The Birth of a Mother

     Somewhere early in the year 1978 my Mom started praying a very specific prayer.  You see, she had just found out that her first born was due that summer.  Now you would expect this very specific prayer to be for her son – that God would make him strong, healthy, wise, successful…but you would be wrong.  While her prayer involved him, it was not specifically for him. 

     Assuming this boy would be at least somewhat like his Father she knew it was going to take a very special woman to take on the task of being his best friend, support, and voice of reason…his wife.  A very special and much prayed up woman.  She knew God had His work cut out for Him so she began to pray, diligently.  His future wife’s parents had no idea that a mother a thousand miles away was praying for their daughter.  In fact, they had no idea that they would have a daughter.  It would be another five years before God would bring them into his plan by providing them with a beautiful baby girl.

    On Wednesday, May 11, 1983, God initiated the first stage of his answer to my Mom’s prayers.  An exhausted mother looked down at that curly-headed smile for the first time and felt a love that nearly two decades later she would share with me.  I would take her daughter’s hand, her daughter would take my name, and we would take each other’s hearts.

     Now, thirty-two years later, Amber Lynn Solomon Gregory is a loving wife and mother to three boys that are enough like her husband that she is already diligently praying for their future wives. 

     No doubt the woman Amber is today can be attributed to the love of two mothers.  One that prayed for her without knowing her and one that dedicated her life to raising her and filling her with love.  Brenda Gregory and Wanda Solomon, you are both warriors and I thank you for helping my Amber becoming the woman God knew I needed.  Happy Mother’s Day.

    Amber, thank you for loving your Mom and your God.  Thank you for taking their guidance.  Thank you for not arguing with God when he told you I would be your husband.

    With each year that we conquer together our love grows stronger, your wisdom and support for me grows deeper, and your beauty grows exponentially.  You are a remarkable woman.  Happy Birthday.

_

The Haunted Gully of Abbeville

It was the late 1800’s, a lonely inventor lived secluded in the woods of what would one day be the small town of Abbeville, Mississippi. He was a brilliant man and invented many amazing things but lacked the creativeness to give them good names. It was this weakness and his refusal to seek help that held him back and never allowed his inventions to gain acceptance. Up until this date in history his inventions were mocked and ridiculed. Turns out this date would be no different.

He rode into town with a smile on his face and a wagon load of small rubber duck shaped toys he called Phony Ducks. Surely these would bring joy to the children of the town and he would finally be accepted and make his mark on history. But the town’s people thought that Phony Ducks was a stupid name for a toy and once again laughed him out of town. Convinced that the world was not ready for such a technologically advanced toy he buried his wagon load of small rubber duck shaped toys and then disappeared.

Just two short years later Bryn Shaffer came up with the same concept, called her invention the Rubber Duck, and has been making bath time fun for kids for more than 100 years now.

Fifty years later the recluse inventor showed back up with an invention that could change the world forever. He had figured out how to split atoms and in turn had invented the world’s strongest bomb. He called it The Glowy Bomb of Doom. But the town’s people thought that was a stupid name for a bomb and once again laughed him out of town.

Again, just two short years later the Manhattan Project discovered the same principle, named it the Atomic Bomb and ended World War II.

Dismayed over his lack of invention naming skills he vowed never to invent again and went to bury his Glowy Bomb of Doom in the same location as his Phony Ducks. It was a cold October evening and a full moon lit up the sky. Upon arriving at the location he found that Indians had used it as a ceremonial burial ground during the years he was gone. With complete disregard to the known dangers of burying things on top of Indian burial grounds he buried the Glowy Bomb of Doom there anyway and once again disappeared this time never to be seen again.

Over the years the radioactive goo from his Glowy Bomb of Doom seeped down through the earth and released the angered spirits of the Indians buried there. Those spirits entered into the Rubber Ducks and now haunt that very spot every year on the night of October’s Full Moon.

If you’re brave and adventurous you can go out this Saturday on the Full Moon and watch for their iridescent radioactive glow and listen for their soft squeaks.

And if you’re a good neighbor you’ll bring your rifle and help me eradicate these pesky glow-in-the-dark ducks once and for all.

Glow-In-The-Dark Rubber Duck Shoot (Rim-fire Rifle Competition)

Date: Saturday, October 23, 2010

Time: Sight in @ 6:00pm / Competition @ 7:00pm (after dark)

What to bring: Sense of Adventure, rim-fire rifle (i.e. 22lr, 17hmr… there will be plenty there if you don’t have one)

Cost: $5 to cover the cost of the rubber ducks and ammo

Fun for the Kids or Threat to the American Way of Life

The migration has been happening for as long as I can remember; always sometime around April. You walk out in the yard one day and there they are…everywhere…up in trees, in tuffs of grass, behind the gutter spout, sometimes even hiding inside of bushes – then the next day…gone. Nobody knows for sure where they come from or where the survivors of the kid raid go.

Officially, we don’t really know what they are. Unofficially, we call them Easter Eggs. They were given the name “Easter Eggs” because their migration occurs around the same time as Easter every year and they have a shape very similar to that of an egg. But their shape is where the similarities end. Unlike the egg with its white shell and runny insides that taste good fried the “Easter Egg” has a multi-colored shell and its guts (when not completely void of guts) resemble small candy bars, bubble gum and sometimes even…jelly beans.

Because of the eagerness of children to eat candy bars, bubble gum and…jelly beans, they have been led to believe that the yearly migration is meant especially for them. We release our children in hordes to find, capture and devour entire colonies of “Easter Eggs” in a matter of moments. These “Easter Eggs” seemingly pose no real threat. Their poor hiding skills and bright colors make them easy to find. And their poor reaction time and lack of situational awareness allow the kids to easily sneak up on them, snatch them up and trap them in meager baskets full of fake grass to later be torn open revealing their sweet, tasty insides. Meanwhile we just sit back and watch the massacre never carrying to wonder about the truth of the “Easter Egg” and never taking the time to ensure that the kid raid left no survivors…and there are survivors…there are always survivors.

