July 1976

Granny put your rollin' pin down
Granny put your rollin' pin down
It's time for them to lay grandpa in the ground
Granny put your rollin' pin down

Mama she been up all night
Oh, my Mama she been up all night
I could hear her cryin' 'til the early morning light
Poor Mama she been up all night

People gonna come far and near
People gonna come far and near
Child, won't you hold still and let me pin this boutonniere
'Cause people gonna come far and near

Uncle Joe gave me a two-dollar bill
Uncle Joe gave me a two-dollar bill
Mama said I better save it so I guess I always will
Uncle Joe gave me a two-dollar bill

Thought Granny would cry but she ain't
Thought my Granny would cry but she ain't
I heared some folks a-sayin' that grandpa wudn't no saint
Thought Granny would cry but she ain't

Aunt Ida says grandpa is asleep
Aunt Ida says grandpa is asleep
Uncle Calvin says this place always give him the creeps
But Aunt Ida says grandpa's just asleep

Jesus gonna come back someday
Jesus gonna come back someday
Least that's what I always heared the preacher man say
Jesus gonna come back someday

Folks'll be bringing lots of food
Folks'll be bringing lots of food
You just learn to clean your plate and tell 'em that it's good
Folks'll be bringing lots of food

Daddy can we go into town
Daddy can we go into town
After they lay my grandpa in the ground
Aw, Daddy can we go into town

Wish I had me a cold RC
With I had me a cold RC
Someday I'll die too, but today I'm only three
And I wish I had a cold RC

We'll be back on Decoration Day
We'll be back here on Decoration Day
Women-folk bring flowers and us kids will run and play
We'll be back here on Decoration Day

Granny put your rollin' pin down
Aw, Granny put your rollin' pin down
I just watched some strangers lay poor grandpa in the ground
So Granny put your rollin' pin down

Rice Frisbees

On Monday, you were Santa Claus, pulling around your "sleigh" -- a plastic blue and grey toy shopping cart -- filled with "presents" -- four foam blocks containing, respectively,  a toy cow, an asthma inhaler, plastic scissors, and some crescent-shaped plastic green object from parts unknown.  

You walk down the hall yelling "Ho, ho, ho" and bring presents to your daddy, who is pretending to be asleep on the kitchen floor.  Then you return to the North Pole, previously purposed as your mommy and daddy's bathroom, and start your magical journey all over again.  

But this is not quite enough, therefore you request something red to wear so as to be a bit more convincing.  Your daddy finds one of his shirts -- a red beach t-shirt -- that you eagerly climb into.  Once a red and grey baseball cap is added, the ensemble is complete.

It is Tuesday now and we have come to the park.  The weather is about as perfect as weather can be -- sunny and breezy, with the seductive coolness of fall.  It's the kind of day that seems to become a little more scarce with each passing year.

You and your sister begin to bound down the hill towards the playground.  About halfway, you change your mind.  You stop, turn around, and tell me you want to go down to the bridge and throw rocks in the water.  It is something we have done just once, the last time we came here, right near the end of our visit.  That you remember it and are choosing it above the swings and slides causes my soul to smile.

So your mother follows along after Harper to the playground, while you and I make our way down to the creek, or "river" as you will call it later.

At first, you sit on the bridge hanging your legs off the side.  I get a little nervous wondering if you could slip through the railing but I try hard to let you be.  You and your sister will never know the thousands of times my hands have been right there, an inch or two away, ready to catch you in case you fall.  

We cross over to the far side and began to pick up rocks and throw them into the "river."  I search for good skipping rocks.  You mimic my movements, appearing as if you're looking for just the perfect stone yourself.  You can't skip them yet, but that doesn't stop you from sidearming them into the water like your daddy.

We continue there for what must be twenty or thirty minutes.  I finally have to remind you about the playground.  But before we leave the creek bank, you notice a couple of people disc golfing and ask what they are doing.

I explain to you about the discs and the baskets and you ask if we have any at home.  I tell you that we have some discs and if the weather is nice we can come back tomorrow and throw them into the baskets.

