tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60069532024-03-23T13:29:23.414-05:00If You Read Only One Blog This Year"Memorize the bathwater. Memorize the air."Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.comBlogger1719125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-26889213356121330212024-03-08T13:51:00.002-06:002024-03-08T13:51:51.335-06:00That first season<p>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.</p><p>"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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>Instead, I'll think about how far you came. </p><p>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!"</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>And me?</p><p>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.</p><p>"They're six!" Mrs. Bone scolded.</p><p>Hearkening back to the 4-foot-10 goliaths we had succumbed to earlier in the season, I thought to myself, "...but are they?"</p>Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-1809755210097217572023-11-30T22:14:00.003-06:002023-12-05T12:00:44.561-06:00alice<p>Alice<br />Are you smiling in some surf somewhere<br />With sun shimmer off your hair<br />I can see it when I close my eyes</p><p>Alice<br />Are you still there in Somerset<br />Or did you finally move north and west<br />I must have wondered ten thousand times</p><p>Alice<br />Did you hold onto your dreams<br />Or did you let them die like me<br />And forget we only get one life</p><p>Alice<br />Did you change the world for the good<br />Like I was always so sure you would<br />Or decide it wasn't worth the fight</p><p>Alice<br />I hope your life turned out quite fair<br />I can feel you in this November air<br />Are you singing "...For a Winter's Night"</p><p>Alice<br />I hope you're smiling in some surf somewhere<br />With sun shimmer off your hair<br />And I'll see you when I close my eyes</p><p><br /></p>Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-52085946538962110252023-11-21T10:56:00.015-06:002023-11-21T12:29:47.088-06:00A love letter to you, at seven<p> "You're gonna make a great dad someday."</p><p>That sentiment was expressed numerous times to me throughout my prodigiously extended bachelorhood. I'm not sure why. What did they see in me? Was it my mind-of-a-12-year-old sense of humor? My affinity for Alan Thicke as TV-dad Doctor Jason Seaver? The fact I was still playing video games well into my forties? That I got/get along far better with kids and animals than I did/do any adult?</p><p>Yeah, probably the Alan Thicke thing.</p><p>Truth is, they couldn't know. I sure didn't. I still don't.</p><p>But what I can say is that from day one -- like literally, your first day off the big Umbi -- the moment you peed in my face the very first time I changed your diaper, I have loved you. Before then even, before we even knew if you'd be a boy or girl. Maybe even before you existed if that is possible.</p><p>I have loved you the very best I know how, like I had never loved a thing or person before. Yes, Sunshine came close. But I don't have to worry about her inheriting my introversion, crippling anxiety, or Peter Pan syndrome. Explain to her why she has to do lockdown drills at school. Or worry about her not making friends with other cats.</p><p>Is she eating too many Pop Tarts? Why have I still not signed her up for swim lessons? Am I spending too much time with her? Not enough time? Am I pushing her too hard in her in her first year playing organized basketball? (I use the word "organized" very loosely.) Or am I not pushing hard enough?</p><p>And I don't have to worry about some teacher putting her on the wrong bus on the first day of school!</p><p>It was the first time you ever rode a bus, when you weren't even supposed to ride the bus at all. Your mother called me in a panic saying, "They've lost Luke!" after your teacher said she mistakenly put you on the bus. She then rushed back home hoping to get there before the bus did and minimize the damage, only to have that bus driver stop and tell her you weren't on his bus -- the bus driver who knew who you were even though you had never ridden a bus because of the countless times you'd stand out in the yard and wave as the bus went by in the mornings. I left work immediately, rushing home and driving around town to try and find you to no avail. Your mom called the school and was told you were safe but they couldn't drop you off until the end of the route!</p><p><i>Deep breath. </i></p><p>(Apparently I should have scheduled a therapy session for this.)</p><p>I won't ever forget seeing you stepping off that bus, a full hour after you should have been home, doing everything your six-year-old little self possibly could to hold it together. I walked you inside. You went straight to your bedroom and locked the door. And I cannot explain the godawful feelings I felt, knowing the whole time I couldn't begin to know how you felt.</p><p>If you never ride a bus again, I will understand.</p><p>I suppose some of this parenting thing is instinctive. God-given. A lot is probably learned from your own parents, some by watching other parents. What to do, and sometimes it seems to me even more commonly, what not to do. But way too much of it (for my worrisome heart) is trial and error. </p><p>One day, perhaps you will read or learn something about the pandemic of 2020. Assuming, that is, all the books have not been burned by then. (If you're reading this in 2040, just Google "DeSantis.") There was no playbook for parenting through that. Your Mom and I tried to make the best decisions we could based on the information we had and what your doctors told us.</p><p>Sometimes that is all you can do. </p><p>This was supposed to be a post about you. About you turning seven. About your recent and unforced (I swear!) love of football, and how every day when we get home we rush outside to use up the waning moments of daylight practicing on the football field we lined out of marking paint in the backyard. </p><p>About how you watch entire Bama games with me, your many questions interspersed with your ever-so-excited commentary, such as: "Ooo, Daddy! A false start!" Or "Ooo, he just punted it!" Or my favorite, the unprompted, "Go! Go! Go! Yeaaaah!!" whenever Alabama makes a big play.</p><p>About how when I am mowing the yard, you are walking along right behind me pushing your toy mower, sometimes even carrying a pair of scissors with you so that you can cut some blades of grass for real because Dad was unable to find or build a mower that would actually cut without significantly endangering your appendages.</p><p>About your air traffic controller Halloween costume and how you have to "direct" us out of the driveway anytime we go somewhere now, always ending by coming up to the driver's window and saying, "I'm gonna hop in now" before sauntering around and climbing into your booster seat. As if we thought you were just gonna chill at the house by yourself.</p><p>About what an awesome big brother you are to Harper. How you walked over to her and leaned your head over to give her a "hug" the very first time you met her, and how that is still how you give hugs today -- leaning in, very little arms involved.</p><p>About how she can hit you or take something away from you, but as soon as I get on to her, you suddenly turn into her high-priced defense attorney, whispering, "Daddy, maybe we don't have to take away <i>all </i>her dolls. Maybe we can just take away <i>one</i>... for one hour." (Insert facepalm emoji.)</p><p>Truth is, buddy, if I am at all a decent dad, it is because you make it so easy. You are kind, respectful, funny, and way too smart for my own good.