Each year more and more “Easter Eggs” make the migration and each year more and more survive the raid. “My kids find most of them”, “There can’t be more than one or two missing”, “How harmful can a couple of sneaky plastic eggs be?” – I’ll tell how harmful they can be! Sure, your kid may only miss one or two…but so does the neighbors kid…and so does the kid down the street…and his second cousin twice removed…before you know it there are dozens of “Easter Eggs” evading capture and residing illegally inside your neighborhood. Multiply this by every neighborhood in the country duplicated year after year after year and it begins to get very scary.

These “Easter Eggs” are silently taking over our country! Before you know it they’ll be taking our jobs, draining our social security benefits and stealing our women! Go ahead and ignore the threat and one day you’ll pick up the phone to call a support line and have to press “1” to not talk “Easter Egg”!

“They aren’t all bad, they just want to make a better life for themselves,” you might say. And I might answer, “Are you insane? They’re plastic! What kind of better life could they have?” Even if only a small portion of this invading force has evil intentions, that’s still a lot of bad eggs. So you can bury your head in the sand and pretend like this is no big deal if you want but when you wake up one April morning to find young Timmy laid out in the yard with chocolate all over his face and an Easter basket smashed over his head surrounded by a bunch of evil elliptical plastic invaders covered in tattoos and wearing scary looking bandanas, don’t come crying to me.

Me? I choose to fight back! I refuse to sit back and watch these synthetic fowl progeny destroy the country I love. This is a matter of National Defense. The Easter Egg Hunt is no longer a game for children; it is time for the men of this great nation to step up and defend its borders. No longer will we sit indolently by setting our children out to take care of a job that should have been taken care of long ago. It is time to stand! Stand with me brethren! Take up arms and push back the approaching hordes! As individuals we don’t stand a chance, but as a nation we can push back this annual invasion and once again reclaim our borders. Years from now our grandchildren will read of our bravery in the history books and talk proudly of how their granddaddy stood up for what he knew was right and blew those little plastic oval invaders to smithereens.

April will no longer be the month of the invasion – it will be the month of our independence!

Awakening

I haven’t experienced it lately but I used to have this regular dream about falling. The total dream lasted less than even a second…really more of a feeling than an actual dream. It felt as if not only my bed but the whole world was suddenly ripped out from under me. Laying there in bed my body would jump startling me awake – never an impact. Eyes wide open, now wide awake, heart racing like I’d just looked under the bed to realize the boogey man was in fact under there; I’d spend the next fifteen minutes struggling to rejoin the unconscious.

In the moments after while coaxing myself back to sleep I often wondered why the dream was so frightening to me. Heights have never bothered me – I’ve dangled my toes off the edge of the Grand Canyon, arms spread wide and felt overwhelming freedom but no fear. Falling doesn’t bother me – I’ve jumped from bridges fifty feet above the water, repelled off high cliffs and anxiously await the day I can put a check in the box next to free-fall sky diving. But then the saying goes – it’s not the fall that kills you but the sudden stop at the end.

There are several interpretations of falling dreams most of them involving some sort of insecurity, lack of control or fear. Then again there is also an interpretation that says that these are archaic memories from the time when we were tree-dwelling monkeys. The ape-men that survived their fall passed on their genes with the memory of the event. The dead ones did not. And that’s why so often you dream of falling but of never hitting the ground. Other interpretations range from an upcoming monetary loss to informing you that someone has lied about you – the later if in your dream you fall into mud. Judging by the facts that I don’t fall into mud in my dreams, I’ve never had enough money to worry about losing and I’m pretty certain my granddad wasn’t a monkey; my recurring dream probably had something to do with an insecurity or feeling of lack of control.

I haven’t had the dream lately. Maybe it’s because I’ve begun to relinquish control…If I give up control I no longer have to fear losing it. This past year I’ve felt just like in my dream that the entire world has been torn out from under me and I’m now in a free fall from so high that the ground isn’t even in view yet. At first I was panicked trying desperately to find a way to slow the fall, deploy a parachute or at least find something soft to land on. But now I think I’m starting to enjoy it. I’m no longer flailing around wildly tumbling end over end. I’m now steady; arms freely out to the side, legs tucked behind me, big wind-forced flappy smile on my face. Although I can’t see where I’m falling, I’m not falling blindly. God is in control…he always has been. I know there is a chute on my back it’s just not time for it to open yet. If I can resist the urge to pull the cord and take over I’ll get there much faster and with much less risk of being blown off course during a parachute slowed, personally controlled decent. So here’s to enjoying the free fall and not being a financially challenged, tree-dwelling ape-man with mud on his face.

The Appointment

He was careful not to speed. He had a lot of ground to cover and not a lot of time to do it in but waiting for a cop to write out a ticket would definitely cause him to miss his appointment. He could not miss this appointment. He had one chance, one very small window of opportunity. He could not be late.

The drive was only twenty minutes and his appointment was still just shy of an hour out. But he had two stops to make on the way that could easily eat up the extra forty minutes. He looked at the clock in the dash. Thirty-seven minutes. His original plan gave him plenty of time to prepare. But circumstances change. Plans change.

The house was on top of a hill at the end of a long dirt driveway. Certain the driveway was uninhabited by over-zealous ticket writing cops he mashed the accelerator allowing the rear tires to slide as he took the soft dirt curves going up the hill. He knew this was silly, no more than a few seconds would be saved by speeding only in the driveway but it at least made him feel like he wasn’t wasting time.

He threw the truck in park before it was even close to a complete stop causing the body of the truck to lurch forward over the now stationary tires. Just seconds later he was shedding the clothes covered in the evidences of his days work and fumbling through the closet for something more appropriate. Something casual but not too informal. Something inconspicuous but not too ordinary. Inconspicuous. He laughed at the thought of the word.

Two minutes later he was out the door again. Wearing nice jeans, deck shoes, an un-tucked polo shirt and wool jacket he wouldn’t exactly match the standard attire of his destination – most would likely be wearing dress shirts and slacks or at least khaki pants – but he wouldn’t be underdressed enough to draw attention to himself. Besides, he was comfortable and there’s something to be said for that.

As he rounded the corner of the house into the driveway, the truck sat waiting for him, door open, engine still running, Alabama serendipitously singing “I’m in a hurry to get things done” on the radio. That last part wasn’t exactly true but entering the truck to the sound of a GEICO commercial just didn’t seem to fit.