At some point during my explanation, I must have used the term frisbee when referring to the discs.  And somehow you must have mixed up frisbee with Rice Krispies, because for the rest of the day you keep asking if we can go back to the park tomorrow and play "rice frisbees."

And I fall a little bit more in love with you.

4

You turned four last week.  

I wish I could write something grand, something worthy of your first four years, the joy you have brought to our lives and all the things we have learned from you.  But I cannot.

You are too sweet for this world.  A wonderful big brother to Harper.  You have been a wonderful child, our joy and pride.  And I don't know if you will remember this time of COVID, but you are a champ at wearing your mask.  It is normal for you.  You wear it far more willingly (and properly) than many adults.

You love garbage trucks and trains. You dressed up as a garbage truck for Halloween, thanks to some amazing handiwork by your mommy.  The getup included a fluorescent yellow vest which you wore every day for over two weeks, even putting it on over your pajamas to sleep in at night.

Every Tuesday if you're home, you take your toy garbage truck out onto the sidewalk with all your trash cans (and trash).  When the garbage man arrives, you proceed to mimic his actions, grabbing each can with your grabber arm, emptying it into your hopper, then setting it back down before moving along to the next.  All the while you are making garbage truck noises.  

The garbage man waves and honks.  He knows you, oh yes he does, to the extent that he was able to set up your four-year photo shoot at the local sanitation department, or as you call it, "where the garbage trucks sleep."  

"Garbage man Shane" even bought you a toy garbage truck, put official city sanitation stickers on it, filled it with candy, and gave it to you for your birthday.  And even though you have a fancier garbage truck at home, you solely played with the one the garbage man gave you for two weeks.

The years have flown, little buddy.  Oftentimes I find myself staring at you in amazement. 

You're perfect.  All your bones still unbroken.  Your innocence intact.  And so very many dreams have you yet to dream. 

I cannot help but wonder what the future holds...

When I am sixty-six, and you are twenty-three
Let me still remember the joy you were to me
Those golden curls, the morning snuggles
All your triumphs and your struggles

Story times and nursery rhymes
And the songs that we would sing
Jesus loves you, this you knew
From a very early age

When for me November comes
And your summer's just begun
I'll always be your biggest fan
Please come to visit when you can

When I am sixty-six, and you are twenty-three
I will still remember that perfect boy upon my knee
However far you wander, whatever you believe
But for now, just be four, for as long as you can be...

Decision 2020

As (alleged) adults, we are faced with difficult choices this time of the year.  The consequences of said choices can have long-lasting effects.  And though we do our best, we may find ourselves guilt-ridden due to the choices we make.

That's where I come in.  Not to help you make your decision, but rather, to help you justify your choices.  

I hereby present Bone's Stealing Halloween Candy from Your Kid Justification Guide.  Today I will provide you with reasons to abscond with your child's (nephew, niece, grandkid, neighbor's kid, etc.) Halloween candy, while also mentioning a couple of treats that should be find for your child to consume.  Using my own child's stash as a prototype, I will proceed to go through this piece by piece.  

Tootsie Roll ~ There is no other chocolate that tastes quite like a Tootsie Roll.  You ever thought about that?  Why has no one duplicated this unique taste?  What's in it?  What aren't they telling us?  So while extremely delicious, this just doesn't seem safe.

Life Savers ~ The ironically named candy can and has contributed to death by choking.  More than three people are thought to have died from this throughout history.  Now, I totally just made up that number because a Google search provided no such statistics.  So while you can't prove that it's true, your child also most likely can't prove that it isn't true.

Mounds ~ Many children may have an undiagnosed coconut allergy.  (Or a diagnosed coconut allergy, in which case giving them a Mounds would likely leave you facing criminal charges.)

Almond Joy ~ Even if you were to risk the coconut allergy, the almond is a big no-no.  Choke city.

Smarties ~ While never having been proven to make anyone smarter, these hard nuggets of deliciousness are terrible for your teeth.  And your child will only ever have one set of teeth.  Well, besides the set they get when their baby teeth fall out, but they don't need to know that, yet.

Reese's ~ Here's the thing: Once your child has a Reese's, there is very little left for them to look forward to in life.  You?  It's too late for you.  You know there's nothing else.  Let them be little, forgodsake!

