviously some sort of physical abnormality, one I had never seen.  But that was only part of what made him stand out.

While his condition made it almost impossible for him to shoot accurately, Rusty was a rebounding whiz!  It was pretty clear, at least to me, that he was trying twice as hard as anyone else. 

The game ended.  I don't recall who won or lost.  Yes, we had winners and losers in those days.  We kept score.  And miracle of miracles, it didn't kill me.  (Just do me a favor and don't yell "Loser!" in my vicinity, I still get a little sensitive.)  But there are three distinct memories I have of that day:  My late uncle coaching my cousin's team; thinking to myself that my cousin was definitely never going to attend Duke on a basketball scholarship; and Rusty.

Years scattered.  I didn't think about those things for a long while.  Rusty went to that place where certain memories are kept.  Ones you can't necessarily recall on command, but they're solidly there.  It simply takes some trigger -- a dream, a particular song, some conversation -- to bring them to mind, clear as the day you lived them.

Then some years ago, my sister was telling me a story.  She mentioned a Rusty.  The name was just uncommon enough that I thought it might be the same guy.  It was.

Rusty was the same age as my sister's husband.  They were friends.  He was a groomsman in their wedding.  But somehow he wound up talking more often to my sister.

You see, Rusty was one of those poor, misfortunate souls that we here in the state of Alabama refer to as "Auburn fans."  (We have other, more colorful names, but I'll save those for another day.)

My sister, of course, was raised as was I -- to love Bear Bryant and the Crimson Tide.  She strayed away from the fold once, in her rebellious high school days.  Made Mom buy her a Michigan sweatshirt for Christmas the year Charles Woodson won the Heisman.  But she returned.  There was much rejoicing.  (See: "The Bible," Luke 15, Parable of the Ninety and Nine.)

Despite their opposite allegiances, Rusty would call my sister from time to time to talk football.  Because that is what we do in the South.  Before the games, at halftime of the games,  after the games, after the season, we talk about college football year-round. 

Rusty still lived with his parents.  My sister once told me his condition made him not want to go out much.  He didn't like crowds and preferred to only be around his closest few friends.  I liked to imagine that these conversations with my sister brought bits of brightness to his days.  Pure speculation on my part, the brain eager to fill in what it does not know.

As is so often the case, the news came out of the blue.  My sister calling to let me know Rusty had died.  He was thirty-six.

First, shock.  Then questions.  Eventually more speculation.

My sister said Rusty suffered from Crohn's disease.  He had been sick but had put off going to the doctor.  By the time they got him to the hospital it had been too late.  Was he afraid to go?  Maybe he was just sick of always going?  Did he not have insurance?  Maybe he had it but the deductible was so outrageous that he couldn't afford to go?  All valid questions in modern-day America, sadly.

The next day, someone shared a post from Rusty's sister on Facebook.  Heart-ripping.

There were only the two of them, him and her.  I know how that is, to have that one person who grew up exactly like you did.  In the same house, with the same parents.  The same blessings and disadvantages.  The same unspoken secrets.

I clicked over to Rusty's Facebook page.  Scrolling through the RIP's and "I'm gonna miss you's" I saw a message from my sister.  Tears began.

Further down, the posts became scarce.  Then, a handful of birthday wishes from earlier in the year.  I noticed the date.  Rusty and I shared the same birthday.  It seemed more than a coincidence somehow.  I knew I had to write something.

Sometimes, when you don't see someone often or haven't seen them for a long while, the image you have of them sort of becomes frozen in time.  I do it with famous people a lot.  When I hear a song from the 80's I still picture the singer or band looking as they did then.  I cringed a couple of weeks ago when I saw the promo for the new Matt LeBlanc show and all his gray hair.  In my mind, he's still sitting in Central Perk and it's twenty years ago.

I did the same thing with Rusty.  I thought of one long ago Saturday in nineteen eighty-something.  Of the rebounding whiz with his head cocked to the side, trying twice as hard as everyone else.  I reckon some have to try twice as hard their whole lives...

My sister said not many people showed up at the funeral.

And I remembered how Rusty never liked crowds.


"Remember him when he was still a proud man.  A vandal's smile, a baseball in his right hand.  Nothing but the blue sky in his eyes..."

Roots

Us two

Fighting, at first
For the same ground
To escape the other's shadow
Then maturing
Content in our own petals
Yet forever sharing

An undeniable resemblance

Always side by side
Until someone
Picked you
Took you away
But if e'er you should miss me
Return to your roots
I am always here
Your sibling



April is National Poetry Month.  I am going to attempt to poem each day at my Poetry Wrecks site, home for wayward lyrics and disadvantaged poetry.  If I like any of them, I may cross post here, as I have done with this one.  For this, I was given an image of two flowers and challenged to write a 55-word free verse poem.

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..."

Kids, it's not that difficult

As my blog has evolved, I have gone from posting at near Twitter-speed anytime a thought wafted through my mind, to posting a day or two after an event happened, and now to this.  "This" being some sort of massive blog slowdown wherein I am just now getting around to blogging about Nephew Bone's birthday party.  Which took place in August.  Of 2012.

OK, 2013.  But still.

Is evolved the right word?

Devolved?  Decomposed?

Nephew Bone turned five this year.  Ah, five...  I don't actually remember much about being five.  I think that may have been the year I got my Starsky & Hutch matchbox car.  Nephew Bone had a Duck Dynasty party.

Boy, this post really isn't going anywhere.  I think I will instead make this a general info post on how to throw a proper birthday party for a child under seven.  Yes, that's what I shall do.  I decided that just now, on the fly.

Bone: Making virtually every life decision on the fly since 1980-something.  This explains oh so much.

I know what you're thinking: Bone, you don't even have any kids that we know of.  How would you know anything about throwing a birthday party for one?

Exhibit A: I, Bone, have attended somewhere around EIGHT of these little germ fests over the past five years, so... yeah.