Precious seconds were made up once again as the truck sped back down the driveway to resume the speed limit once back on the main road. One more stop. This time the clock read 3:56. Thirty-four minutes.

As luck would have it there was an open spot just a few spaces away from the doors. He whipped in and quickly hopped out of the truck. This time he turned off the engine but left the keys in the ignition. He would only be a minute and he wasn’t the least bit worried about someone driving off with the truck. This was Oxford after all, not Memphis.

The layout of the greeting cards was definitely not conducive to quick searching but he still managed to make pretty quick work of it. He found the card and its corresponding envelope and headed towards the registers. Apparently everybody thought this would be a good time to check out.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The words came out loud, though he had intended them to remain in his head. “I’m never going to get out of here.” These words he was able to keep contained.

Just as despair was beginning to set in, he noticed the Self Checkout lines were all empty.

“Perfect.” This word too was audible although considerably more under his breath than his previous statement. Still he couldn’t help but point out to himself that he was basically talking to himself. Himself then retorted with the fact that by pointing that out to himself he was again talking to himself.

He scanned the card, put it in the bag and pushed the PAY NOW button on the touch screen. As a payment method he chose CASH, using his debit card would leave evidence of his plans. Was he over thinking this? He feed the twenty dollar bill into the slot half expecting the machine to spit it back out because of some small crease on the corner much like every Coke machine he had ever tried to give his business to. He never understood that. “I’m trying to give you my money,” he would tell the machine. “Why won’t you take it?” It can’t be good business to turn down people’s money just because it has a few wrinkles. The machine did not spit his twenty back at him. It also did not spit his change back at him. That can’t be good business either. The screen now read, “Please see cashier for your change.” So much for self checkout.

“Just a minute,” the cashier responded when the impatient man forwarded the machine’s message to her. “I need to get a manager.”

Seconds were turning into minutes. Minutes seemed to be turning into hours. After the third time she paged a manager another person in a blue vest finally started walking their way. Meandering, strolling, not quite at a walk speed. She obviously had no idea how pertinent his not being late was.

She fumbled with her keys and punched in some secret code on the keyboard (it was 69734 she didn’t bother hiding her keystrokes). When the drawer opened her hands just rested on top of it. She didn’t reach for the change. She just stood there staring at the drawer. Everything inside him wanted to shove her out of the way so he could count out the change himself. He didn’t have time for this.

“It looks like all I have are ones,” she finally said with a sheepish smile. “I’ll have to go take some to another register to get you a ten and a five.”

“Ones are fine, ma’am,” his tone was short and he added ma’am to the end hoping it would add some politeness to what he knew wasn’t.

“It’s no trouble…”

“Ones are fine,” this time he said it with a forced smile and not quite as short of a tone. Realizing he had cut her off he added “Thank you” to make up for the offense.

She slowly, painfully slow, counted out seventeen ones then started trying to figure the change. She held onto the ones as she fumbled with the change trying to use the pinky and ring finger of the hand that was holding the ones to slide each coin from its compartment. He again fought the urge to help. Briefly he contemplated explaining his rush but figured that the explanation would only distract her from her obviously daunting task and therefore decided that keeping quiet would likely lead to the quickest recovery of his change.

His toe began to tap. He was using every bit of his will power keeping his hand from hijacking the change recovery effort and therefore had no will power available to keep his toe from tapping. She didn’t notice. It took all of her attention to meticulously remove each coin from its compartment using only the pinky and ring finger of her un-free hand and therefore had no attention available to notice his tapping toe.

Finally the change recovery challenge was complete and she turned to hand it over to the toe tapping man. He imagined her trying to recount the change one bill at a time, one coin at a time as she laid each of them in his hand. He wasn’t sure if his will power was strong enough to endure that. She didn’t. The entire wad was handed to him with a satisfied smile. He took the change and quickly headed for the door.

Unsure if he really wanted to know at this point, he glanced at the clock on the dash as he backed the truck out of the parking spot. 4:16. Fourteen minutes. Not as bad as he had thought but possibly cutting it close. His destination was no more than a mile up the road but traffic at this time of day was unpredictable and so was parking.

He made it up University quick enough but was stopped by the red light at the top of the hill. Using every second wisely, he removed a pen from his coat pocket and wrote a note inside the card. No sooner had he finished his note, the light turned green. The two cars in front of him continued across the intersection but he turned right heading toward the Square.

The Oxford Square consists of four things: banks, bars, law offices and really expensive places to shop. In the middle of the Square an old fashioned court house sits surrounded by a wrought iron fence, walking path and a few park benches. All the buildings around the Square are two stories with balconies on the second story. The stone and brick buildings, many with columns out front, have a high class look but still remain small town, country, inviting. In front of each of the building are an inadequate amount of parking spaces. Even if you found an open spot, the likelihood of it being on the same side of the Square as your destination was rare. Because of this, the employees that worked the many banks, bars, law offices and really expensive places to shop on the Square generally parked behind their respective banks, bars, law offices and really expensive places to shop.

Half way around the Square he spotted his destination. Southbank sat on one of the corners of the Square and he noticed a back alley that ran behind the bank and its neighboring shops adjoining University on the opposite side of the Square from where he had entered. He turned into the alley and slowed the truck to a crawl scanning through the cars parked by the back doors of each building as he went looking for her car.

He found it nosed up to a small open staircase with no more than six steps leading to the back door of the bank. The back of the bank did not protrude into the alley as much as the two buildings beside it forming a small alcove that the bank employees used as a parking lot. There was another small car parked next to hers. Both cars were blocked in by SUV’s, presumably driven by fellow employees. The back of the SUV’s lined up near perfectly with the corner of the neighboring building. Metal emergency exit stairs with a dumpster tucked underneath sat to the right of the SUV parked behind her car. The building across the alley had a loading dock height concrete porch with wrought iron railing. The porch faced parallel to the alley toward a larger open parking area.

The truck slipped into the only available parking spot in the lot. There was no view of the door from this spot but it was the only spot available so it would have to do. This time he removed the keys and slipped them into his pocket as he walked towards her car.

