Subterranean by design

I heard the cicadas this morning
And my soul stopped
For some precious seconds
To soak it in
Such a blithe chorus
Trumpeting their arrival
Long-awaited but forever on time
And as so often am I
In these older years
I found myself taken back
By their summer song
Thirteen, seventeen
Twenty-six, thirty-four
Thirty-nine years ago
I'm in Uncle John's field
Catching fireflies in a jar
Tying string around a June bug
Then I'm lying on a trampoline
In my parents' backyard--
--my backyard!
And I can hear them hum
It seems they were always there
Not merely once every
Thirteen (or seventeen)
Trips around the sun
Just then
The abacus in my brain gets done
It has arrived at fifty-one...
Fifty-one!
And I realize with a smile
And the warmth
Of a Christmastime fireplace
We share a birthday
These creatures and I
For their reassuring refrain
Would have been
Among the earliest sounds
My ears would know
Under that mulberry tree
In my mother's arms
By the old Dodge Dart
In sand-pebble beige
No wonder it seems
They were always there
Not merely once every
Thirteen (or seventeen) years
Subterranean by Design
This is no overnight sensation
To abide that long
Almost a lifespan
In the underground scene
Then to emerge
For but a few weeks
To cause such a ruckus
To stir up a childhood
To elicit such heart smiles
This is no minor feat

I heard the cicadas this morning
(Magicicada, scientifically)

Magic?

Indeed!

Cross-pollination and such

I was at a birthday party for a 6-year-old.  (Ah, the countless stories that have so begun.)  Direct sunlight and the steam bath of humidity beckoned me to take shelter on the covered porch.   It was there I struck up a conversation with the guest of honor's mom.

We began to discuss our children's separate schools.  (What?  They're just different.  But equal!  I promise.  We've almost completely eliminated blatant segregation in Alabama...  Now it's more understated.)

Another mom sitting on the porch chimed in about her daughter.  Now I only knew one other kid at this party, a girl named Morgan.  She's been over to the house a few times and I've spoken with her mother here and there.  And I thought -- emphasis on thought -- that this newcomer to the conversation was Morgan's mom.  So this is what I said to her:

"Does your daughter go to their school, as well?"
"Yes."
"Man, we sure do miss her."

Now, it is here that she should have said something to the effect of, "She misses Luke and Harper, too" or "I know, we'll have to get them together sometime soon."

Instead, she did not respond verbally at all, but rather a look.  Half uncertainty/confusion, and half stay-far-far-away-from-my-daughter-you-weirdo-freak.  OK, maybe two-thirds the latter.  Then for some reason, she began looking around as if she were frantically trying to locate her daughter and make sure she was safe.

Flipping curse word!  This is not Morgan's mom.

So right on cue, I casually meandered off the porch.  Checked my watch.  Oh good, just ninety more minutes of awkwardness.  So I spent the rest of the party fanning my arm pits and trying to avoid this stranger, who thinks some possible child abductor misses her young daughter, who he's never met.

And this is why I never socialize.

The remainder of the weekend was much less awkward.  I got the garden planted on Saturday with a little help from the kids.  We are trying tomatoes, yellow squash, lettuce, cucumbers, okra, and a couple of different peppers this year.

Then came the hard part--the cat-proofing.  Now I don't know for certain, but I would be willing to bet that anytime I have planted a garden in her lifetime, Sunshine thinks I have created the world's largest litter box, all for her.

Why do I think this?  Because upon first seeing the freshly planted bed each year, she proceeds to immediately treat it as such.  Pretty sure this had something to do with our poor okra production last year and why the carrots never came up.

Anyway I've got some fencing around it, which she can completely jump over, by the way, as I found out last year.  So I've covered it completely with some netting that I have staked into the ground.  

If you have any tips for something I can put out to keep cats out of a garden, without harming the cat, my produce would appreciate it.  (I'm looking at you, Ed and Sage. Aka: my two readers.)

And if you encounter a dad at a kid's birthday party who says something awkward about your child, I mean, it could be a predator.  But more likely, it's just a dad, who doesn't really pay attention to much, doesn't even want to be there in the first place, and is making an extraordinarily minimal effort to converse.

So relax.  Your daughter's fine.  I was just talking to her, right over there.

The real Morgan's mom did come over later and introduce herself.  As she approached I noted to myself how she really did not look much like the other lady at all.

"Hey, I'm Morgan's mom."

I reach up to offer a handshake.

"Of course! I remember you."

The son becomes the father

"Dads are like backup quarterbacks in the NFL.  On the rare occasion you're brought into the game, people are nervous.  You're good for a play or two, but then people are like, when's the starter coming back?" - James Gaffigan

Mrs. Bone was visiting her homeland this past weekend, so I was called up to active duty.  You know it's going well when it's still the first day and you're already getting the "When is Mama coming home?" question.  I'm like, bruh, she's gone longer than this when she goes to work!