Exhibit B: One of my sister's favorite sayings is "I can't wait 'til you have kids."  I can only take this to mean she knows what an excellent rearer of children I will be and she is anxiously awaiting it, probably in much the same way Houdini's sister anxiously awaited his escape the first time she buried him alive.

(I also wrote a post several years ago wherein I may have poked a little fun at the time-out method of discipline and a couple of people took it to mean I was advocating spanking children.  Yeah, that cost me about half my readers at that time, so I no longer include it on my parenting resume.  I was even reprimanded by the World Order of Mommy Bloggers, aka WOMB.  Ironically, my punishment wound up being, you guessed it, a 15-minute time-out.  Oh well, live and learn.  Or, in my case, just live.  Not all of this paragraph is factual, but probably more than you think.)

Now that we've established my credentials, let's get this party started... in a manner of speaking.

The first thing you're gonna want to do is minimize the number of kids you invite to this party.  This is because of Bone's Theorem of Kids and Fun, which states:  The number of kids at the party is inversely proportional to the amount of fun your child's "adult" friends will have at said party.  And really, what's more important than that?

Chances are your child isn't going to remember this party anyway.  I mean, how many of your birthday parties before the age of seven do you remember?  And besides, are these really your child's friends?  Or are they, more likely, children of your friends whom you have forced upon your child in some sort of medieval-esque arranged friendship.  Hmm?

Mmhmm, stepping on some toes now, am I?

Now personally, I prefer a 1:1 child-to-parent ratio.  I wouldn't go any higher than 2:1.  If someone shows up with more than two kids, I recommend scolding their child in front of them.  It has been my experience that they will leave fairly soon after that.

The second ingredient for a successful children's party is renting one of those cool, inflatable water slides.  Nephew Bone had one of these at his party.  Actually, he's had an inflatable slide at two of his parties, and those were two of the funnest days of my admittedly not-all-that-exciting life.

Going down an inflatable water slide at 40-years-old dressed as Uncle Si from Duck Dynasty... I'm just not sure where else my life has to go after that.

Now, there is one danger of which you should be aware with these inflatable slides.  Inevitably, one of the smaller kids winds up getting hurt by one of the bigger kids and starts crying.  This also happened at Nephew Bone's party.  And no, the "bigger kid" in this instance wasn't me, thankyouverymuch.

Although I did make two kids cry on the trampoline.

But it's not my fault!  I have to do my high jumps!  It's family tradition.

And that's it.  Two simple steps to hosting a successful kids birthday party, from a guy who's never even hosted one. 

If I could proffer one final piece of advice, it would be this:  No one's perfect.  Actually, that's not really advice, is it?

Hmph.  Let's try something else.

Kids are a crapshoot.  We're all gonna make mistakes.  (Well, you're gonna make mistakes. As stated earlier I've not had kids yet, so...)  They're resilient.  They'll adjust.

And if they question you, respond as my Dad always did to me: "Because I said so."  (Bonus side note:  This works OK with kids.  Not as well with girls you may be dating.)

Besides, your kids have most likely figured out by now that you control the flow of Goldfish and juice in the household.  And once that pecking order has been established, what could go possibly go wrong?  And if they're still getting on your nerves, just send them up to bed early.  Problem solved.

Wow, if I already have this much knowledge about kids, once I get a couple years of actual experience, I'm gonna be a scary good parent.

No wonder my sister can't wait.

"Do you think for one minute that this is it / Your party is bogus, yo, it ain't legit / You better put on the Hammer and you will be rewarded / My beat is ever boomin' and you know I get it started..."

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..."

I have experienced a year's worth of socialization in four days

The past few days brought a barrage of social activity to my life, the likes of which I have not seen quite possibly ever.

There were the annual toddler birthday rounds to make. You know, the cake and pull-up mixers. (We're 3 now, we've moved on from diapers.) But separate and apart from those, I managed to socialize with four different friends in three different settings. I had kinda forgotten I even had four friends.

A backyard bash for Nephew Bone kicked off the proceedings Thursday night. My sis rented one of those inflatable water slides. (The business is called Just Add Kidz, by the way. Love that name.)

Now inevitably, whenever you have that many kids together, someone starts trying to show out and go up the slide the wrong way.

And I almost made it once.

I actually think the adults may have enjoyed the slide even more than the kids -- for a little while. Hurling a 38-year-old body down a 20-foot water slide fifty times or so into a little catch net? You do the math. The next day I was sore in places that I'm not sure have ever been sore.

Sunday afternoon, I attended the godson's party. It was held at this place in the mall that has a bouncy castle and slides and other things for kids to play on. Well, I arrived six minutes early -- which is about eleven minutes earlier than I normally arrive -- and didn't recognize anyone.

So I proceeded to the counter where I had a bit of an awkward conversation with the girl there. I asked if this was the right place. She said yes but that they hadn't arrived yet. Then she asked if I had any kids with me, and I said no. But it felt more like, "No, I'm just an adult male with no offspring who enjoys attending kids' birthday parties. Now if you'll excuse me I'm gonna go sit by the wall and try not to look too creepy."

Betwixt and between all that fun, I managed to hang out with the Darryls on Saturday night. We played XBox 360 and shot pool at LJ's, because... that's what 38-year-olds with no offspring do? Or perhaps that's the reason for the no offspring? Hmm, who knows how our lives get to be how they are.

While I wish I had some great new Darryls stories to share, the sad truth is that I do not. Mostly, we spent the evening not making new memories so much as talking about all the old ones. I can easily see the three of us having the exact same conversations with one another in a retirement home in forty years. One can only hope, right?

Oh, before I forget! I would like to close with one final anecdote I thought you would enjoy.

I guess it's been a bit of a struggle for Nephew Bone to learn to say "Uncle Bone." So my sister called me on Friday to inform me that "Nephew Bone has a new name for you."

(Pause for effect.)

"Bubba."

(Pause again to allow laughter to subside.)