There was only one window on the back of the bank. It appeared to be the bank’s break room. It was less than ten minutes to closing time; nobody would be on break right now. With the card resting on top of the driver’s side windshield wiper he quickly walked across the alley to the loading dock porch. There was no one else around that he could see but he still felt as if a million eyes were watching him. He stood as casually as possible against the tall concrete porch watching the bank door to his left out of the corner of his eye. A large metal beam at the corner of the porch blocked the upper half of his body from view from the bank. The concrete porch blocked the lower half.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket to see what time it was. Seven minutes to closing time. As he put the phone back into his pocket a truck pulled down the alley and turned into the lot right in front of him. It stopped abruptly just past him. The brake lights extinguished but the truck didn’t move. It was in park. It was nowhere close to being in a parking spot. In fact where it was parked was blocking at least three other vehicles from being able to back out of their spots. The driver remained in the truck. Unsure if the driver had seen him, he now felt uneasy standing this close to the vehicle. He didn’t want the driver to suddenly see him and wonder what he was doing standing so close to his vehicle…or wonder what he was doing watching the back door to a bank. He realized he was being paranoid. There was no reason for the driver to suspect anything. Still the more he tried to act like he wasn’t up to something the more he felt he looked like he was up to something.

The driver finally exited his truck leaving the engine running and walked over to a car parked just behind the truck. It became apparent that the driver was just changing vehicles. As he approached the back of his truck he noticed the man leaning against the concrete porch. Now it seemed the paranoia had shifted. The man appeared to be wrestling with the same thought that this at first unseen stranger might think he was up to something even though he obviously was not. This realization made the man who was up to something smile. The other man pulled a car out of a parking spot, replaced it with the truck and then drove off in the car leaving the alley and its small parking area empty once again.

The next five minutes crawled agonizingly by. He began to wish he hadn’t rushed so much to get here. But then again he couldn’t risk being late. The sun was beginning its afternoon decent and the air was becoming noticeably cooler. Any minute now.

Suddenly out of silence came chaos. The back door to the bank as well as the back door to a neighboring building opened and a handful of employees spilled out into the alley. She was out of the door before he was able to react but she didn’t notice him. Her gaze was fixed on the envelope on her windshield. The diversion had worked.

He crossed from the concrete porch over to the small lot and walked behind the first row of cars until he came to the metal emergency exit stairs. The SUV behind her car was already pulling out paying no attention to him. A self thought overworked employee worried about nothing but getting away from work. He moved quickly but quietly under the stairs, around the dumpster and behind the car where the SUV was just parked. She had just sat down in the car and not yet closed the door her focus still on the unexpected card that she was now reading. She reached out for the door to shut it, her eyes still focused on the card. But as she pulled it shut his hand grabbed it and yanked it open out of hers his head quickly filling the space next to hers. She jumped back with alarm and a squeal that brought obvious joy to his face.

“Hey baby.” He said with an obnoxious smile.

“You scared the mess out of me,” she scorned swatting at him playfully. “You’re lucky I didn’t punch you in the face.”

He just smiled even bigger.

“Happy anniversary, baby,” he said through his smile. “Come on. Let’s go get some dinner.”

No Wrinkles Available For Bad Memories

They say that every time you learn something new or make a new memory you form a new wrinkle in your brain. If that’s true then I must have a little OCD midget in my skull with an ironing board because my memory is terrible. The little overachiever is up there smoothing out all the wrinkles and doing his best to keep things clean and organized. Not organized like a vast library full of endless knowledge with a card catalog to easily retrieve said knowledge when needed; more like a house that someone just moved out of – there’s no clutter or mess but there is also a very noticeable lack of stuff. An old couch that wasn’t worth moving, a half eaten carton of ice cream in the freezer and one of those ink blot pictures in a broken frame hanging crooked on the wall that looks like something different depending on whoever is looking at it or whatever your current mood or state of mind is – today it looks a lot like a monkey in a row boat with a banana shaped oar wondering whether he should keep fighting the current or just give up and eat the banana...at least that’s what it looks like to me.

I’ve gone lately to keeping my thoughts as disorganized as possible thinking that if I make the midgets job miserable he’ll eventually quit and my memory will improve. I would just fire him but I can hardly justify firing him for doing what is obviously his job. Plus he probably has an OCD midget wife and three little OCD midget kids that he needs to keep fed and I don’t want to be responsible for the starvation of an entire OCD midget family. So I’ll stick with the disorganized thinking and the hope that he will eventually get fed up with the over abundance of work and the total lack of appreciation and go off looking for employment between someone else’s ears. Still, I remain careful not to be too disorganized in my thinking. If I push the little neat freak too hard he might fill my head with embarrassing false memories before he leaves and I’ll walk around for the rest of my life remembering the joys of my short term stint as a nun in my early twenties and making claims about how I invented the internet. It’s a theory anyway and I’ll keep you updated on how it’s working out.

Anyway, until I run off the midget, I’ll have to contend with my memory shortfalls. To list a few: I am completely inept when it comes to remembering people’s names even just moments after I’ve been told; I’ll tell stories to people completely forgetting about the fact that they were there with me when it happened; and people often remind me of events that happened when we were together that I have absolutely no memory of whatsoever. These are all things that would be nice to have stored neatly in my brain’s computer filing system for quick access in individual folders labeled “People’s Names”, “Who was with me”, and “Fun things I’ve done that people will remind me of later” respectively. However they seem to have been moved to the Trash Bin (My brain is Pro-Global Warming so it still uses the old Trash Bin rather than the now common Recycle Bin) or misfiled someone amongst all the 1’s and 0’s along with the memory of what exactly all those 1’s and 0’s mean.

Now I’ve completely lost track of the point I was trying to get to…oooh, look, something shiny!

So with my brain having about as many wrinkles as an infant’s fart maker on which to store memories I can’t waste valuable storage space on bad memories. When I say “can’t” I really should be saying “shouldn’t” because I do even though I shouldn’t because I can’t can’t. If there was anybody still reading after the first three paragraphs I probably just lost them with that sentence.