Milk Duds ~ Known in some remote areas of Kazakhstan as "Delicious Child Chokers."  Need I say more?

Butterfinger ~ If you did give your child a Reese's, then one of the only things left for them to look forward to (besides sex and wine), is a Butterfinger.  Again, don't let them peak too early.

Any sort of homemade treat ~ If you're like me, you have a real problem eating food made by people you don't know.  But kids?  Kids eat anything and everything -- dirt, Play-doh, paper, any number of unidentified foodstuffs from off the floor.  And you know what?  They've survived.  Enough with the helicopter parenting, Gladys!  If Mrs. Taylor down the street isn't necessarily a bastion of cleanliness, chances are your child won't even notice.

Three Musketeers ~ Have you read this novel?  Well, me neither, but according to Wikipedia, it includes violence, seduction, and execution.  I mean, you may as well let your kids play violent video games.  Or watch television.  As d'Artagnan might have said, thou savest this deliciousness for thine own self.

Whoppers ~ Whopper -- another word for "lie."  So unless you want to feed your kid a bunch of lies, steer clear here.

Skittles ~ Skittles is Scandinavian for orthodontic nightmare.  No child likes to go to the dentist, so why make them go any earlier than they have to?  I don't plan on taking mine until they're at least twelve.

Fig Newtons ~ Soft, chewy, somewhat healthy, taste a little like cardboard........  Yeah, these should be fine.

Laffy Taffy ~ No.  Never.  These chewy candies are teeming with made-to-order Dad jokes!  But my child can't read, you say.  Well, perhaps you should have them open a book rather than another piece of candy.

Twix ~ Do you really want to introduce your child to caramel this early in their life?  Early onset diabetes here we come.  However, there are fun games you can play with your child and a Twix.  Have your child point out at least five differences between the Twixes.  Also, ask your child which Twix is the left Twix.  When he/she points to the left one, turn the Twix upside down and yell, "Wrong again, loser!"

Follow me for more life-saving parenting tips.

Er, on second thought, you probably shouldn't

Catfish and COVID

The news came on the first of October:  You had tested positive for COVID-19.  It came via text message from your wife.  She had been keeping us updated as you hadn't felt well all week.  

You didn't want to go to the hospital.  You knew you would be isolated there.  You had underlying conditions, your asthma and your COPD.  I'm sure there was a fear you would never come home.  If I thought it, I'm almost certain you did.

How could you not?  How could anybody?  My last text to you had been about my best friend being in the hospital with the virus after his dad died of it the week before.  

"You'd better go to the doctor before it turns into pneumonia," I heard numerous times growing up. "Son, don't mess around with this stuff, it's dangerous," you had said to me just a few months earlier when I had been sick (and later tested positive for Influenza A).

Yet here you were, doing just what you had cautioned me against my whole life.

We finally convinced you, and the following Monday you were admitted.

Talking to you that week was all we could do.  You sounded down, on the verge of despondent.  They had you on oxygen.  Your daughter sounded so worried.  Every time we spoke it seemed she was on the verge of tears.  I was worried, too.  But I tried to hide it for her sake.  

Not even six weeks ago you and I had gone to lunch for your birthday -- your seventieth.  We'd eaten at a familiar catfish restaurant.  The food was a long time coming, but it turned out to be a good thing.  We talked.  You mentioned, almost in passing, about your father putting your mother in the hospital.  You had never mentioned this to me.  I had tried not to act surprised so as to not discourage anything else you might be about to share.

You tend to remember specific moments in life, moreso than days or weeks or years.  And that is a moment I will always remember.

It was at this same meal we talked about my anxiety and how I had gone on meds last year for it, at long last, and how much better my quality of life was now.  You told me that you had been on anxiety meds for years.  This was another thing that was previously unbeknownst to me.  Inside I was frustrated that you had not told me before now.  Did you not realize how that knowledge might have helped me?

How had we lived all these years as father and son and it was just now that I was hearing these things for the first time?  Was it my fault?  Maybe you just assumed you had told me at some point?