Me? A Bubba?

I don't think so.

But it was at this point I realized that he could have pretty much called me anything and I would have loved it. And before you get any ideas, Nephew Bone is the ONLY person who shall be able to get away with calling me this.

So anyway, as we're getting off the phone, my sister says, "Say bye Uncle Bone."

And I hear, "Bye, Bub-ba."

I reiterate. The. Only. Person.

"All the wild nights and bar fights, the ditches and blue lights, are a million dark nights gone before..."

"The summer swells anon..."

Summer swelters on, but I can already feel it leaving. It's nothing in the air, just the having been here before and knowing the shorter days always seem to be hurrying August away almost before it arrives.

I kept thinking it was October yesterday. I even typed "October 5th" on something. Not sure why I was confused. Perhaps it was the nasty freak (not to be confused with Freak Nasty) storm that passed through early Thursday morning, knocked out power, and kept temperatures at an almost-autumn-like lower 80's. Or it could be I was getting Blogust and Blogtober confused. Any explanation is better than admitting my mind isn't as sharp as it once was.

It's twenty-eight days until the first Saturday of college football. I've been counting down since about day one hundred.

I was on the phone with my sister yesterday. She's been looking online for season tickets for us. Before long, she drifted to other topics, such as how she's taken up buying and repainting old furniture, and how much she loves her new iPad. Then I hear Nephew Bone start to cry in the background. As she says, "Let me go," there's the slightest hint of exasperation in her voice. But I'm smiling as I hang up the phone, thinking that's the good stuff in life.

For now, I'm off. In the midst of a three-concerts-in-eight-days span, which is just blowing the mind of my inner hermit. Tonight, it's the Decemberists in Nashville. And just a reminder: Next week is the 4th annual NaBloSoFroDraWe.

In the meantime, the summer swelters on. But that's OK. I could always stand the heat more than the cold.



"You're gonna miss this. You're gonna want this back. You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast..."

Dashboard confessional

The Jeep hit a milestone Thursday. And apparently, I thought no one would believe me if I just told them? Why else would I take a picture?



What? I had to slow down to take the picture. Because while texting and driving is now against the law in our increasingly totalitarianistic state, as far as I know taking pictures while driving is not.

One hundred thousand miles. Or by my rudimentary calculations, somewhere between $12,000 and $18,000 in gasoline. I started thinking what if gas were half the price it is now, how much money could be poured back into the economy. So let's say $7,000, multiplied by a guesstimated 200 million licensed drivers, where each abacus bead represents $100 billion dollars, carry the one, the total comes to roughly $1.4 trillion. Per one hundred thousand miles driven, of course.

Thursday was also my Dad's 61st birthday. I'm not sure how many miles that equates to, but fortunately Dad has always been pretty low maintenance.

Once again ignoring his requests for socks, I got him a gift card to one of his favorite restaurants and a fairly lame card. That's because I'm pretty sure the only decent card they had was the exact card I got him last year. And I looked in three different stores! The selection of greeting cards in this country is beyond atrocious.

We had a small gathering at my sister's. Dad was there, as you might imagine, since it was his birthday. But Nephew Bone was the star of the show, as he has been since making his debut almost three years ago. He has progressed from saying "Bama" to now saying "Amabama," which we unanimously agree is the cutest thing ever. Of course, I had to joke that Mom and Dad didn't think it was all that cute when my sister started saying "Amabama." Then again, she was nine.

After supper, Nephew Bone took me by the finger (unknowingly causing my heart to instantly melt), and led me back to the hayfield. He had me put him on top of a hay bale. Then my sister's dog, Pepper, jumped up on one, presumably to protect Nephew Bone? I dunno.

Anyway, there were eight or ten bales lined up with small enough spaces in between so that you could step from one to the next. Suddenly, Pepper started racing back and forth on top of them. She looked like a greyhound at the track. Well, Nephew Bone just thought this was the funniest thing ever. He nearly fell off the hay bale he was laughing so hard. I reached to steady him. He could barely stand. It was one of those can't-catch-his-breath laughs, and it was just perfect.

Mostly, the miles rush by in a blur, by the hundreds and thousands. But a few are worth slowing down for, if only to take a mental picture.

"If we had an hourglass to watch each one go by, or a bell to mark each one to pass, we'd see just how they fly..."

April 27, 2011

For me, that Wednesday began with a 5:20 wake-up call from Dad. Unexpected, but not surprising.

"You awake?"
"Uh, yeah."
"You need to watch this weather. They say it's gonna get bad today."

It was only ten minutes until I'd normally get up, so I turned on the TV and saw there were already warnings out west of us. Five minutes later while I was in the shower, my phone rang again. Turned out to be my sister. I had asked her the night before to call if her weather radio went off during the night.

The warnings started before 6 AM and were virtually continuous for the next fifteen-plus hours. My sister, who had a storm shelter installed a few years ago after a tornado passed within two miles of their house, was calling throughout the day asking if it was safe to come out. Her power was out and her weather radio had stopped working. Every time, the answer was either "no" or "maybe for a few minutes, but there's another storm coming."

I left work about 3 that afternoon, came home and continued to watch the weather. I guess it was around 4 that my power went out, which seemed a bit odd as it wasn't real stormy here at that time, just extremely windy. Later I would learn that TVA, which supplies electricity to most of north Alabama, had suffered severe damage to their main transmission lines and power wouldn't be restored for days.

After about fifteen minutes with no power and knowing the storms had been coming one right after another, I decided to go back to work. At least there we had a generator and could watch UHF channels. I stayed at work for the better part of the rest of the night, except for one foolhardy period when I decided to drive around to look for signs of storm damage.

Driving home that night was eerie, with no traffic lights, no store lights, and only the dim glow of candlelight coming from a few homes. I lit a few candles, found a couple of flashlights, and made a sandwich. The power was out, internet was down, and my cell service had been out since early afternoon, so I decided to go to bed. I'd heard reports of tornadoes on the ground, homes damaged, but had no idea of the kind of devastation and loss of life I would hear about and see over the coming days.