</p><p>I'm not sure there are words able to convey the pure joy you bring into our lives every single day. But I hope they can at least convey some of the love I feel for you.</p><p>So I'm writing them down, so that I won't forget. And maybe even so you will find these pages some faraway day and be able to smile as you read about some of these storybook moments.</p><p>And don't worry, I'll fill you in all about Alan Thicke someday. Probably after you finish listening to the One Thousand Selected Songs You Should Know playlist which I will give you when you turn seventeen. And we have re-watched every one of Alabama's national championship victories.</p><p>I love you, Lukie. Looking forward to practice this afternoon.</p><p>Oh, and by the way, I have a feeling you're gonna be an amazing dad someday.</p><p>Love, </p><p>Daddy</p>Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-25320372520815937172023-10-18T22:04:00.005-05:002023-10-18T22:05:54.051-05:00Man disillusioned to find out not everything about stripper is real<p> (Courtesy of fakeonion.net)</p><p>Anderson, IN ~ A 43-year-old Indiana man says he is now "questioning everything" after finding out his favorite stripper, K8ie Texxass, has been using a stage name. Danny Money, who says he is a risk management analyst from nearby Indianapolis, has been coming to The Pole Barn gentleman's club for the better part of two decades.</p><p>"I've never had anything like this happen," a still shaken Money said before rattling off a list of his previous favorites. "I mean, Honey Wails, Misty Reign, Lauren Boobert -- they were real. Nothing about them was fake. You felt like you knew these girls. You became friends with them. At least until they graduated college or... got remarried."</p><p>Money reportedly made the discovery when the stripper's ID fell out of her purse. "Yeah, it just fell right out! I definitely wasn't looking through her purse or anything."</p><p>When asked if the exotic spelling of the name didn't give him pause, Money shrugged, "I figured it was like a self-fulfilling prophecy or something."</p><p>Now he knows "K8ie Texxass" is really Brooke Delashaw. "And she ain't even from Texas," complained Money. "She's from flippin' Muncie!"</p><p>When reached for comment, Ms. Delashaw said she no longer works for the club, stating she quit due to "that creepy guy who kept telling me he was Eddie Money's brother and he wanted to take me home tonight. Is that supposed to impress me? Who the heck is Eddie Money"!</p><p>Money later told us he was unsure if he'd even continue coming to the club every Thursday night. However, it appears he may have just been letting off a little steam, as a witness claims to have seen him the very next week at the nearby A&W, getting change for a twenty. </p><p>Meantime, another dancer at The Pole Barn, Jill Lishous, reports that Money had only very recently started casting suspicious glances in her direction.</p><p><i>Editor's Note: After a quick search of credit card receipts and social media accounts, it was determined that Danny Money's real name is Edward Quattlebaum. He is a painter apprentice, from Markleville,</i></p>Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-91801476618427389042023-09-22T00:04:00.004-05:002023-09-24T14:27:05.231-05:00alison's house<p>Used to play cards at Alison's house late at nights<br />Never felt like I was missing out on the city lights<br />'Cause her innocence was pure<br />And her brown eyes seemed a cure<br />For anything that was ailing me or anything that might</p><p>We were young and we were free<br />It was nineteen ninety-three<br />And I's always told the years will go<br />So much faster than you can believe</p><p>But I did not believe...</p><p>Used to drive by Alison's house to see if she's home<br />Sometimes I'd stop and see her, sometimes I'd drive on<br />'Cause when you're young and when you're not<br />Always don't know what you got<br />Until someday you're years away and she's all gone<br /><br />We were young and we were free<br />It was nineteen ninety-three<br />And I's always told the years will go<br />So much faster than you can believe<br /></p><p>I'm starting to believe...<br /></p><p>I drove out by Alison's house last Saturday<br />Don't think I'd been past it since her momma passed away<br />It looks just like it did then<br />And as the shivers flew down my skin<br />I wished to God I could stop and see her one more time again</p><p>We were young and we were free<br />It was nineteen ninety-three<br />And I's always told the years will go<br />So much faster than you can believe</p><p>It's still so hard to believe...</p>Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-11672218067052115852023-09-01T08:45:00.001-05:002023-09-01T08:47:08.980-05:00twenty-some<p>Do you remember a two-lane road through the national forest at 3 in the morning<br />Cleaning out the bed of your truck, dumping on the county road<br />The summer wind, the cool creek on our skin when we finally made the falls<br />Didn't have any clue back then we were cleaning out our souls</p><p>Do you remember basketball in your momma's yard in the summertime moonlight<br />Or cheap vodka straight and video games late nights after we moved out<br />The first time I drove a stick was in your blue and silver old Ford Ranger<br />Nineties country blarin' on the radio as I was burnin' that clutch plumb out</p><p>Years they only vanish, little truths you come to learn<br />Like time ain't no friend of mine, but friend, you damn sure were<br />Now you're up there and we're still here, no longer anything close to young<br />But as long as I can see us in my mind, we'll always be twenty-some</p><p>Do you remember bottle rocket wars on July 4th, and cutthroat pool on weekends<br />Coming to pick us up when we got stuck in the mud out in Lagrange at 4 AM<br />Seemed like we were forever searching for something that never quite could be found<br />All the while it was right in front of us is what I'm only realizing now<br /><br />Did you really take that money, if you'd have asked I would have helped you out<br />He could never trust you after that, but I hope in time you felt forgiven<br />I wish you could see my kids 'cause I can picture you making them laugh<br />Wish I'd come to see you when you got sick, and I wish you were still living</p><p>Years they only vanish, and certain truths you come to learn<br />Like time ain't no friend of mine, but friend, you damn sure were<br />Now you're up there and we're still here, no longer anything close to young<br />But as long as I can see us in my mind, we'll always be twenty-some</p>Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-51423989128326794132022-12-12T23:49:00.008-06:002022-12-13T09:32:50.575-06:00Once you were six years old<p><i>"What hast thou to do with sorrow/Or the injuries of tomorrow/Thou art a dew-drop which the morn brings forth/Ill-fitted to sustain unkindly shocks..."</i></p><p>Most nights anymore, our living room is your concert hall. Various plastic containers and metal mixing bowls comprise an expansive, if rudimentary, drum set. You have a real microphone and microphone stand gifted to you by your (great) uncles who we visit each year at the beach. And a small amplifier donated with love by your Peepaw.</p><p>Your set list is almost entirely Imagine Dragons. "Believer" and "Thunder" came out shortly after you were born, and we listened to them countless times on the way to and from daycare back in those days. Thankfully, you've expanded your repertoire to include several of their other songs. The only exception is your finale, which is always the Glass Animals' infectious "Heat Waves."