These were the things I thought about now, as you lay miles away in a hospital bed.  We sent you pictures of the kids.  Videos.  Anything that might keep you from becoming discouraged.

There is a lot I don't understand about you, Dad.  I don't understand your rabid support for Trump.  I couldn't help but think that had caused you to not take the virus seriously.  You and your wife had gone to Tennessee for dinner the very first night they reopened restaurants because Alabama's were still carry-out only.  You were always going somewhere, it seemed.  "I'm not going to stop living my life," you had said.  

Now I prayed only that you would have a lot more life left to live.

On Wednesday, news came that you might get to come home before the weekend.  On Thursday, they took you off the oxygen.  On Friday, you were released.

You still sound weak, wiped out.  There is a still a long road ahead.  But you are home, to watch your Fox News and post your political rants and memes on Facebook.

We don't talk politics much.  People are far more important than politics.  I know that no matter how far apart we may be on the issues, you will still come over to help me patch up the roof, mend the fence, or work on the car.

You overcame a lot, Dad.  A father who committed suicide and was an abusive husband, for starters.  Open-heart surgery.  Hip replacement.  Smoking.  An emergency tracheotomy.  And now, COVID-19.

Surely you can survive a son that is trying to raise his kids to say and do pretty much the exact opposite of everything your beloved Trump says and does.

I hope so.  I want them to have their grandfather around for a lot more years, to have a chance to get to know you better.  It's a chance I never had, as mine had both passed on by the time I was three.

Thanks for still being here, Dad.  Let's have some more catfish soon.

A Year of Harper (Minus Fifteen or So Minutes)

Did you know you have a brother named Lucas

And a sister who's a kitty named Sunshine

They're both gonna love you

Take good care of you

Little Harper, you'll do just fine

Little Harper, you'll do just fine....

I call that Harper's lullaby.  I wrote it for you, and sang it to you, in the hospital when you were born.  We still sing it at almost every nap time and most every night.

You are something else.  Sweet and sassy.  Independent and stubborn.  We may not have been expecting you, but you have perfectly completed our family.

One of my favorite memories of your first year is (and will always be)  lying on the couch before work, you beside me, your head resting on my upper arm.  And virtually every night, we would fall asleep together for a little while before I had to get up and get ready to work the midnight shift.

I guess a parent is supposed to calm their child.  But you would always calm me on those nights.  I cannot wait to see what the next year brings and yet, I know it is all going to go so fast... 

You got here in a hurry, Harper.  So fast I missed it.  Your mother texted at 8:31 that morning.  "You need to get here now."  Despite my best efforts and violating numerous traffic laws along the way (my apologies to all the drivers I offended that morning), I didn't make it.

When I walked into the hospital room, there was no doctor, no nurses.  There was only your mother, with your tiny head resting peacefully on her chest.  

I thought I would be upset for missing it.  But in that instant, how could I do anything but smile?  You were here.  You were healthy.   Your mother was healthy.  I am still smiling thinking about it now.

I may have missed those first few moments, Harper Cassandra.  But long as I live, I don't plan on missing anymore. 

Just Beginning to Take Off

"You will travel through a world of marvels..."

The news is almost always bad, almost all the time.  Violence.  Hate.  Racism.  Fires and floods.  Hurricanes and tornadoes.  They say it'll only get worse.

Every night at work, more darkness.  Suffering and struggling.  Crime.  Death.  I've been shaken to the core so much I'm not sure I can be anymore.

Then I come home to the world's most exuberant "Dada!."  You drop what you're doing and come bounding to the door with absolute abandon.  And for a little while the bad goes away.  I just want to protect you from it all, for as long as I can.

What a delight it is to have someone greet you with a smile every single time they see you.  What pure joy it is to watch you grow.

You love your baby sister.  Anytime she cries you say her name as if to alert me or your mother that we need to check on her, or you go find her pacifier and bring to her.

The other day she was crying on the bed.  I told you I needed to go check on her, but you said, "No, Dada."  So I watched as you walked down the hall, into the bedroom on your own, stopped beside the bed and said her name.  ("Har-har.")  Then repeated it.  Softly, sweetly.