Kids: Too young to survive on their own.  Too old to drop off in the safe haven box in front of the fire station.

You might recall (from two posts ago) that I nearly died one of the last times Mrs. Bone split.  Well, I'm thinking there must be some sort of subconscious psychosomatic forces at work, because on Friday, I began to feel ill again.  Felt feverish on Saturday with all sorts of mucous emanating from my nose and throat.  Just wanted to stay in bed all day.  (But again, too young to survive on their own.  Although I really think they would've been okay for a few hours, child protective services can be a stickler sometimes on things like that.)

Instead, I laid on the couch, dozing every few minutes, then being awoken by Luke nudging me, "Daddy?"  "Yes, buddy?"  "You're snoring."  "Sorry, buddy."  Cough.  Rinse.  Repeat.

A neighbor came over to check on me/us on Saturday.  "Do you need anything?"  I wanted to say, "Yes, please just watch my kids for like two hours so I can sleeeeeeep!"  But instead, I told her no, that we were fine.

At some point, I started thinking that I could never remember my parents being sick when I was a kid.  I remember big things, like Mom having to go to the emergency room when she slipped on ice one winter and split open her wrist.  But as far as colds, flus, etc., nothing comes to mind.

Maybe they just powered through, as a parent will.  Or maybe, just perhaps, I was outside playing somewhere in the neighborhood all day while they caught a nice little four-hour siesta.

I'd give anything if my kids could have that sort of childhood.  We would leave in the morning, or after school, and be gone for hours.  Dad would stand in the yard and yell across the land when it was suppertime, and we'd come home.

I wish they could know the freedom of riding bikes, being out of sight for hours, exploring the woods, the old rock crusher pond, building forts, killing snakes, and climbing trees.

Part of the issue is we don't live in a neighborhood.  Instead, we live on a fairly busy two-lane road, with no sidewalk.  It's also possible I/we have helicoptered a bit too much.  And by possible, I mean, it's a stone-cold fact and probably an understatement.  But how could you not in this day and time?

I don't think my parents ever worried about some stranger walking down the street snatching us up and abducting us.  They probably wished for it some days.  After all, one of Mom's favorite sayings was, "Why don't ya'll go play in the road in front of an 18-wheeler?"  You gotta chuckle at those folksy Southernisms passed down from generation to generation.  Of course, Mom grew up on a one-lane dirt road, so... probably no 18-wheelers.  Hmm.  Oh well, who knows where old sayings come from.

It's only been in the last year that I've convinced Luke he can go out front and play basketball by himself.  Of course, as soon as I don't hear the rhythmic pounding of ball on pavement for more than five consecutive seconds, I rush to the window to look out and make sure he is ok.  He, in turn, will come inside if he sees a stranger walking down the road.  

And I'm glad he does it!  I just hate that he has to.

We had fire drills and tornado drills.  My kids have lockdown drills.

I try to be so careful not to let them hear or know my fears.  Let them be little and feel safe for as long as they can.  But at the same time, I want them to be smart, and recognize when something is dangerous.  Can you be fearless and cautious at the same time?

This dad thing, I tell ya.  You want to push them, but not too much.  You want to protect them, hold and help them, while somehow teaching them to be independent.  Mostly, you want to give them every opportunity to be healthy and happy while stressing over every single decision and hoping you're not screwing them up.

It's exhausting.  

Which is why, after getting them safely to school on time Monday morning, Daddy called out sick from work and came home and slept until noon.  Because just as my parents understood the value, yea necessity, of a solid four-hour nap, so does their favorite son.

But hey, we made it through relatively unscathed.  I didn't die.  Didn't even wind up in the hospital this time.   And by the end of the weekend, I even had Harper on her knees begging me to let her clean the cabinets.  (Don't ask about the stars.  OK, it's a pick your battles thing.  Also, I have discovered that "gotta pick your battles" is something you can say anytime you let your kids do whatever they want.)

Friends, this is how you dad.  Or at least how I dad.  

Lord in heaven, please don't let me screw it up.