</p><p>I attempt to play the drums while you sing and dance around the stage in one of several "Singing Man Dan" plaid button-up shirts we've bought for you. (Imagine Dragons lead singer's name is Dan. He wore plaid shirts in a couple of videos. Therefore it only stands to reason that all lead singers must wear plaid.) Some nights your mother will "play" the guitar. And your sister... well, she sometimes serves as a stage dancer, sometimes she joins me on drums, and other times she plays with her dolls unaffected by the ruckus.</p><p>You take it all so seriously. We installed multi-colored light bulbs in the ceiling fan light assembly which you adjust to match the stage lights of whichever video you are watching. You are also known for giving strict and explicit instructions to band members during the show should we veer off course. But you once said I was probably the best drummer in the whole world, so that gets me through the scoldings.</p><p>You turned six last month. One of my favorite moments of your birthday party was walking outside to see you coming down the bounce-house slide with three girls. You later complained your least favorite part of the day was when said girls had gone inside for a few minutes to play dolls with your sister. (I fight against a strong urge to insert the obligatory "That's my boy!" here.)</p><p>After receiving a real bowling ball for your birthday from your Nana, I woke up Sunday to discover that our kitchen had been turned into a four-lane bowling alley. Lane one was comprised of your plastic bowling pins. This devolved into a rag-tag collection of Do-A-Dot markers and plastic bottles for pins across lanes two thru four, at last requiring (and possibly highlighted by) a single, empty Sun Drop can to complete lane four.</p><p>You love YouTube. Some genius -- I use this in both the best and most sarcastic senses of the word -- created a mini bowling lane in his house, with a working pin-setter. Now that you've seen that video, you want us to build our own. (Thanks a lot, Braedan Brennaman.) Last year for Christmas, you wanted a lawn mower -- one that legitimately cuts. In the interim, whenever we mow, you carry a pair of scissors as you push your plastic mower, bending down every several steps to trim some blades of grass.</p><p>You are smart, sensitive, energetic, and far too sweet for this world. A wonderful big brother to a sister who doesn't always deserve it.</p><p>We were at the doctor's office a couple of weeks ago when you pointed to the wall behind me and said excitedly, "Daddy, I know that painting!" "Really, what is it, buddy?" "It's called the Starry Night," you said sweetly just as I turned around to see a copy of Van Gogh's famed masterpiece, while thinking to myself, "I don't think I knew that until I was twenty-five!"</p><p>There is little doubt you will soar higher than I ever dreamed. I can't do it for you. No matter how many times I wish I could, I can't do any of it for you. But I will always be there to steady the ladder as you climb.</p><p>Overjoyed that for a little while I got to be the drummer in your concert.</p>Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-76575023017485826542022-10-24T00:18:00.005-05:002023-01-10T07:45:28.196-06:00July 1976<p>Granny put your rollin' pin down<br />Granny put your rollin' pin down<br />It's time for them to lay grandpa in the ground<br />Granny put your rollin' pin down<br /></p><p>Mama she been up all night<br />Oh, my Mama she been up all night<br />I could hear her cryin' 'til the early morning light<br />Poor Mama she been up all night</p><p>People gonna come far and near<br />People gonna come far and near<br />Child, won't you hold still and let me pin this boutonniere<br />'Cause people gonna come far and near</p><p>Uncle Joe gave me a two-dollar bill<br />Uncle Joe gave me a two-dollar bill<br />Mama said I better save it so I guess I always will<br />Uncle Joe gave me a two-dollar bill</p><p>Thought Granny would cry but she ain't<br />Thought my Granny would cry but she ain't<br />I heared some folks a-sayin' that grandpa wudn't no saint<br />Thought Granny would cry but she ain't</p><p>Aunt Ida says grandpa is asleep<br />Aunt Ida says grandpa is asleep<br />Uncle Calvin says this place always give him the creeps<br />But Aunt Ida says grandpa's just asleep</p><p>Jesus gonna come back someday<br />Jesus gonna come back someday<br />Least that's what I always heared the preacher man say<br />Jesus gonna come back someday</p><p>Folks'll be bringing lots of food<br />Folks'll be bringing lots of food<br />You just learn to clean your plate and tell 'em that it's good<br />Folks'll be bringing lots of food</p><p>Daddy can we go into town<br />Daddy can we go into town<br />After they lay my grandpa in the ground<br />Aw, Daddy can we go into town</p><p>Wish I had me a cold RC<br />With I had me a cold RC<br />Someday I'll die too, but today I'm only three<br />And I wish I had a cold RC</p><p>We'll be back on Decoration Day<br />We'll be back here on Decoration Day<br />Women-folk bring flowers and us kids will run and play<br />We'll be back here on Decoration Day</p><p>Granny put your rollin' pin down<br />Aw, Granny put your rollin' pin down<br />I just watched some strangers lay poor grandpa in the ground<br />So Granny put your rollin' pin down</p>Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-33456727418555541352021-10-27T00:53:00.001-05:002022-12-13T09:42:08.956-06:00Rice Frisbees<p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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."</p><p>And I fall a little bit more in love with you.</p>Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-55685023581403836082020-11-23T04:07:00.001-06:002022-12-13T09:47:23.044-06:004<p>You turned four last week. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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." </p><p>"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.</p><p>The years have flown, little buddy. Oftentimes I find myself staring at you in amazement. </p><p>You're perfect. All your bones still unbroken. Your innocence intact. And so very many dreams have you yet to dream. </p><p>I cannot help but wonder what the future holds...</p><p><i>When I am sixty-six, and you are twenty-three<br />Let me still remember the joy you were to me<br />Those golden curls, the morning snuggles<br />All your triumphs and your struggles</i></p><p><i>Story times and nursery rhymes<br />And the songs that we would sing<br />Jesus loves you, this you knew<br />From a very early age</i></p><p><i>When for me November comes<br />And your summer's just begun<br />I'll always be your biggest fan<br />Please come to visit when you can</i></p><p><i>When I am sixty-six, and you are twenty-three<br />I will still remember that perfect boy upon my knee<br />However far you wander, whatever you believe<br />But for now, just be four, for as long as you can be...</i></p>Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-4483877302477053842020-11-02T02:33:00.004-06:002022-12-13T10:24:16.659-06:00Decision 2020<p>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.</p><p>That's where I come in. Not to help you make your decision, but rather, to help you justify your choices. </p><p>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. </p><p>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 <i>aren't</i> they telling us? So while extremely delicious, this just doesn't seem safe.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.)</p><p>Almond Joy ~ Even if you were to risk the coconut allergy, the almond is a big no-no. Choke city.</p><p>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.</p><p>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!</p><p>Milk Duds ~ Known in some remote areas of Kazakhstan as "Delicious Child Chokers." Need I say more?