You're fiercely independent -- insisting on buckling yourself in your high chair, taking off your own shoes and socks (and attempting at length but in vain to put them on), and "helping" Daddy take out the trash.  Every Tuesday we can be seen ambling down the driveway, you with hands over your head on the handles, me with one hand helping to guide when you inevitably veer off course.  My favorite may be when I open the door as we're about to leave and go somewhere, only to have you protest and proceed to close it, lock it, unlock it, and reopen it yourself.

Yet and still occasionally you can be so bashful, clinging with all your might to your mother or me.

At two years and two weeks you are at the average height and weight -- for a three-year-old.  How lucky am I then that you like to be rocked and sang to sleep.  It is a habit your mother isn't fond of me starting, but one I cherish.

You love music.  Your favorite songs are "Believer" ("Rain"), "Thunder" ("Neenuh"), and "Barbara Ann" ("Baa-Baa").

You also love books.  We read several to you every night.  And morning.  And at every nap time.  Some I have memorized, like "The Paperboy."  The best is when you "read" them to yourself, or to one of your stuffed animals.

And you absolutely love airplanes quite possibly more than anything.  I feel confident in saying your ability to hear or spot one in the sky is unparalleled.  I had never noticed how many planes flew over our house until you came along.  Now?  The sky is seemingly always offering up a vapor trail or three.

I remember not that long ago when you thought anything that flies -- birds, butterflies, helicopters, dragonflies -- was an airplane.

And I want to squeeze you and tell you that time is an airplane, and somehow be able to make you understand.  Oh Lukie, it flies, so breathtakingly fast.  Life is like one big vapor trail.  At first seeming so long and grand, and then...

But you... you're two.  You haven't even reached cruising altitude yet.  The seatbelt sign is still on.  You're looking out the window, filled with wonder, taking it all in.

I love you, buddy.  Cherish each and every mile of your flight. 

2nd and 26

In the latest of hours on the evening of January 8, 2018, a middle-aged male lets out a shrill scream, runs to the bedroom to wake his wife, bursts out the front door and sprints down the soaking wet driveway in his sock feet, pumping his fist in the air like some misplaced member of Arsenio Hall's dog pound dropped here by mistake from 1994.

He stops in the road, looking south and then north, wondering why no one else is outside.  One can almost read his mind: "What is wrong with these people?"

(Yes, because it is they who have the defect.)

What could cause this otherwise mild-mannered doting father and trophy husband to behave in such a way?

Following is his exclusive story, in his own words, told in the second person point of view.  (Why, I'm not sure, but the word "disturbed" does come to mind.)

You lie on the couch, intent but oddly calm.  Your mood turns from hopeful to solemn as the gladiatorial contest played out on the living room screen reaches its midway point.

There is no joy in Sabanville.  Mighty Bama has been shutout.  The score?  Thirteen to nothing.  Not zero -- nothing.  No excitement.  No energy.  No real reason to think anything will change.

Your wife goes to bed after the first drive of the 3rd quarter.  You don't blame or begrudge her.  This is your baby, not hers.  You brought it to the marriage.  She accepts it.  You've even caught her yelling at it herself a few times, but she will never love it as you do.

You will have to go the rest of the way on your own.  It won't be easy.  For while hope may not be completely lost, it has wandered far from home without a map, compass, or navigation system, and will have to rely on the stars, prayer, and luck to ever find its way back.

The stars begin to align with the insertion of the young Tua Tagavailoa at quarterback, the freshman warrior from our 50th state.  (You find out later his name in Hawaiian means "at the back" or "behind."  And you wonder what is the Hawaiian word for "apropos.")

First, a tackle-breaking, field-reversing third down conversion.  Then, at long last, a touchdown.  You leave your couch nest and get on your knees in front of the TV, fists clenched in unspeakable tension.  It is there you will remain -- three feet away from the 55-inch screen, alternately sitting and standing, for the remainder, in all likelihood doing irreparable damage to your already aging, failing eyes.

The Red Army of Georgia strikes back, and almost before you can say "Bolshevik Revolution" an 80-yard bomb scorches the Alabama secondary and the Bulldogs restore their thirteen-point margin.  The score is 20-7.  Hope interrupted.