I’m not haunted much by bad memories of personal failures, bad decisions or embarrassing moments. I live my life with no regrets save one and that’s words for another ramble. The memories that seem to plaque my thoughts, rearing their spiteful head just when I thought I’d gotten over them are those where I feel I was wronged in some way. Saturated in bitterness the events replay themselves over and over in my head. With each replay my brain adding to them a last word on my part that went unspoken during the actual event…one last zing to put the perpetrator in their place, forever proving that they were wrong and I was right. If you were to produce an action movie based on the poison my mind feeds itself it would end with the hero and villain locked hand to wrist while the villain dangled over the edge of a bridge the hero’s weakening grip the only thing postponing the villains pending judgment. The villain’s hardened eyes finally begin showing understanding of his wrongdoing. As the hero’s grip slips the words “I’m sorry” trail off chasing their body of origin both growing farther and farther away from me and closer and closer to the judgment below. But this isn’t a movie and since I’ve yet to get any of those staring in these memories to hang from my arm over a bridge I guess I’d better find a better way to deal with it.

Truth be told no one has ever wronged me enough to warrant the fantasized retribution that my mind, poisoned with bitterness, bestowed upon them. To be even more truthful, I’ve probably done more harm to myself through my own personal bitterness than all those that wronged me before. I don’t want to be bitter. I don’t even want to think about the events. I just want to move on, lesson learned, stronger. But just when I think I’ve gotten over it the vindictive memory cunningly attaches itself to another pure memory and jumps out into the forefront of my thought dragging the happiness away and replacing it with frustration. As many times as I’ve snatched that bitter weed from the ground the root remains and it continues to come back choking out the good memories and spreading to take over my thoughts.

I plea with the Lord to take the memories away but He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t answer because He’s already told me once and confirmed it and He’s not going to say it again. I ignore the silence with defiance. My plea continues. Help me move on. Help me get over it. Just make it go away. Give me back my joy and direction. I’m willing to go anywhere, give up anything, do anything, anything, anything…anything but that. I’ve tried. I can’t. The thought makes me nauseous. There’s has to be another way. Of course there’s another way. Can’t there be another way? Silence.

I don’t want to call him.

#17

Every other Monday night Amber makes a batch of something yummy that I’m not allowed to touch. Cookies, muffins, cupcakes...for the sake of this story we will categorize them all as masterful creations of yummyness (By the way, I have added “yummyness” to my Microsoft Word dictionary so that it will quit showing up with a red underline. Therefore “yummyness” is now officially a real word and y-u-m-m-y-n-e-s-s is its official spelling). I’m not allowed to eat said masterful creations of yummyness because they have been set aside for the girls in her MOPS (Mothers Of Preschoolers) group of which I am not a part. Not being a part of this group apparently means that not only am I not allowed to have one, I’m not allowed even a sample taste of said masterful creations of yummyness.

Still, because instinct forces me to, I ask every week. And every week I get the same “I’ll bring home what’s left and you can have it” answer. She has yet to come home with any “what’s left’s” for me to “have”.

This week Amber made a batch of cupcakes that were so moist that even gently picking them up to move them left soft little finger indents on the side. Only a thin layer of icing topped them as to not take away from the flavor of the cake. They were decorated with a ring of sprinkles around the edge that, though looked very attractive, I’m sure my stomach wouldn’t notice. I had to have one of these cupcakes.

Knowing what answer would come from straight forward ask approach, I decided to try a different approach. I counted them...17 cupcakes. That’s an odd number and just doesn’t look right. 16 cupcakes would look much more presentable. So, armed with this information, I approached the creator of these masterful creations of yummyness and with all humility pointed out the only flaw I could find in them...their number. And it worked.

As a dog that’s been chasing cars down this street for a long time, I really wasn’t sure what to do now that I’d finally caught one. I couldn’t just giddily skip into the kitchen and grab one. Before I’d have a chance to stuff it in my face the kids would see it and then they’d want one and the ensuing toddler begging would likely lead to me having to put my cupcake back and I wasn’t about to not have a cupcake now that I finally had a cupcake. No, I’d have to wait until later. Be patient, eventually the little likely cupcake spoiling critters would go to bed and then I could have #17.

The next morning I awoke and immediately remembered what in the midst of putting little likely cupcake spoiling critters to bed I had forgotten the night before. #17. Now the conundrum; If I wait until this afternoon there won’t be a #17; If I eat it now, I would be eating a cupcake for breakfast and cupcakes aren’t exactly breakfast food. As my mind continued running through my current options it stumbled across a memory of a similar situation faced by Bill Cosby.

The child wanted chocolate cake for breakfast! How ridiculous! And I said... and someone in my brain looked under chocolate cake and saw the ingredients: eggs! Eggs are in chocolate cake! And milk! Oh goody! And wheat! That's nutrition! "What do you want?" "Can I have some chocolate cake?" "Chocolate cake coming up."

Thank you Mr Cosby. Breakfast was wonderful.

Loved

It was a day just like any other day. Work was work. The drive home was uneventful. I was mentally exhausted and was preparing myself for the upcoming physical exhaustion brought on by the two boys that are too young to realize how important they are to me.

I pulled into the driveway, checked the mail, put my key into the door and braced for impact…wait, something wasn’t right. I slowly opened the door careful not to knock the boys over. The boys…where were the boys? I smell dinner, they must be home. That smells really good, where are they? A strange sound filled the air. I know that sound. Where do I know that sound from? It’s been so long. Has it been long enough for me to forget? Come on, Josh, you’re not that old…remember. The last time I heard that sound had to have been three or four years ago…yeah, before Caleb was born. That’s it! It’s quiet, that’s the sound…quiet. Funny how something that was once so ordinary can now seem so strange. …Why is it quiet?

My eyes followed my nose to the kitchen and that’s when I saw her. Absolutely stunning. My mind searched for words but was too busy forcing my jaw to drop and my eyes to bug out to come up with any. Her soft hair was gently swept past her eyes…those eyes…they drew me closer…I couldn’t get past those eyes. She smiled and looked away shyly releasing me from the trance. It was then that I noticed the dress. I bought it for her last Christmas. She was absolutely beautiful in it. It gently hugged her body. The sleeves lay softly half way down her arms. The neck was lower than normal but modest. She wore her original wedding band on her neck, our two boys’ birth stones set inside. The boys? I wasn’t too worried about the boys at this point. I was sure they were okay...pretty sure...sure enough.