The stories came in first -- stories of the damage, loss of life, and heroism. Stories like a grandmother who laid on top of a baby to protect it. The baby survived while the grandmother lost her life. Then came the numbers, the fatalities. They started high and they climbed hour by hour. Then the pictures and the video began to come in -- footage as bad as anything I've ever seen and yet once you see the damage in person you realize the pictures can't begin to do it justice.

I drove to Dad's one evening -- I think Friday or Saturday, the days run together -- to help him set up a generator. I'm pretty sure he didn't need any help, but just wanted to see me. On my way there, I got my first look at some of the damage. When I got to Dad's, he showed me all the debris that had fallen in their front yard. Among it was a pair of kids blue jeans, size 4, and an 8x10 photograph of a little girl. They had no idea who she was. I could only hope she had survived.

An EF5 tornado -- the highest-rating given, for storms with winds over 200 mph -- passed within 3-4 miles of Dad's house, and within a mile of where Wolfgang lives. Minutes later, the same tornado destroyed my first cousin's house. She and her husband hid in a closet. All that remains of their house is that closet and part of one wall. They survived. Hundreds across Alabama didn't.

That particular tornado stayed on the ground continuously for over 100 miles. I drove through some more of the damage on my way to church Sunday. My eyes started to water. Every image, every location, breaks your heart all over again. The destruction is so massive that eventually words fail.

Another somewhat unique aspect to this disaster was the widespread and lengthy power outage. At one point, we heard over 600,000 were without power. Obviously, that is secondary to the tornado destruction, but still significant in that it no doubt prevented some people from being forewarned. The local TV stations were doing a great job covering things, but probably over 90 percent of north Alabamians weren't able to watch TV.

TVA was originally giving estimates that power could be out five to seven days. Some areas were on sooner. Some still don't have power today, eight days later.

People were unprepared for an extended power outage. Most lost everything in their fridge and freezer. Gasoline became a premium commodity. The few stations that had generators and were able to pump it had lines half an hour to an hour long the first day or two.

I had no cell phone service, no internet, and no home phone service for a couple of days, as both my landline phones are cordless and therefore need electricity. I am beyond embarrassed to admit that it crossed my mind Thursday to maybe go and stay overnight with friends in Nashville on Friday, just so I would be able to use my cell phone and text and call people back who had tried to check on me. It feels incredibly selfish now that the thought even crossed my mind.

Because as I began to see the damage and the relief efforts that were underway, I quickly realized this was not the time to skip town, this was the time to help your neighbor. I managed to find an old corded phone at work which I borrowed, just so I wouldn't feel completely disconnected from the outside world.

At work, management decided we would work through the weekend due to the situation. I had thought of griping for half a second, but in hindsight I'm so glad we did. It felt like people needed us there. Our generator began to run low on gas on Thursday or Friday -- again I forget the day. A frantic search for fuel paid off. We remained on generator power until sometime yesterday.

The relief effort has been amazing. It has risen to match and begun to overcome the devastation. There were reports of some areas even turning away volunteers or having no more room to store the supplies that had been donated. The outpouring of love and people's faith in the face of death and total loss has been incredible.

It makes me proud to be from this area and to call Alabama home. And hearing stories about people from all over the country showing up to help give me hope and make me proud of America. Race, religion, politics -- none of that mattered. People simply helped. And they continue helping. As I've witnessed this tragedy bring out the best in so many, it makes me wonder why we can't treat each other this way all the time.

Something else I've observed: Events like this divide people into basically two categories. There are those who help, as instinctively and as automatically as they breathe. It's as if there isn't even a choice. It's just what they do. And then there are those who seem completely oblivious to everything going on around them, whose only concern seems to be themselves, and everyone else can go screw themselves. And you don't have to ask which category someone falls into. You don't have to dig very hard at all. Just observe, and it becomes quite obvious.

I'm proud to say almost everyone I know was doing something to help. My sister and her husband went to try and help my first cousin. Dad, who was still without power at the time, called two different days saying they were getting supplies to take to volunteers and victims. Axl went out with search and rescue teams. Even LJ went out at least three days that I know of to help in the clean-up effort.

Several other things struck me during all this. Forgive me for jumping around here but I just want to get all my thoughts down.

People in one area that was devastated often had no idea there was just as much devastation in countless other areas, in some cases for days due in large part to the power outage. I realized this talking to Axl one night. He had been out with search and rescue but still had no power or internet and was stunned as I told him of the devastation I'd heard of in other counties and areas.

It also struck me during this time that you, people outside of Alabama, probably had a lot better idea of what was going on than most anyone here. Again because of the lack of power and communications.

And finally, having watched Japan, and Katrina, and numerous other disasters play out on TV, I have realized something I really knew deep down but just chose to forget or ignore most times. Just because a few days pass and the national media moves on to something else and suddenly you've become day-before-yesterday's news doesn't mean the disaster is over or things are normal.

Things won't be normal for months and months. And when they finally are, normal will be different from whatever it was before. We will never forget the images, the stories, the victims, the loss, the damage. Nor will we forget the heroes, the survivors, the rescuers, the volunteers, the love and the kindness. And if we ever think we might, we will drive past a place where a store or a school or a neighborhood used to be, or maybe a spot where the trees suddenly aren't quite as tall or dense as they are just down the road. And we will remember.

I write all this realizing I am incredibly blessed. Not only am I alive and well, but so are my family and loved ones. I suffered absolutely zero property damage. My town was one of the most very fortunate. Time and again Wednesday and Wednesday night, tornadoes would track a few miles north or a few miles south of us. And we were one of the first areas to get power restored. So yes, I feel blessed. And guilty. Why them? Why not me? I know that feeling well.