</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>Whoppers ~ Whopper -- another word for "lie." So unless you want to feed your kid a bunch of lies, steer clear here.</p><p>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.</p><p>Fig Newtons ~ Soft, chewy, somewhat healthy, taste a little like cardboard........ Yeah, these should be fine.</p><p>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.</p><p>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!"</p><p>Follow me for more life-saving parenting tips.</p><p>Er, on second thought, you probably shouldn't</p>Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-73509910272679916402020-10-12T02:20:00.002-05:002022-12-13T10:32:54.942-06:00Catfish and COVID<p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>"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).</p><p>Yet here you were, doing just what you had cautioned me against my whole life.</p><p>We finally convinced you, and the following Monday you were admitted.</p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p>You tend to remember specific moments in life, moreso than days or weeks or years. And that is a moment I will always remember.</p><p>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?</p><p>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?</p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>Now I prayed only that you would have a lot more life left to live.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>Thanks for still being here, Dad. Let's have some more catfish soon.</p>Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-2364540580463102972019-06-20T05:38:00.003-05:002022-12-13T10:35:49.922-06:00A Year of Harper (Minus Fifteen or So Minutes)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>Did you know you have a brother named Lucas</i></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>And a sister who's a kitty named Sunshine</i></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>They're both gonna love you</i></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>Take good care of you</i></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>Little Harper, you'll do just fine</i></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>Little Harper, you'll do just fine....</i></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />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.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">You are something else. Sweet and sassy. Independent and stubborn. We may not have been expecting you, but you have perfectly completed our family.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">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.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">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... </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">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.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">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. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">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.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I may have missed those first few moments, Harper Cassandra. But long as I live, I don't plan on missing anymore. </div>
Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-19177524222413628592018-12-01T03:58:00.010-06:002022-12-28T10:05:33.797-06:00Just Beginning to Take Off<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i>"You will travel through a world of marvels..."</i></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Yet and still occasionally you can be so bashful, clinging with all your might to your mother or me.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
You love music. Your favorite songs are "Believer" ("Rain"), "Thunder" ("Neenuh"), and "Barbara Ann" ("Baa-Baa").<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I remember not that long ago when you thought anything that flies -- birds, butterflies, helicopters, dragonflies -- was an airplane.<br />
<br />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...</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">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.<br />
<br />
I love you, buddy. Cherish each and every mile of your flight. </div>
Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-54421689853094629022018-01-14T06:15:00.062-06:002022-12-13T12:28:25.677-06:002nd and 26<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
<br />
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?"<br />
<br />(Yes, because it is <i>they</i> who have the defect.)<br />
<br />
What could cause this otherwise mild-mannered doting father and trophy husband to behave in such a way?<br />
<br />
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.)<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.")<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Enter Lady Luck. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
The good guys inch closer. 20-10. 20-13. Then comes a do-or-die 4th down in the closing minutes. <br />
<br />
"Just let us win this <i>one</i>," you pray. (As if you haven't won four of the past eight. But it's never enough, is it?) <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
(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.)<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Victory, once about as likely as a mosquito-less Alabama summer, again seems possible.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Five seconds feels like a minute. Then the golden voice of Chris Fowler bears the bad news.<br />
<br />
"No!!! Hooked it!"<br />
<br />
Of course. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">But hey, you've not truly lived until you've felt your heart sink like that a few times, am I right?</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Then cometh overtime. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">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.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Now for the final act.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">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.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">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.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">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.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">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.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">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.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Game over. Another national championship. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">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."</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">You think to yourself, "Mine neither, Mama. Mine neither."</div>
Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-70933448104022485202017-08-15T02:56:00.008-05:002022-12-13T12:40:36.720-06:00Escaping the Real World<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">There is a way to travel backwards in time that does not involve a flux capacitor, DeLorean DMC-12, or Christopher Lloyd. And that is to attend a concert by one of your favorite bands from years gone afore. (Though not too many years, because once the band members possess a certain level of geriatricity you inevitably begin to think about your own impending decrepitness and before you know it find yourself tearing up at the Gordon Lightfoot show, in the middle of "Sundown.")</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