We ate dinner and carried on a normal conversation. After dinner we cleaned house. At least I think that’s what they call it these days…you know, when you pick things up, vacuum, that sort of thing.

I had a wonderful evening, Amber, my love, thank you very much.
Your Joshua


And thank you, Madye, for watching the boys for Amber. We really appreciate your friendship.

Yuk

We came home from church tonight and I gave the boys a bath while Amber got ready for bed. After their bath, I took Caleb up front to get dressed and Taylor sat in the back with Mommy.

“Aaaahhh!” A quick, distressed cry from Mommy…then silence.

I hurried to the back to find Taylor sitting in Mommy’s lap. Spaghetti rings are all over the floor…all over Taylor…all over Mommy. Funny, the last time I saw Spaghetti rings was dinner time when Taylor was…eeewww.

Guess it’s time for shower number two for Taylor. Mommy, I think you ought to join him this time.

Watch Your Mouth

The boys and I were playing in the shower tonight when I made the statement, "Alright, it's time to wash your hair."
Caleb said something smart about not wanting his hair washed to which I gave the fatherly response, "Watch your mouth."
His eyes got big. Fear came over his face. "No, Daddy, don't wash my mouth."
"What?"
"Don't wash my mouth," he said, lip quivering a bit.
"I said watch your mouth like with your eyes."
Even more fear. "No, Daddy, don't wash my eyes."
Sigh...light bulb..."Okay, I won't. Can I wash your hair?"
With a head nod and a look as if he'd just won a battle, "Yes."

Lemonaide Anyone?

When life gives you lemons you're supposed to make lemonaide. But sometimes you just feel like shoving the lemons right up life's nose then tearing life's head off and placing it on a pike. How do you like those lemons, life?

Oh well. Guess I'll go make some lemonaide.

.

My Last First Kiss

Seven years ago today I had my last first kiss. She was the sweetest girl I'd ever met. There was something about her that drew me to her more than just her looks, or her heart, or her personality. This wasn't the puppy love or the close feelings I had felt with others before. This was something different, very different. It was frightening and freeing at the same time. Two weeks later, I told her that I loved her, a gift I had never given another. Two weeks after that I put a ring on her finger. Now seven years and two kids later, I still can't get enough of her kisses. And even now, I still get giddy and can't help but smile after each one. I love you, baby. Here's to seven more.
Your Joshua

Still Funny

I’m lying next to Caleb in his bed with three books in my hand.
“Which one first?”
There is a moment of silence as he contemplates his decision as if the fate of the world depended on it.
“That one!” He enthusiastically points to his first choice.
I read through it with as much enthusiasm as I can muster and then lay it on the floor next to the bed and hold up the remaining two.
“Which one next?”
His finger floats back and forth between the two books and then quickly lands on his choice.
“That one!”
He leans in on my shoulder as I read his next selection to him.
Finished with his second choice I lay it on the floor next to the other and pick up his third and final book.
“Which one next?”
He looks up at me a bit puzzled. Slowly the puzzled look turns into a smile.
“You think you’re funny.” He responds.

Now every night when we get to the last book he instructs me, “You have to ask me which one.” So I do. He smiles and responds, “You think you’re funny.”

It's Not Fair

Amber and I took the kids to the Fair last night. I'm not generally a big fan of the Fair, but I've got to say I had more fun last night than I have in a long time. It also gave me a chance to learn more about the many character traits of Caleb...

Trait #1 - Absolute Confidence: This trait was expressed in the “Monkey Maze” which is a maze made up of glass and mirrors...very tricky. Most kids and adults (including myself) felt their way through with their hands second guessing every step. Not Caleb. He charged headfirst in whatever direction he thought was correct. After a quick recovery from a glass face plant, he'd charge headfirst again in another direction. It may have been wrong of me to laugh every time his body crumpled against a piece of glass head first, but it was FUNNY. So I laughed. In fact, I'm laughing now while writing this because I can still visualize the stunned look on his face every time it made contact with an invisible wall. That alone was worth the price of admission.

Trait #2 - Leadership / Problem Solving: There was a small obstacle course of sorts for the kids. No one over 50" (or something like that...I don't remember exactly, but definitely shorter than me) was allowed to go in unless you are accompanying your child...which I was...honest. (Side note: Parents don't have to use tickets to get in either.) It consisted of a rope ladder, two swinging bridges, a bouncy house type enclosed slide, a tangled elastic band maze thingy, and a really super fast slide. Caleb conquered the rope ladder with ease and made his way onto the first swinging bridge. Did you know that swinging bridges can be very scary when your daddy is jumping and swaying side to side on them? After a little hesitation, Caleb made it across the first bridge. Problem Solving: “When Daddy gets on the bridge it bounces and sways way too much. Passage would probably be easier without him.” Leadership: “Daddy, you stay here,” he says with his little hand stretched out in an assertive manner. Once he made it across he looked back and waved me on. If you ask me, the second bridge wasn’t nearly as fun as the first. This is where I found out the reasoning behind the 50” max height restriction. The bouncy house type slide thingy was barely big enough for me to fit through and it was at an angle but it did not slide. By the time I wiggled my way through Caleb was almost all the way through the elastic band jumble. Then came the real slide. Caleb happily jumped in first and I followed closely behind him…maybe a little too closely…apparently dads build up speed much faster than Calebs. We ended in a pile at the bottom. Caleb’s muffled voice spoke out from underneath me, “Let’s do it again, Daddy.”

Trait #3 – Independence: We waited in the fairly short line for the kids helicopter ride. Caleb was very excited to get to fly a helicopter so the line wasn’t quite short enough for him. When they finally let us through the gate, I helped Caleb into the helicopter, buckled him in and sat next to him ready for the ride to start. “Alright dad, you gotta get out,” the attendant said as he walked by our helicopter. Apparently dads are not allowed to fly in the helicopters. At this point I was expecting a “Don’t leave me” or an “I want to go with you, Daddy”…which I did not get. Oh no, I just got a wave goodbye as the helicopter lifted off and began its circular flight pattern. I don’t know what bummed me out more, the fact that he didn’t need me with him or the fact that I didn’t get to ride in the helicopter.