Burgundy

Stumbled my way back
To the Royal Saint Charles Hotel
Found out the fast way
Those hurricanes can feel like hell

We didn't know it then
Or maybe way deep down we did
Those free-of-care days of life
Were drawing to an end

Took shelter from the rain
In a dive down on Burgundy
Can't recall the barmaid's name
But I asked her to marry me

Kept on slidin’ tokens
In some casino on Canal
Until one more spin
Turned into 4 a.m. somehow

Gassed up in the morning
Daylight making my head scream
Quart of oil, halfway home
In that faded red, old four-speed

That crescent city left me
Broker than I’ve rarely been
But no one reminisces
On money they didn’t spend

Well they tore down the Charles
And tokens are obsolete
But I like to believe
Tonight down on Burgundy

There's a dive bar on a corner
With a drop-dead Delta queen
Serving shooters and smilin’ “maybe”
To a boy drunk as me

The year I almost died

A year ago today I was in the hospital.  It was day two of my three-day, three-night stay in a facility I gave 3 and a half stars to on TripAdvisor.  Service was outstanding, a solid 5.  Amenities were kinda lacking.  I mean, other than the medicines and equipment that likely saved my life.  So a 3.5.  Food and snacks?  I'd strongly recommend ordering in.

I had been home alone on Friday afternoon.  Mrs. Bone had taken the kids and gone to splitsville, er, Louisville.  (She came back... eventually.)  I was supposed to go but had been having stomach problems all week, and it had gotten worse.  

I figured I was badly dehydrated from my many toilet treks and was feeling weaker by the hour.  Mrs. Bone (and others) strongly suggested I should go to the walk-in clinic.  (The nearest hospital is 22 miles away, because you know, America!)

But, as has been rumored before, I am a man.  As a whole, our kind is not particularly fond of going to medical establishments.  Hospitals, doctors, dentists, proctologists... you get my drift.  We prefer to think we are mostly invincible.  Unless we have that plague known as the common cold.  Then?  We are at death's door.  Besides, if they don't check you for anything, they won't find anything, amirite?

So I was thinking I'd stay home and if it wasn't better by the morning, get up and go see someone then.

I really don't know what made me get up and go, other than Mrs. Bone's constant, um, encouragements.  There was a point, I think, when I realized I was feeling so weak I wasn't sure I could drive myself to the clinic.  And if it was that bad tonight, what if it got worse...

The clinic was not busy, thankfully.  I don't remember what they checked first.  I think my heart rate was 119.  And then I just remember hearing my blood pressure reading, and none of the numbers were triple digits.  Something like 92 over 52, maybe?  That kinda scared me.  I mean, normally I run hot... 135/95 range.  I'm a boiling kettle.  A ticking time bomb, some might say.

The early discussion was that the doctor could give me something for nausea, I could go home and hydrate and see if it was better by morning, or I could drive to the ER and they'd probably give me an IV.

Then my blood work came back.

There's a look doctors get when something is wrong.  Perhaps you've seen it, perhaps not.  But when you see it, you also immediately know something is wrong.

Now I could regale you with tales of astronomical white blood cell counts and bilirubin five times its normal level.  And who knows what happened to my lymphocytes???  But hopefully... (hopefully?), there'll be time for plenty of those as I amble through these golden years.  

I think I can sum up what was going on by slightly altering the lyrics to one of the great songs of all-time, the magnum opus, if you will, of Donald McLean III.  

Here goes.  

It appeared some of the organs I had admired the most -- my liver, kidneys, and lungs (the both?) -- had caught the last train for the coast.

I just remember the words, "You need to get to a hospital.  We are calling for an ambulance now."

I did talk them down to letting me go if I had someone who could pick me up.  Who wants to pay those exorbitant ambulance rates?  But I was not to drive there.  I thought about Ubering, but then I might get murdered.  Also, I don't have the app.  Mrs. Bone offered to turn around and come home, but I told her I was fine.  Besides, it wasn't like I had a cold or something.

So I signed some refusal of care document stating I had declined an ambulance ride (at just $900 per mile, I might add!).  Mrs. Bone got in touch with one of her friends to drive me to the hospital.  I was able to drive myself home from the clinic.  I mean, what were they gonna do?  I had signed the NDA.  DNR.  Whatever it was called.  They can't just keep me there!  This isn't Nazi Germany.... well... not yet anyway.

The ER also was not busy.  (Must not be a lot of common colds going around, I thought to myself.)  I was hooked up to an IV and put on oxygen.  Then after a couple of hours I was informed I would not be returning home that evening, and probably not for a few days.  

I was septic.  

Never been septic before.  I'd been allergic.  Rheumatic.  Arthritic.  I'd been called toxic by more than one female.  But never septic.  I didn't grasp the severity at first.

Then you hear phrases like, "Your organs are shutting down."  It starts to sink in pretty fast after that.  Like really organs?  How about a heads up next time, guys?

I asked the doctor, "How serious is this?"  Her response: "Let's just say it's a good thing you came in tonight."  

Yes.  Let's.

So I was admitted to a room, where I would spend the next three nights.  My mother and fave aunt had come to offer their support.  A mother should never have to see her son in this situation.