The tornado outbreak of 1974 had always been the stuff of legend around here. Someone wrote a book about it and I remember looking through it a few times and reading some of it. There were personal accounts of survivors and stories and sometimes pictures of those who died. I still remember this one family -- a man, his wife, and their kids -- who were all killed in the '74 tornadoes. I can still remember their first and last names. I can still see that picture. And I haven't looked at that book in at least twenty years.

When I asked Dad if he thought this was worse than '74, he didn't hesitate to say yes. The numbers -- of injuries, damage, and loss of life -- say it isn't even that close. At least in Alabama. The last I saw there were around 250 killed in the state and over 3000 injured. That's roughly triple the 1974 numbers of 86 fatalities and 949 injuries.

I grew up with what probably was an unhealthy fear of tornadoes. I hated the word, hated to see it in print, hated to hear anyone say it. Anytime there was a tornado warning for our county, Dad would make us get out and drive around, or sit under an overpass or go to the courthouse basement. As I got older, I started staying home when my family would get out. And after I moved out, the fear gradually dissipated and I'm sure I became too lax when it came to storms.

Today, I have a new-found respect, for a word and a monster I still hate.

"My home's in Alabama, no matter where I lay my head. My home's in Alabama, southern born and southern bred..."

Here comes the sun

(Congratulations to my friend, Pia, from Courting Destiny. She is now blogging for Psychology Today. And you can read her first post here. It makes me proud to see a former Roast-A-Bone host going on to bigger things.)

The sun came out Saturday. It was 72 degrees here. And just like that -- although the calendar wouldn't agree for three more days -- for me, January was over. Thus ending what in a hundred years will more than likely be referred to as my blue period, which basically amounted to two posts.

I don't know why I let the season come and conquer me. But it's all right now. There's not spring, but there's the promise of spring, and that's enough.

This weekend was my long-awaited-though-sometimes-uncertain return to the land of the living. I did things this weekend I thought I'd forgotten how to do, like shower on a Saturday.

Sister Bone, Nephew Bone and I went to the Bama basketball game Saturday night. Bama is not exactly known as a basketball school, but the team is having a pretty good season, so it was nice to see the game was sold out. They won the game comfortably, 70-46, over LSU. For me, any night's a good night in Tuscaloosa -- the atmosphere, the history, the Taco Casa! Just knowing that for one night you are in the same city as Nick Saban somehow makes everything right with the world.

I believe it was the wise King Solomon who wrote, "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it." At supper, Nephew Bone pointed to the "A" on the Taco Casa cup and said, "Bama." It's nice to know the hours I spent repeating "Roll Tide" and "Bama" to him while everyone else was trying to get him to say "mama" and "dada" paid off.

I golfed with the Darryls on Sunday afternoon. That was a dream come true. Literally. Except that we did get to finish the round. We golfed horribly, but who really cares. Balls and clubs can be replaced. Pride can be restored, theoretically. And as I like to say, 'tis better to have golfed and failed than to never have golfed at all.

In one final bit of big news, I start guitar lessons tomorrow! I'm kind of excited. Dad has been trying to get me to learn to play for, oh, the past twenty years or so. I figure I may as well give it a shot. Also, he said he would pay for the lessons. Not that you should think my parents still pay for everything, or give me a weekly allowance. Because they don't. And they haven't since I turned 35.

Beyond that, Wednesday is National Signing Day. I'm contemplating taking off of work for that. And of course Sunday, as most everyone aware I'm sure, is the highlight of the year for Roman Numerals.

Then comes the roughly six-week long period of time I like to refer to as sports purgatory. But we'll fall into that deep, yawning chasm when we come to it.

"And I'm looking to the sky to save me, looking for a sign of life..."

Christmas Eve, 1985

Christmas has come too fast again. Not that I'm not ready for it to get here. I'm just not ready for it to be gone. I still remember when it didn't come very fast at all...

In 1985, I was twelve and time was slow. Thirty seemed light years away and forty had never crossed my mind. It was impossible to imagine myself as an adult. Though some might tell you it still is.

In 1985, both of my grandmothers were still alive. But oh, how I took that for granted back then. Dad would go and get his mother and bring her to the house on Christmas Eve day. She would have gifts for us -- and they would be really bad gifts like tube socks with big red stripes around them. But it shouldn't have mattered because she had picked them out for us when Dad took her shopping solely for that purpose. I hope I thanked her for whatever bad gifts she got me that year, and I hope I acted like I liked them, because that was the last Christmas we ever got to spend with her.

In 1985, Mom and Dad were still young, and still together. And if I could have picked one of those to never change, I'm not sure which I'd choose.

In 1985, my sister was five. She hadn't yet become the major annoyance she soon would be. Little did I know we would someday become actual friends. And the thought of her being a mother, well that was as far from my mind as a thing could be.

In 1985, fave cousin was seven. War was a game we played with toy guns or plastic soldiers. And Afghanistan was a place I had never even heard of, much less ever thought he would someday go.

In 1985, I was pretty sure no matter how good or bad I may have been that I was getting toys. But there was that tiny one-percent part of me that was still afraid I might wake up to a bag of switches beneath the tree.

In 1985, however fast or slow the rest of the year passed, the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas seemed like a year unto itself.

In 1985, tonight -- Christmas Eve -- would be the longest night of the year. I would toss and turn and do my best to keep my ears open for any sound of Santa and his reindeer. But of course, it's the first great catch-22 of life -- you want to stay awake until he comes but he won't come until he knows you're sleeping. And he always knew.

In 1985, I must have closed my eyes, and though I could swear it was only for an instant, twenty-five years came and went.

"If heaven was a town it would be my town, on a summer day in nineteen-eighty-five. And everything I wanted was out there waiting. And everyone I loved was still alive..."

I'm all thumbs

As much as I have considered granting unrequested permission to TruTV to feature my life on the first-ever blogger reality show (to be aired right after Forensic Files, of course), even I must admit there are issues to consider.