That is what we did last Saturday night, making the two-hour pilgrimmage to Nashville to see Matchbox Twenty and Counting Crows. Anticipatory conversation on the drive up included a couple of unexpected gems from Mrs. Bone.<br />
<br />
"Do you think Rob Thomas will sing any of his solo songs?"<br />
"I doubt it."<br />
"Well, I really like that one song he does.... something about butterflies?"<br />
<br />
I am entirely vexed. She continues.<br />
<br />
"The one about they've tried but can't work things out?"<br />
"Mockingbird?"<br />
"Yeah, that's it!"<br />
<br />
A little later, she inquires as to what my favorite Matchbox Twenty song is. I list "Real World" and "Bright Lights" among them, then ask the same of her.<br />
<br />
"What's that song from that Nicholas Cage movie where he dies?"<br />
"City of Angels?"<br />
"Yeah."<br />
"That's the Goo Goo Dolls."<br />
"Oh. I always get them mixed up."<br />
<br />
Well... at least one of us would enjoy the show.<br />
<br />
As the crowd began to filter in, I was feeling right in my element. Most everyone seemed to be around my age. The concert had a starting time of 6:45, which I thought odd at first, but in hindsight believe was a nod to those of us in our middle ages who, while we enjoy having a good time, also know not much good happens after 10 pm.<br />
<br />
After a brief set by opening act Rivers & Rust, Counting Crows took the stage. Having seen them deliver a phenomenal show at the Ryman in 2009, this performance left a bit to be desired. It was difficult to understand Duritz's vocals at times, and they chose to skip several favorites like "American Girls," "Accidentally in Love" and Big Yellow Taxi" in favor of some new songs unfamiliar to me, and evidently, most everyone else. Highlights included "Round Here," "Hard Candy" and of course, "A Long December."</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Then Matchbox Twenty took the stage with all the energy of a band that had just hit the big time. After kicking off with "Real World," they ran through a mostly romping set that included all of their big hits. They returned for a four-song encore which kicked off with Simple Minds' 80's standard, "Don't You Forget About Me," followed by "3 AM" and "Long Day," before closing the show with "Bright Lights."</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It's funny, and I have no idea why this is, but as I get older I sometimes find myself trying to come up with reasons to not go to concerts (traffic, won't be able to get a sitter, etc.). And yet, I can scarcely recall a single concert I regretted attending.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Music is woven throughout my soul. I love how a certain song can take you back to a specific time or place or person every single time you hear it. A little bit of mind travel, if not time travel.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">But alas, the time traveler's wife and I had to return back to 2017, where we're a little bit older (and I swear the music is not nearly as good). Back to jobs. And bills. And worry. And wishing the real world would just stop hassling me. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-28901772351706271432017-07-30T05:36:00.001-05:002022-12-12T23:47:52.147-06:00The Sweet Sound of Your Baby Crying<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We are in a waiting room at the outpatient surgery center. You are wearing a tiny gown. It is at once the cutest and saddest sight I can remember. Outside, it pours, water cascading down the window. The weather fits the gloominess of the morning.<br />
<br />
We are worried, your mother and I, wondering constantly in silence if this is the right choice. It would be so much easier if it were me having the surgery. I make the decision, I live with the results, good or bad. But you never asked for any of this. We brought you here. And you've been so happy the past few weeks. Why do something to risk messing that up?<br />
<br />
But before that, there were the five rounds of antibiotics. A whole lot for anyone, but especially someone your age. Seven months old. I finally decided better to have something done that might allow your body to fight for itself, rather than keep pouring that poison down you. If you ever wonder why we did it, that is why.<br />
<br />
Routine. Minor. Simple. These are words people use to describe your surgery. But when a complete stranger takes your only child from your arms, then disappears down a hall behind double doors, those are not words that come to mind. <br />
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That is what happened. I did not look at your mother, because I knew she was crying. If I looked at her... well I had to pretend to be the strong one.<br />
<br />
The doctor came to talk to us after an eternal fifteen minutes. Everything had gone fine. You would be in recovery for ten minutes, then we'd probably hear you before we saw you, in his words.<br />
<br />
He was right. You were screaming I guess as loud as I've ever heard you. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">But at that moment, in that situation, it was the best sound I'd ever heard.<br />
<br /></div>
Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-62802642034638275252017-06-07T02:05:00.004-05:002022-12-21T08:25:27.996-06:00Farewell, My California Friend<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"I've never been good with starts and finishes. That's always been the problem with my writing."<br />
<br />
Those are your words. I found them in one of the many late night (for you, early morning for me) chat transcripts I've gone over this week, the week after you passed away. The words seem to fit here as I've wanted to write something but I've no idea where and how to start.<br />
<br />
November 18th. That is the date of my last email to you. It seemed impossible it could have been that long. My heart sank when I realized it indeed had.<br />
<br />
So many times I've seen people get married, have kids, and mostly lose touch. And though I vowed I'd never be like that, turns out I'm the worst of all. <br />
<br />
In the span of a couple of emails, I was telling you about the birth of my son, while you were telling me you were losing your job. Nonetheless, you could not contain your excitement for me. I think it's obvious who the better friend was here.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Did you even know I considered you a friend? Did I ever tell you?<br />
<br />
I don't know how you died. Your next to last Facebook post said your left leg was hurting. Later that day, you were gone. Someone speculated it might have been a blood clot from DVT. I wonder if you tried to get help. Maybe if we were chatting regularly like we used to, I might have suggested you get to the hospital.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">You had been out of work a couple of different times, so I wonder if you put it off due to concerns about insurance or medical bills. Because this is America and sometimes you have to choose risking your life and hoping for the best over going into debt! I yell, to no one...</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I cannot recall exactly how we came across each other. I've found blog comments from as far back as 2005. The memories are random and scattered.<br />
<br />
An Eddie Rabbitt song came on the other day and it brought to mind a conversation we had about you recording one of his albums your mom had from vinyl onto a cassette back in the 80's. Not that I would consider you a country music fan by any stretch. Perhaps that's what made it stick out.<br />
<br />