We ended the night having consumed a two foot long corn dog (no exaggeration), funnel cake (a fair must) and some deep fried Oreos (just when I thought Oreos couldn’t get any better) and having collected a stroller full of prizes (apparently Caleb is quite the game player). One of his prizes was a miniature horn which we had the pleasure of listening to the entire ride home. I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that the horn might disappear soon. Horn? What horn?

I can’t wait until October of ’09.

What Are Rights Without Self Respect?

I saw a news story yesterday that bothered me. But what bothered me wasn’t the same thing that bothered the media and the rest of the world that sympathized with the story.

Back story: If you haven’t heard, a Colorado school decided to have a Patriotic Day in which all the students were encouraged to wear Red, White and Blue. One 5th grader shows up in a homemade white t-shirt that reads, “OBAMA IS A TERRORIST’S BEST FRIEND.” The school gave the boy two options 1) turn the shirt inside-out or 2) get suspended. The boy was suspended.

Minor point: The boy and his father (more on them in the Major point) claimed it was his 1st Amendment right to wear that shirt. The school claimed that the shirt was causing disruptions and was distracting other students from learning. I agree with the school (no printed shirts, no matter what their message, should be allowing in school). Public schools are a FREE place for our children to get an education, not a public forum for expressing your viewpoints (no matter how much we may or may not agree with those viewpoints). In the America of today where there is much more grey area than there is black and white, who is to say what is appropriate/inappropriate or what is right/wrong? While the shirt very well could have been referring to Senator Obama’s close friendship with William Ayers (after seeing the news interview I don’t think it was deeply thought out) who admits to attacking the United States, there are still some who do not classify Ayers as a terrorist. So now even the validity of the message of this boy’s shirt is at question. What if the shirt read, “Abortion – the easiest way out” or “George Bush is a murderer” or “Worship Satan with me…he loves us all no matter what we’ve done”? Would we be cheering for the school instead of the boy? If you want your child to be able to wear whatever shirt he wants, send him to a private school or make the ultimate sacrifice and home school (Warning: Home schooling may take away from your free time and may cause you to have to cut back some on your standard of living. Please make sure your children are worth that sacrifice before attempting). If you want the government to educate your child then exercise your 1st Amendment right by doing something about it…get involved, vote, write a letter to the editor…don’t hide behind a homemade t-shirt and wine about one of your rights being violated if you aren’t taking full advantage of all of your rights. And, oh by the way, during the interview it came out that the t-shirt was not the boy’s idea. He was “encouraged” to wear it by his Dad. Way to go Dad. Let your son take the heat for your freedom of speech.

Major point: Do we as American’s not have any self respect anymore? More and more I’m seeing things like this. When this boy and his father showed up for their interview for national news they not only failed to dress up, they didn’t even dress neatly or appropriately. During the interview I got to thinking, “I bet this is the way they dress to go to church as well.” Now that is complete speculation, but if I were a betting man I’d bet it was true. For those of you fortunate enough to have not seen the interview, I’ll describe their attire for you. The boy was wearing a black t-shirt with some sort of skull figure drawn on it with what appeared to be a bullet hole in the forehead…classy. The father was dressed in his finest camouflaged t-shirt. I can just imagine the conversation he had with his wife as he was getting ready for the interview. “Honey, have you seen my good camo?...No, not that one, that’s last year’s Mossy Oak. My good camo. The Hardwoods HD one you got me for our anniversary.”

Yes, sir, you do have a right to wear whatever you want when you receive your two minutes of fame. But people are watching…people in other countries are watching. Please have enough respect yourself if not your country to be presentable during your short lived fame.

That’s What Insurance Is For

A couple of months ago, Amber had the pleasure of introducing the front of our Civic to the front of someone else’s car. She was crossing an intersection on a green light and the other driver turned across the intersection from the opposite direction without a green arrow. Apparently a large truck in another lane blocked Amber from his view so he drove his vehicle into the middle of a four way intersection to get a better view. Luckily no one was injured. The police made a report. The other driver was at fault. Insurance information was exchanged. No problem, that’s what insurance is for. However, the other driver had the kind of insurance that comes as a prize in a Happy Meal. This news was like a ray of sunshine bringing joy to all involved. Of course the true fulfillment of joy didn’t occur until we finally received the return phone call from the McInsurance Company explaining that McCrashy hadn’t been paying his bills and therefore his insurance had McLapsed. So, I guess that’s what our insurance is for.

I had a real struggle with this. The other driver was driving a beat up car, was not dressed like money, lived in a low end neighborhood and obviously was having budget issues since he wasn’t able to keep up with his McPayments. On the one side, that’s why we have insurance so even if it’s not our fault we don’t lose out…or at least no more than our $500 deductable. On the other side, you broke my stuff…you fix my stuff. It’s quite simple, black and white, no need for discussion. Since this did not happen, I have every right to turn him in to the authorities for not having insurance which will in turn strip him of his driver’s license and possible land him a fine and/or some jail time. Will this help me in collecting any of the money…no. Will it make me feel any better…that’s the struggle.

I really would find no joy in bringing extra hardship on this guy. However, I do believe he should be responsible to pay for the repair of my vehicle. And, in my mind, anyone that is not willing to even attempt to right their wrong deserves no mercy and showing mercy would only further instill in them the mindset of “just worry about yourself and if something bad happens you don’t need to feel responsible…someone else will bail you out.”

Mercy prevailed, I didn’t get the law involved. Allstate, my insurance company that doesn’t sell their insurance as part of a meal deal and who I pay in full every six months to protect not only myself and my family but anyone else who we may accidently cause undue harm, took care of the repair bill for us and is pursuing the reimbursement of the funds from the other driver. How they pursue it is their business. I’m over it and on with my life.

This past Friday (July 18th at 9:30am – this information will become important in just a moment), two weeks after we finally got the Civic back from the body shop, I was sitting at a red light in said Civic when I looked in my rear view mirror to see a full size Yukon Denali bearing down on me at highway speeds. She didn’t realize that neither I nor the vehicles in front of me were moving until my vehicle stopped hers from moving.