First off, is there enough interesting material in my life to even fill an hour a week? Secondly, I'd most likely have to wear pants around the house. Then of course, there would be the inevitable invite to be on Dancing With The Stars, where I would probably go out early like Kenny Mayne and the man from Apple because my mom can't see Russia from her house and I was never married to Jon Gosselin. Lastly -- and this is where today's post comes in -- every embarrassing moment of my life would be chronicled for all the world to see.

A little background, if you will:

During football season, if I'm not at the Bama game, I'm watching on TV. And I have a circle of friends with whom I am constantly texting throughout the game, sometimes after every play. I like to think of them as my mobile entourage. There's Axl, my sister, Wolfgang, and the female component of Kywana.

That brings us to earlier this week. I got a call from a number that's not programmed into my phone. Now, I don't usually answer calls from numbers I don't recognize, but I guess I was feeling uncommonly sociable on this particular day.

What follows is a never-before-published recap of that conversation, with my thoughts in italics, included for your enjoyment.

"Hello."

A male voice greets me. "Mister Bone?"

"Yes?"

"Hi, this is (name withheld) from AT&T. We noticed you had gone over your allotted number of text messages last month."

*cringe* "I am aware."

"Looking at your account, you actually would save money if you upgraded your data plan."

Looking at my account? Shouldn't that be illegal? Stupid Patriot Act.

"You currently get 1500 texts per month. You used over 1800 last month, which came out to about 12 dollars in overage charges."

You oughta be thanking me for using that many texts. Ever hear of frequent flier miles? I should be rewarded! There should be an 1800 Club for people like me. Or... at least a Texters Anonymous.

"If you were to go to the next highest plan, it would be 10 dollars more, but you would get unlimited texts."

(Pause for response. There is none.)

"So if you think you're going to be texting a lot every month, then that's something you might want to consider."

Apparently, I'm a teenage girl.

"Don't try to dig what we all say. I'm not trying to cause a big sensation. Just talkin' 'bout my generation..."

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..."

Cloud Ten

Christmas came two weeks late this year. Thursday night, exactly two weeks after Christmas Eve, the good St. Nick (Saban) delivered a national championship to every Bama boy and girl.

Needless to say, I was on Cloud Ten. Zoomed right past Cloud Nine. I mean, Cloud Nine is nice for being in love and things like that. But this -- this is more than just a simple matter of feeling an elevated sense of attraction to one of the other humans due to increased amounts of dopamine and serotonin in the brain.

This is a never-ending quest. Something I'd waited seventeen years for. My life's work. The result of all my years of worry and anxiety (with occasional, fleeting moments of relief and elation).

Since I had waited seventeen years for this game, I decided to watch it with those I'd spent the majority of those seventeen years with -- the Darryls. They're pretty used to "how I am" during the game.

The game was a bit of a roller-coaster, as most are. Bama got off to a slow start and fell behind 6-0, but it was still early so I wasn't suicidal... yet. Then the Tide dominated the 2nd quarter on their way to a 24-6 halftime lead and happy days were here again. I texted my sister at halftime:

"Are you happy?"
"Yeah. Our offense looks bad but we are winning. I wish McCoy was in though..."
"Wrong answer!!! You haven't won anything yet. You gotta act like the score is 0-0!!!"
"Sorry, Coach Saban."

Apparently our team thought this was the Super Bowl and that there was going to be an extended halftime show featuring The Who, because they never came out of the locker room in the 3rd quarter. Texas closed to 24-21. My phone rang, repeatedly. I didn't answer. With one quarter to play, I was inconsolable.

Coincidentally, I'd told someone before the game that in four hours, I'd either be utterly inconsolable or in a state of euphoria. There was no in between. Thankfully for those who have to put up with me on a semi-regular basis, the Tide turned in the 4th quarter. When Bama's Eryk Anders sacked the Texas quarterback, forcing a fumble that effectively ended the game, the euphoria ensued.

Final score: Bama 37, Texas 21.

Cloud Ten.

And let me just say, I've scarcely felt better in my life... without the aid of medication and/or a woman.

When something happens that means this much, how does one react?

You think about your momma, as good Southern boys should. You wonder how many times she has said "Thank you, Bear" and at what point she started crying.

You think about her and the other Bama fans who grew up with the Bear. And how the past seventeen years must have felt like a hundred to them. You're happier for them than you are for yourself.

You go somewhere, anywhere, to be around other Bama fans. The local Academy store opened at 11:00 Thursday night selling national championship shirts and caps. By the time they closed at 1:30 in the morning, over 2,000 people had bought merchandise.

The national championship trophy was on display Sunday at the Gardendale Walmart. (You couldn't make this stuff up.) No players or coaches were there -- just the trophy. An estimated 6,000 fans showed up to see it and have their picture taken with it. Hundreds more were turned away because the viewing was only scheduled to last three hours. In case you're wondering, I was not in either group, though I have no reasonable explanation why.

And you celebrate. This Saturday, an official celebration will be held at Bryant-Denny Stadium. The first 50,000 fans get a free poster, which I take to mean they're expecting over 50,000. I'm leaning towards going to this.

After all, any day in Tuscaloosa is a good day. No matter what cloud you're on.

"They got a name for the winners in this world. I want a name when I lose. They call Alabama the Crimson Tide. Call me Deacon Blues..."

Don't be happy, just worry

Do you know what it's like to have no control over a relationship? You're anxious and sick to your stomach all the time. And even when you have a good day, you worry about what might go wrong the next time. Do you know what that's like?

Well, I sure do. I saw this quote online last week and found it really appropriate for my situation:

"What happens to you when you're like that is that you don't enjoy what you accomplish because you live in a constant state of anxiety with small moments of relief. And that's something that just doesn't change."

The quote is from one, Nicholas Lou Saban, relatively unknown in relationship guru circles but somewhat of an expert on the 3-4 defense and pattern-matching pass defense. Upon reading it, I immediately copied and pasted it in an email to Axl with the subject line "THIS is exactly how I feel...EVERY GAME!" I'm referring, of course, to my relationship with Alabama football.