Enter Lady Luck.

With the Bulldogs in Alabama territory and threatening to add to their lead, the Georgia quarterback's attempt deflects off the helmet of a lineman and is snatched out of the air by a hungry Crimson Tide defender.  You are jumping up and down with the excitement of a Price Is Right contestant on a Red Bull drip.  But you can't scream.  You have a son now.  And a cat.  You're basically a mime at this point.

The good guys inch closer.  20-10.  20-13.  Then comes a do-or-die 4th down in the closing minutes.

"Just let us win this one," you pray.  (As if you haven't won four of the past eight.  But it's never enough, is it?)

Also, to whom exactly are you praying?  You're almost positive God does not concern himself all that much with sporting events.  Perhaps you've unwittingly channeled your mom, as you recall the many times during your childhood (and beyond) you heard her implore, "Come on, Bear, look down on us one more time," speaking to the dearly departed former Crimson Tide coach who would probably be watching from up above and could presumably affect the outcome of any game as needed.

To believe otherwise would be to admit sports are played in a spiritual vacuum, with no ghostly or divine intervention having any effect whatsoever on the outcomes.  What then, are we to assume the winning and the losing is decided solely based on the participants' aptitude and athletic prowess, their coaches' direction, the referees' decisions, and what, the weather???  Absurdity, thy name is this!

(There was a timeout before the fourth down play, so you had a little more time to pontificate there, but the game is about to resume.)

Young Tua's near-desperation fling is cradled by Bama's top receiver, the talented Mister Ridley, just before he lands in the end zone for the tying points.

Victory, once about as likely as a mosquito-less Alabama summer, again seems possible.

The ravenous Bama defense, impenetrable as a devout nun lately, gets another stop.  The offense drives into position for a potential game-winning field goal.

Those last four words are enough to make any and every Tide fan triple their dosage of anxiety meds.  For if one thing has been the absolute scourge of this program for the past decade, it has been the dreaded field goal.  Almost every significant loss has been plagued by one, sometimes three, four, even five wayward kicks.

Still on your knees, you put your head down on the floor.  You're pretty sure this is a yoga position though you've no idea what it's called.  Downward Facing (string of expletives) Field Goal maybe.  You can't watch.  Literally.  You don't.

Five seconds feels like a minute.  Then the golden voice of Chris Fowler bears the bad news.

"No!!!  Hooked it!"

Of course.  

But hey, you've not truly lived until you've felt your heart sink like that a few times, am I right?

Then cometh overtime.  

The Bama defense is once again its nun-like self, not only stopping the Red Army from penetrating, but forcing them to retreat.  They can muster but a measly field goal.  You think to yourself how nice it must be to be successfully complete one of those.

Now for the final act.

Young Tua, who at this point has an entire thirty minutes of hand-to-hand combat under his belt, will be called upon once more.  Needing to advance only twenty-five yards through enemy territory to win the game, yea, the championship, he drops back to pass on first down.

But the receivers all seem to be covered.  He retreats, twisting one way, then another, finally swallowed up in a sea of red, sixteen yards farther from the goal than where he first began.

On the sideline, St. Nick, the Crimson leader, appears slightly perturbed.  He must have just realized his best chance to survive is a potential tying field goal.  You reluctantly agree.  For it is 2nd and 26 from the Bulldogs' 41-yard-line.  Just try and gain back ten or fifteen yards to have a prayer of a tying field goal.

But it's 2nd and 26.  Second and twenty-six.  Those words will outlive the whole of us due to what happens on that next play.

Young Tua lofts a magnificent spiral to the sprinting true freshman and future Heisman Trophy winner Devonta Smith.  He cradles it in his arms as a mother would cradle her precious winning lottery ticket.

Game over.  Another national championship.  

Cue middle-aged man sprinting down wet driveway in sock feet., all the while imagining his mama, in tears, saying, "Oh, thank you, Lord," and "You DO care about us, Bear!" and "Oh, my heart can't take this."

You think to yourself, "Mine neither, Mama.  Mine neither."