You bought and sent me a cap after Alabama played and won the national championship in the Rose Bowl several years ago. <br />
<br />
You told me about an online literary magazine run by an acquaintance of yours and suggested I submit to it.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">You were always watching your cooking competition shows. Loved Christmas music even though you weren't religious. I mean, there were very few people in my life with whom I could discuss "Funky, Funky Christmas." And now there is one less.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">My thoughts are choppy. My writing is worse. I miss our chats. I'm sorry if I disappeared on you. This tribute is not worthy of you, of your life. I'll just say there are a lot of things that make me think of you. I hope they always do.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I'm not sure what happens after this, but I know what I hope. I hope you are somewhere walking Sharky, listening to your favorite Christmas songs, free of all the pain and worry of this realm.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">If you can no longer be here, that is the finish I would write for you.</div>
Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-33209169026025794492017-05-08T06:02:00.001-05:002017-05-08T06:02:32.987-05:00A Day in the Life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I get home just after 7 a.m. It was a relatively slow night at the 911 Center, not much to speak of other than a few wrecks in the rain. Idealistic me, I applied for this job because I wanted to help, to make a difference in some small way. I accepted it because of the incredible insurance. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Eighteen months later, I rethink that decision almost daily. Working thirds is hard on the body, a strain on our marriage. As I walk in, Luke is in his sit-me-up booster seat. He smiles as soon as he sees my face. He recognizes me. And somehow it is all alright.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After getting him dressed and in his car seat, I hug Mrs. Bone goodbye and get ready for bed. I can't shut off my mind. I replay calls from the night before, mistakes I might have made, what I could have done better. It is something after 8:00 the last I remember.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I wake around 1:30. The five-plus hours is the most sleep I've gotten in four days. I've been in a rut of waking up between 11:00 and 1:00 and not being able to get back to sleep. Around 2:30 I give up and decide to get a couple of errands in before I pick up Luke at daycare.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">First up is a stop at the grocery store where I pick up some fruit, nuts, and cheese -- snacks for work -- and some Martha White self-rising flour. I've taught myself to make something close to biscuits over the past few months.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Next is a visit to Walgreens. Desperate for sleep, I pick up some Melatonin and Calms Forte. I avoid taking medicine if at all possible, to the point that my doctor will begin sentences, "I know you don't really like to take medicine..." But at some point I figure the lack of sleep becomes unhealthier than the pills.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then it's off to get Luke. I skip the interstate and take the two lane, enjoying the ponds and pastures, trees and sky. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">The 15-minute drive has become my "me" time. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I roll down the down the window, turn up the radio, and enjoy the one bit of my day where I'm not sleeping, working, or responsible for another human being. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The first thing I notice is Luke is not wearing the same outfit he left home with. This is a not uncommon occurrence. He has had what we in the parenting business refer to as a blowout.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">On the way home, we stop off at the Sonic. Once a week I treat myself to a small shake and small chili cheese fries. It's a guilty pleasure. Besides, I got cheese and nuts and fruit for work so it balances out... ish.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The first order of business once we're home is to let Sunshine outside. Sunshine is the cat, though we would never refer to her as "the cat" because doing so might imply she is just an animal, that she doesn't have a personality, that we don't consider her our daughter. And nothing could be further from the truth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She showed up at the back door a few years ago, starving and bloody-tailed. After an ever-so-brief attempt to find her a home, we decided to keep her. Honestly, she never gave us much choice. Our lives have since become a "Who rescued whom?" bumper sticker.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Next I unload the dishwasher and start some laundry. Not at the same time, that would be a trick sure to astonish. The squeaking you will soon hear is the sound of the dryer dying. The repairman gave it six months to live. That was over two years ago. She's a fighter this Whirlpool.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Luke gets fussy after a bit and when I pick him up I feel something wet. It is blowout number two of the day. It is the worst one I have experienced to date. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I may as well wear the Spray 'n Wash in a holster.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Mrs. Bone gets home and we begin the nightly routine: feeding Luke, giving him a bath, and putting him to bed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our Hello Fresh delivery didn't arrive on time this week so we order Mexican. (I'm gonna have to eat a lot of fruit and nuts to make up for this day!) While I am at the restaurant picking up our food, I get a text: "Guess what just arrived." Perfect. I don't mind though as we have mostly found Hello Fresh to be more aptly titled Hello Bland. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We eat while watching a couple of "General Hospital" episodes. Luke wakes up during the first so I go and rock him back to sleep. I doze off during the last, grabbing a much-needed fifteen or twenty minutes before it's time to shower and get ready for work.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It is 9:30. Sunshine demands five more minutes of outside time before I leave. I oblige. Then it's another hug goodbye and I'm out the door. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As I back out, Sunshine sits in the doorway and watches me leave. Beyond, Luke sleeps peacefully in his room while the woman I married is going to bed, hoping to catch two or three hours before the little guy wakes up again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Some decisions you never have to rethink.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>"These are some good times / So take a good look around / You may not know it now / But you're gonna miss this..."</i></span></div>
</div>
Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-75854954475215215562017-02-21T06:11:00.001-06:002017-02-21T16:32:00.981-06:00From the Heating Pad<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Recounting the unfortunate events of last Sunday and Monday, February 12th and 13th...</i><br />
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It is my second day of being forty-four and I am on the couch alternately applying heat and ice to my knee. This is because on my first day of being forty-four I attempted something crazy. Something no one my age had any business doing, evidently.<br />