"A constant state of anxiety with small moments of relief." Nothing could sum up my experience of watching a Bama game better than those ten words. I basically said as much last year, when I wrote that watching a game was "95% anxiety, 5% elation and relief." In hindsight, I may have overestimated the elation and relief percentage.

Saturday's game was an exercise in frustration. We couldn't score a touchdown. By the 4th quarter, I had pretty much stopped cheering. Everyone around me was cheering, but there I stood with arms folded, completely sick about how we had played on offense. I even asked my sister at one point in the 4th quarter if she was ready to leave because, quote, "I'm tired of watching this. This is pitiful." And this was when we were WINNING 12 to 3!

I also invoked a new rule mid-game Saturday, telling my sister I was no longer cheering for field goals. I want touchdowns! Then I forgot and cheered when we hit a 50-yarder in the 4th quarter.

"I thought you weren't gonna cheer for field goals," she asked, ever the observant one. And that is when I, ever the master of making up the rules as I go, wrote and passed the first amendment to the Field Goal Act of 2009.
"Oh... alright, I'm only cheering if they're fifty-plus yards or game-winners."

Why does it always have to be like this for me? Can't I just be happy that we scored at all, that we're ahead in the game? Apparently not. If we're not looking particularly good doing it, then I'm griping about the problems we're having and "well we might beat Tennessee, but if we play like this we'll never beat LSU."

But it's the coach's job to worry, not mine. I'm a fan. I should be enjoying this. So why do I continue to go through the same thing, every game, every season, every year of my life?

Things had been on the verge of turning disastrous Saturday night. Leading 12-10 with seconds to play, our opponents lined up to attempt what would have been the game-winning field goal. Then, as my mother would say (and probably was saying) the Bear looked down on us. Our defense blocked the field goal as time expired and sent everyone in crimson home happy.

Well, maybe not everyone.

All I want is complete and total domination for four quarters and for the other team not to score. Is that too much to ask?

I suppose maybe there's a 12-step program for people like me. The problem is I really have no desire to get better. I wouldn't know how to act without this thing to care about and pour every ounce of my emotion into. Sure it might be unhealthy, but I need this! And let's face it, with my deep-seated mommy issues this is more than likely the only kind of relationship I will ever know.

"And it makes me think there must be something wrong with me. Out of all the hours, thinking somehow I've lost my mind. I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell..."

Ten fingers none the poorer

As Blogtober passes the halfway mark, I've managed to write every day except one. I didn't get home from the Bama game until after 1:30 this morning and was just too worn out to try and write. Maybe I can write an hour or more tomorrow to make up for it. You know, double up on my prescription. That's always worked really well for me with pain medication.

Parking is always an issue at the Bama games. The place we'd parked the past two years was turned into an RV lot a few weeks ago. So at the last game, we paid ten bucks to park over a mile away from the stadium. Thing is, I have a little issue with paying for parking, more specifically, paying to park over a mile away from the event. I adhere to the George Costanza theory, which is loosely translated (or exactly as he said it word-for-word): "It's like going to a prostitute. Why should I pay, when if I apply myself, maybe I could get it for free?"

So through talking to a few people and Google-mapping the area, we found a new place to park yesterday, for free. And mostly legal.

Last night was also the first cold-weather Bama game. The low temperature was in the upper 30's, which was a problem for me because I couldn't remember how 38 degrees feels. It's been so long since last winter, plus how often am I out in the cold for four or five hours? Two, three times a year, max? Thus, I wasn't sure what to wear.

What we need is a program where you enter the expected temperature and wind speed along with how long you're going to be outside, and it would tell you what to wear.

For example, I'd input 38 degrees at 10 mph for 4 hours, and it would spit out: "ear muffs or a toboggan, gloves, wool socks (preferably Argyle), thermal underwear, long pants, and a long-sleeved shirt under either a sweatshirt or a stylish cardigan." (Speaking of, whatever happened to The Cardigans? Love me, love me, saaaay that you love me...)

My device could be called the Outfit Forecaster. Maybe I could somehow combine it with my Outfit Flow Chart of a couple years back. That would seriously cut down on the amount of mental energy I expend each day trying to figure out what to wear. Then I would have more time and energy to spend pondering important issues such as, well, whatever happened to the Cardigans.

In the end, I think the ensemble I chose for the game worked out OK, except that I didn't bring any gloves. Also, the band of my thermal underwear got a little itchy. Sometime during second quarter, one of my fingers started going numb. (This had to do with the gloves, not the underwear.) I looked down and all my other fingers were flesh-colored, but this one was a scary yellowish-white.

I might have had a brief, mostly internal panic attack. I'm too young to have circulation problems! How will I blog?! I showed it to my sister and she said, and I quote, "You're probably gonna get gangrene and your finger will fall off. You should have put plastic bags on your hands. Didn't Dad ever teach you anything?"

Fortunately, I returned home with all my digits. And now I remember quite well how 38 degrees feels. In mid-October, nonetheless.

Welcome to Alabama: The new North Dakota.

"This evening has been, been hoping that you'd drop in, so very nice. I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice..."

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..."

That time I almost went all the way

Yesterday was my six-year blogging anniversary, frequently referred to as a bloggiversary. I've never understood why my bloggiversary is so popular in certain regions of Mexico, but it is. No doubt they were partying last night in Puebla like it was 1862.

I got home from the beach Sunday evening, but it feels like my brain is still on vacation. Until it returns, I figured I would regale you with the tale of what went down (that means what happened) with the great head-shaving experiment of 2009.

I was chatting online with the female portion of Kywana on "the day." By the way, do you realize that instant messaging, text messaging, and email now compose approximately 70% of all my communication? The rest of the breakdown is: phone (25%), face-to-face (4%), all other communications, including telepathy (1%).