She was in Nurse’s attire on her way to work. Her husband later showed up to make sure she was alright (he’s a salesman for the local Cadillac dealership). They’re driving a very nice SUV. They both have good paying jobs. These are the kind of people that have good insurance. Our vehicle will be fixed in no time and at no cost to us and we’ll likely have a rental car provided to us while it’s in the shop.

Wait, what’s that? Cracker Jacks gives insurance away as prizes as well? I did not know that. All this time I’ve been spending my hard earned money on good insurance to protect others and I could have been paying (or better yet not paying) for el cheapo insurance and been dodging my responsibility as a law abiding American citizen. So Cracker Jack, Inc. calls me this morning to inform me that their client (the one that parked her Yukon Denali in my trunk) had not paid their insurance and it lapsed on July 16th. They did, however, call in a payment to catch their insurance up on July 18th at 9:37am…yes, 9:37am on July 18th…precisely 7 minutes after their Yukon informed my Civic that it was heading back to the body shop.

I’m not calling my insurance yet. If this guy doesn’t pay cash to repair the car and forces me to call my insurance, that phone call will be immediately followed by a call to the local police department.

Can I have fries with that?

Paternal Premonition

I had a premonition of sorts this morning, a prophetic foresight you might even say. I’m predicting that Amber and I will be at the hospital around 5:00am on Friday morning the 7th of December and that some time early that same afternoon Taylor will be born. Call it a hunch, call it psychic ability, call it a scheduled inducement, call it what you want, just make sure it’s on your calendar.

T minus 17 days and counting.

The Quiet Moments

Ah, the house is quiet. The wife is out. The grill cheese is sizzling. The…wait, the house is quiet? The house shouldn’t be quiet. Where’s Caleb?
“Yuck.”
What was that? It was too faint; I can’t place where it came from.
“Yuck.”
There it is again. Where is that boy?
He’s not in the cat box…thankfully…
Not in his room, not in the bathroom, not in the closet…where is he?
“Yuck.”
That sure sounded like it was coming from his bedroom. “Caleb, where are you?”
“Yuck.”
“Are you hiding in your fort? What are you doing in there? Whatcha doing with that crayon? Oh….”
“Yuck.”
“We don’t eat crayons, son.”
Munch, munch, “Yuck.”
“Well stop eating it. Come on, Daddy’s grilled cheese is burning.”

Rock...Throw Sky...Wow

“Ock.”
Noticing his uncle wasn’t fully understanding, he said it again with a little more emphasis, “OCK.”
“Throw sky,” he added to help clarify the instructions. His hand was lifted up containing the rock that needed to be jettisoned from the area. “Ock. Throw sky.”
Jeremy reached down, took the rock and like a good uncle threw it as high and far as he could.
“Wow.” The word was drawn out in true amazement. Reading his face you’d think he was standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon or staring at the Northern Lights. To Caleb this was a life changing event. His uncle was the best rock thrower in the whole world.
And then just as fast as the amazement covered his face it was gone and Caleb was bent over scouring the ground for the next perfect rock.
“Ock,” he said having found it. His hand again reached up to his uncle to hand him the next rock. “Throw sky.”
I think Caleb’s goal of clearing the driveway at Eegeebegee of rocks via Jeremy’s right arm caused Jeremy to throw more rocks than he had intended. But I know it meant a lot to his nephew. I know this because every few days or so, even still, Caleb will come up to me and tell the story.
“Ock. Throw sky,” he’ll say matter-of-factly.
“You threw rocks in the sky?” I’ll reply.
“Yeah...”
“Who’d you throw them with?”
“Air me”
“Jeremy?”
“Uh huh, air me. Throw sky.”

Just Call Me Dad

Recently, Caleb and I took a trip to Eegeebegee (the final destination of my parent’s life-long, military led journey around the world) without Amber. The prospect of Amber being away from Caleb for eight days, I believe a day and a half was the previous record, bothered her almost as much as the fact that we were traveling via airline.

If Amber were to write a dictionary, this is what the definition of “airline” would look like.
Airline: air·line [air-lahyn] – noun 1. a system furnishing air transport, usually scheduled, between specified points with semi-unfatal results; legal genocide of nature defiant persons 2. airliner – large, wing-laden tube known to explode randomly with high regularity; large fireball, full of passengers, falling from the sky; death trap

My only fear about the flight was what to do with Caleb for an hour and a half...in my lap...crammed in a tiny airline seat. It turns out that neither my fear nor those of Caleb’s mother were necessary in that we completed both flights without dying or even being in a near-fatal accident and Caleb slept the entire flight, both ways. My strategic planning of flights early in the morning and late in the evening might have had something to do with the second part. The variation in definition of “airline” between Webster’s dictionary and Amber’s might have had something to do with the first part.

The time Caleb and I spent between our two death defying flights will remain in my memory as some of my favorite moments spent with my son. To see the joy I saw shining through the face of this caged bird now freed has changed something inside of me forever. Two years into fatherhood and it still hadn’t completely sunk in. Sure, holding Caleb for the first time was surreal and life changing. And sharing a father-son nap on the couch brought a peace over me that I had never felt before. But being confined to chasing my son up and down the hallway or around the park just didn’t allow the Dad inside to escape. Being with Caleb in the wide open country with all the rocks and ponds and creeks and fish and turtles and bugs and air...I felt like I could be Dad. I now had a real opportunity to teach my son the important things in life like how to play in mud puddles, how to get more distance on a rock throw and how to enjoy being dirty.

I believe these are the truly important things we Dads teach our sons. All other life lessons they’ll have the opportunity to learn the same way we did, experience. But these lessons require Dad. These lessons are teaching much more than how to get dirty or how to be a boy. These lessons are teaching our boys how to be a Dad. These early memories will mold our sons.

The times we take them fishing and spend the entire time tying their lines and getting them unhung, neglecting our own fishing desire. The times we turn the TV off to tickle tears out of them. The times we come home from work exhausted and then go out and play full time quarterback for them and their friends. These times they’ll remember. These times will guide them and encourage them to help their sons become Dads.