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I tried getting out of my chair and standing.</div>
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Kapow! Blam! Zowie! </div>
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Pain shot through the outside of my left knee. Holy aging ligaments, Batman! Why, why, WHY had I tried getting up without a chair lift?</div>
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I was unable to stand, probably due to my extremely low threshold for... er, ethereal sensitivity to pain. (It's basically a superpower.) You follow? My leg did not work for a moment. Then I hobbled around for the rest of the night and pretty much ever since. I still don't know what I did, except get old. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The same night as the chair incident I was perusing my phone with my glasses resting atop my head. An uber-helpful co-worker asked, "Do you need bifocals, Bone?" No, this is a fashion statement, I saw it on the cover of Geriatrics Quarterly. Yes, of course I need bifocals! </div>
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<br /></div>
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Also, we got new reference books at work with print so microscopic that in order to read it you need a frickin' electron microscope. Or, average eyesight. So I had to get another, much younger co-worker to read off some numbers to me.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This came on the heels of me having a grievous cold, my first time being sick in two or three years. (I still blame the Tdap vaccination the pediatrician unceremoniously forced on me.) It was the kind of cold that would have knocked an average person off their feet for up to a day. I was off mine for two, proving yet again that I am not average.<br />
<br />
To top it off, my reflux has been acting up, waking me a couple of times a week lately. At least that'll make for a decent conversation starter down at the convalescent center.</div>
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<br /></div>
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If I were a horse, they'd have to shoot me. Of course, if I were a horse, I'd be like a hundred and thirty in human years, which would probably be some kind of record. So maybe they wouldn't shoot me. I'd most likely be in some kind of equine museum, alongside Secretariat, Mister Ed (of course... of course), and a horse with no name.</div>
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How did this happen? To me??? I was always the one getting the "Well you sure don't look that old" comments. Just a couple of weeks ago, my 9-year-old niece informed me she thought I was twenty-nine, about to turn thirty. And trust me, she's a great judge of all things. (Is it any wonder I married into that family?)</div>
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I've most certainly always acted younger than my age. Much, much younger. I'm sure any of my ex-girlfriends would attest to that. And have. </div>
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But suddenly, I'm feeling every last one of my forty-four years. And about thirty more on top of that.</div>
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Mrs. Bone has to be wondering what she's gotten herself into. To her credit, she hasn't said anything. Of course if she did, my aged ears probably couldn't hear her anyway.</div>
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<i>"I wish I still smoked cigarettes / Felt more grown up then / We were talkin' about where we were gonna go / Instead of talkin' 'bout where we'd been..."</i></div>
</div>
Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-10445680618511101132017-02-01T04:07:00.000-06:002017-02-01T07:46:27.192-06:00The Hearse People<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was chewing the fat with the pest control guy one fair spring day last April when something caught his eye. <br />
<br />
"What's going on over there?" He was standing near the southwest corner of the privacy fence, peering at something in the distance. I figured I knew where this was going.<br />
<br />
"Oh, the hearse. Yeah. I have no idea, man."<br />
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"No, I mean, it's like pimped out. It's got rims."<br />
<br />
I had noticed the hearse a few weeks earlier parked in the carport of the house behind and to the south of ours. But until now, I hadn't noticed the aftermarket rims.<br />
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In my defense, those same neighbors also have half a pickup truck sitting in the yard missing its bed and rear axle, as well as a pop-up camper which seems to house an unknown number of additional tenants. Also, the previous resident didn't clean the garage gutters for so long there was foot-high vegetation growing in them. Volunteer marijuana, possibly. (Did I mention we do not, in fact, live in a gated community?)<br />
<br />
Anyhow, in that context the hearse sort of blended in, though I now somewhat understood the allure, yea necessity, of HOA's. <br />
<br />
It was the aftermarket rims that had me intrigued. Who pimps out a hearse? Was there some new reality show I didn't know about? "The Emaciated Race?" "Extreme Makeover: Mortician Edition?" "Pimp My <i>Final</i> Ride?" I mean, everyone <i>I</i> know who drives a hearse as their personal vehicle...<br />
<br />
I had considered many possibilities for the hearse. At first, I thought maybe they worked for a funeral home, and when the bed and rear axle had completely fallen off their truck in an extraordinary occurrence, they decided to drive the Caddy home for personal use. However, the rims seemed to cast doubt on that theory. <br />
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Also, I met them one day in mid-December on my way home and the rear interior -- you know, where they keep the.... dearly departed -- was decorated with Christmas lights. Maybe it was a festive funeral home?<br />
<br />
It initially crossed my mind that maybe they were planning something big for Halloween. Though procuring a hearse more than six months early seemed a bit odd. (As opposed to driving a hearse home at all?)<br />
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There was also the possibility we were indeed living next door to the real-life Addams Family, though I never recalled hearing the names Gomez, Wednesday, or Fester being mentioned when they were outside.<br />
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And then, of course, there is the final and most likely scenario: <br />
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The hearse people are in the mafia. <br />
<br />
The elongated Cadillac providing a perfect cover for transporting anyone who had recently been whacked to go sleep with the fishes. In other words, the Addams "Family." *wink wink*<br />
<br />
Why not just walk over and ask, you may wonder? Uh, no thank you. I walk over to offer some fresh garden vegetables and -- badda-bing! -- suddenly it's "Leave the gun, take the cucumbers."<br />
<br />
Plus, I've yet to tell you about the weirdest thing of all. One afternoon as I walked out onto the back patio I heard creepy organ music coming from the direction of the hearse people. It sounded like the opening riff of Beethoven's 5th, slowed down. Four notes. And then it stopped. It was beyond eerie, and at that point I was for sure never going anywhere near that house.<br />
<br />
I immediately walked back inside and never spoke of it. Thankfully, I hadn't been able to see anything over our fence. Not that I would squeal, mind you. I know how things work, I saw nearly all of "The Godfather."<br />