Anyway, after discussing the topic for awhile, she posed this question: "So are you going to shave it yourself?"

That prompted the following response from me: "Well, that's the other thing. Would you wanna shave me?"

It's safe to say that is the first time in my life I have ever uttered those words to a girl. (Or anyone, for that matter.) But as luck would have it, she agreed. Turns out that while 'Wana is not a professional cosmetologist, she does have previous head-shaving experience. Also, her sister attended cosmetology school, so that has to count for something, right?

Wheels were in motion. I was about to put my head in her hands. The only thing that could stop it at that point was me totally freaking out, which let's be honest, was still a decent possibility.

I showed up armed with every set of clippers I owned--which amounted to three--my trusty Mach 3 razor, and shaving cream. On the drive over, I had a lot of time to think about things. Things like hair, life, Andre Agassi, and what the heck was I doing. I had decided I'd get her to shave it with the #1 guard, which is the shortest, see how I liked that, and then decide if I wanted to go all the way.

After giving me one last chance to back out, she began. There was a brief moment of panic at one point as the clippers died when she was only about halfway done. Apparently, when the instructions say to charge them for at least ten hours before the initial use, you can't just arbitrarily substitute 45 minutes for ten hours.

The shaving process itself wasn't too bad. There was no mirror nearby so the only clue I had about how things were progressing was the looks on the faces of Kywana Jr. and the male portion of Kywana. I would describe them as looks of sympathetic bewilderment. I remember the words "don't look down" being uttered at some point, no doubt as to keep me from freaking out at the sight of my manly locks showering the floor.

As suddenly as it began, it was over.

Then came the hardest part for me--going into the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror. I covered my eyes, separating my fingers slowly to reveal what the clippers hath wrought. And you know what?

It was HORRIBLE!!!!! Noooooooooooooo!! Why?!?!?! Why did I do this?!?!?!

I'm kidding. It wasn't that bad at all. The only question now was whether to stop there or go all the way. I took a pic and sent it to my inner circle. Reaction was swift and decisive. My sister replied, "Oh, you really do look like Steve-O. Yeah, I think you should stop there." My Mom proclaimed, "Well, you'll never get married now. I still had a little hope before." Clearly, everyone was in agreement: it was a complete success.

So now, for the first time in the history of the internet, I am able to present for your enjoyment a freshly shorn (and somewhat tanned) Bone:



OK, so it's not the full Dalhausser. I didn't go all the way. In the head-shaving arena, this is known as third base. And I'm thinking I might stay here awhile.

"Way down south of the border. Way down Mexico way. They're having a big celebration. It's on the fifth of May..."

To Dalhausser or not to Dalhausser?

I'm off to the beach with the Darryls this weekend. I'm ready for some relaxation. New Orleans seems so long ago (not to mention a tad fuzzy in my memory). We'll be leaving tomorrow afternoon, which means I have just over twenty-four hours to make one of the biggest decisions of my life.

This is something I've been grappling with off and on for awhile now. It's a tough decision for a man to make. But this seems like the perfect time, as I'm going to be spending four days at the beach where no one knows me--save for my two longtime confidants. If I'm going to do it, it's now or never.

I've run the idea past my sister and a few close friends, and have gotten a wide range of responses. Then my sister inadvertently brought it up over dinner at Mom's one night, prompting a vehement "Noooooo!" from she who bore me. Later, Mom told me in no uncertain terms that I would be "out of the family" if I went through with it.

She wasn't laughing.

I suppose some background information is in order. Several months ago, I was watching a provocative program on television. It was called The Summer Olympics. Perhaps some of you saw it, as well. One athlete, in particular, stood out to me. And that athlete was Phil Dalhausser.

What was it about Dalhausser that entranced me so? Was it his forceful, sand-blasting kills? Was it his lithe, slender six-foot-nine-inch body? No. It was his cleanly shaven head. Think James Carville with a tan.

I had thought about making the hairy to smooth transition before, but Dalhausser's immaculate scalp brought the issue front and center again. I figure if I do it now, I can get a bit of a tan while at the beach so it's won't be pasty white. That all sounds swell, right? So what's the problem?

The problem is, this is a drastic step--a major life decision right up there with... um... well, surely I've made a major decision at some point in the past 36 years. And while I may talk a good game, I'm afraid that the sound of the clippers and the thought of my hair being sheared away like freshly cut grass will cause me to run home screaming and apologizing profusely to my precious follicles for ever allowing the thought to creep into my head.

As I said, I've received a wide range of opinions on the matter. My sister is all for it, because she "thinks it'll be funny." Thanks, sis. She also asked if I was going to get it "slick" like Mister Clean, or just cut it really short. Well, I don't know. What do most people do? Another friend asked, "What if you have dents in your head?" Well, that's a disturbing thought.

Meanwhile, I've been doing some research of my own. Turning to my beloved Wikipedia, I found these the following two statements:

"Incidents of cutting one's scalp with a razor blade are common, but generally are avoidable..." (Ouch. I'd never considered that. I'd hate to have to walk around with a tiny scrap of tissue stuck to my head.)

"Practical reasons include work safety or comfort, lice prevention, grooming simplicity and preparation for surgery." (Lice prevention. That can never be a bad thing.)

Finally, I've tried composing a mental pro and con list. On the pro side: I would save on shampoo and haircuts. Also, less drag if I ever were to join an over-35 swim team.

On the con side: What if it doesn't grow back? What if there are dents? And of course, I'd be out of the family. Though that sounds kinda cool. Sorta like being out of the "business," which makes me think of Sonny Corinthos and Jason Morgan.

And so, blog friends, it has all come down to this: To Dalhausser or not to Dalhausser? That is the question.

If you have opinions, advice, personal testimonials, or would like to adopt a blogger into your family, you know where to find me.

You have twenty-four hours.

"Cut off the mail, and I left on a light, and I locked up the house, and I hopped on a flight..."

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..."