Anyhow, three different antibiotics and lots of fluid later, I was released.  Mrs. Bone made it back by Sunday.  She'll have to wait a little longer to collect on that $2,000 life insurance policy.

The good news?  I never had to have a catheter!  I will drink whatever you bring me, I told them.  Pedialyte.  Buttermilk.  Horse urine.  Whatever!

I was released on a Monday.  Out of work for a week.  But can we look at the big picture?

Still catheter free since '83!  

(Proceeds to do Cabbage Patch dance, pulls muscle in back.)

Brain storm

I'm better now
But for a long while there
Fevered nights I couldn't get any air
And fits of fright, I swear, I was certain I would die

I still feel the guilt
Of the damage I did do
And there's no reason, only excuse
Blame placed on me, I could never deny

The mood swings have abated
Now that I'm medicated
It no longer makes me anxious
To simply watch my kids

The highs and the lows now
Are more ripples than volcanoes
But sometimes I miss feeling them
Fiercely as I once did

I'm better now
But am I really my true self
I beat that question to a long slow death
Still no answer can I ascertain

I still feel ashamed
For being on prescribed drugs
Cried “I’m so sorry” to Heaven above
Too weak to handle the chemicals in my own brain

The fits of terror have abated
Now that I'm medicated
It no longer makes me anxious
To simply watch my kids

The highs and the lows now
Are more breezes than tornadoes
But sometimes I miss feeling them
Fiercely as I once did

No more mean reds, jealous greens
Or the feeling of doom over the smallest of things
The pills keep me from getting too low
But now and then I miss the highs

I'm better now
But for a long while there
Panicked nights spent fighting for air
And times, I swear, you could not convince me
I was not about
                         to
                             die

That first season

It is a Tuesday evening in February in this contented little town.  Inside a well-worn gymnasium, the Heat of the co-ed 6-and-under basketball league have fallen behind early, four to zero, in their final game of the season.

"Could be a long game," I remarked to Mrs. Bone.  After all, we had seen these types of starts before, such as in the devastating twenty-four to zero loss to the Bulls -- a team which, by the way, sported a couple of "6-year-olds" -- I use that description loosely -- who already at like four-foot-ten are probably destined for the NBA.  Or at least community college.

Then something remarkable happened.  You made a basket.  Later, a free throw.  Then early in the second period, another basket.  The Heat were ahead five to four.  And the gangly kid with the hair I used to have and the deep-set eyes I still do had scored all of his team's points.

The Heat would go on to win 15 to 11, finishing the season with a record of six wins and four losses, good for a tie for fourth place in the league.  But when I think about that first season, it's not the wins and losses I'll remember.

Instead, I'll think about how far you came. 

From the shy kid who I wasn't sure would ever want to play organized sports, to one who--even before we left the court after the game--was excitedly saying, "Momma, you have to sign me up again next year!"

From the kid who was reluctant to shoot and always looking to pass, whose first basket of the season was a long one from near the 3-point-line that took everyone by surprise--not just that it had gone in, but that you had shot the ball at all--to the one yelling, "I'm open!" and shooting at most every opportunity.

From the kid I was teaching in November you had to dribble and couldn't just run with the basketball, to the one who practiced out in the driveway almost every day, and by that last game was directing his teammates where they needed to be on defense.

But hey, you're not the only one who accomplished something this season. Your little sister successfully created the as of yet unchartered Bleacher Barbies Social Club, which by the end of the season had grown to a membership of 4 to 5 younger siblings playing with sundry Barbies in the stands, one hundred percent oblivious to anything going on on the basketball court.

And me?

Well, I had "progressed" from a dad who began the season saying I just wanted you to have fun and didn't understand all these parents who get so upset over children's sports, to one who was sitting in the stands during that final game, continually making the traveling gesture to the official.  An official, I might add, who was obviously was unfamiliar with that basic rule.

"They're six!" Mrs. Bone scolded.

Hearkening back to the 4-foot-10 goliaths we had succumbed to earlier in the season, I thought to myself, "...but are they?"

alice

Alice
Are you smiling in some surf somewhere
With sun shimmer off your hair
I can see it when I close my eyes

Alice
Are you still there in Somerset
Or did you finally move north and west
I must have wondered ten thousand times

Alice
Did you hold onto your dreams
Or did you let them die like me
And forget we only get one life

Alice
Did you change the world for the good
Like I was always so sure you would
Or decide it wasn't worth the fight

Alice
I hope your life turned out quite fair
I can feel you in this November air
Are you singing "...For a Winter's Night"

Alice
I hope you're smiling in some surf somewhere
With sun shimmer off your hair
And I'll see you when I close my eyes