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My most recent encounter occurred a week or so ago when I was in the living room and Mrs. Bone informed me, "There's a strange man with a dog in our yard."<br />
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I looked out to see a gentlemen I did not recognize. Since I know the neighbors on either side of us and across the street, we surmised he must be one of the hearse people, or "the family" as I now reverently address them. He was older, gray-haired, probably not an enforcer. At least not anymore.<br />
<br />
He appeared to be trying to corral the dog. Poor pup. I could only imagine the punishment for leaving the yard without permission. *shudder* Or perhaps they were trying to pick up a scent of where something, or someone, had been buried. *gulp*<br />
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I ducked out of view before he could spot me, though I did notice one final detail about the mysterious denizen: He was wearing a Bama t-shirt.<br />
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At once I knew exactly how our initial conversation would someday go.<br />
<br />
Me: "Roll Tide?"<br />
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Him: "Fuggedaboutit!"<br />
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<i>"Don't let this old gold cross and this Crimson Tide t-shirt throw ya / It's cicadas making noise with a Southern voice..."</i></div>
Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-49798819524387039462017-01-25T02:24:00.000-06:002017-01-25T07:05:49.508-06:00Beautiful Boy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There's this thing you do where you press your fists to each side of your face the entire time you're eating. I would say it was the most adorable thing ever, but then, there are so many from which to choose.<br />
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Your mother and I love every single thing about you. The way both your arms jolt out to the side when it seems like something startles you. Your grumpy old man face. How you frequently extend one fist into the air above your head. (We say it's your power-to-the-people pose. Sometimes I call you "my little activist" and chant "Ber-nie! Ber-nie!")<br />
<br />
You were due on the twenty-sixth of November. Iron Bowl Saturday. You arrived nine days early. I guess you couldn't wait to meet us. Either that, or you didn't want to enter the world amidst the domestic assault which surely would have been occurring once daddy insisted on watching the game on his phone in the delivery room while your mother was exploring the sundry delights of labor.<br />
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Often we had debated whether you would be a Luke or a Harper. We would wait until your arrival to find out, all the while buying lots of neutral-colored clothes -- greens, grays, and whites.</div>
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You turned out to be a Luke. A seven-pound, fifteen-ounce, twenty-inch-long bundle of perfect. Your birthday fell one day before your beautiful aunt's, your daddy's sister. (And no, I didn't proclaim, "Luke, I am your father!" as you exited the womb. Though I may have uttered it a few times since.)</div>
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It was hard not to feel unprepared to be a Dad. I had never even changed a diaper. On my very first, I was assisting your mother, or more accurately, observing the proper technique. Part way through, the moisture from the baby wipe she was using squirted into my face, onto my glasses and forehead. </div>
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Or so I thought. </div>
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Turns out it wasn't the baby wipe. Maybe that was your little way of indoctrinating me into Dad-dom.<br />
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You have a single patch of white hair near your forehead, contrasting with all your brown. Same as your grandpa and great-grandmother. I think about all your great-grandparents and wish they were here to enjoy you.</div>
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They say you have my mouth and chin. I think your mother might get a tad tired of hearing how much you look like me. But let me tell you something about your mother, Luke: Your mother is amazing.<br />
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She gets up at least twice every single night to feed you, and at least as often just to console you. She has done so much research, asking, and reading to try and ensure she is producing all that you need. <br />
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She probably hasn't had six hours of sleep in a night since you were born. I am sure she is more tired than she has been in her whole life. But when she looks at you, it is unfailingly obvious she is completely in love with you. I know you won't remember these first months, but in case you ever read this, I wanted you to know that.<br />
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I hope you get her persistence. Her loyalty. Her love for travel. Her freakishly healthy teeth.<br />
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I hope that as you grow up, she and I set a good example for you, not only as parents but as a married couple. I hope that we gross you out by kissing in front of you, with tongue! (Don't worry, you'll learn all about that one day. It's one of the best things about life.)<br />
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I hope so much for you. Much, much more than I ever had. I suppose that is every parent's wish.<br />
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Yet while I cannot wait to see what you become, what your passions and personality will be, I try and cling to all these fleeting moments right now. Moments I know I will soon miss. Like how easily you fall asleep on my chest. The precious coos and noises you make. How you smile when I come home from work and start talking to you. <br />
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My beautiful boy, when you smile it's as if all the troubles of this world and problems of adulthood are as far away as a thing could ever be.<br />
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Oftentimes when you are asleep, I will go and check to make sure you are still breathing. I am sure it seems a silly thing. But in that moment, to see you peacefully asleep, everything is right in my world.</div>
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We have been wrestling with the decision to put you into daycare. You, so completely reliant on your mother and me. It's as if my heart has leapt outside of my body, and letting it/you out of my sight -- with a complete stranger, no less -- terrifies me like no thing ever has. I know it terrifies your mother, as well.</div>
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I would give anything if one of us could quit our job. But no matter how we crunch the numbers, we can't seem to make it work. It's impossible not to feel like a bad parent.</div>
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This will all get easier, right? (And all the parents of the world laughed and laughed.)<br />
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It is the opinion of some, and even I may have thought at times, that having a child is an entirely selfish act. I have no idea if that is true. What I do know is since you came along I have been on a crash course in unselfishness.<br />
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Of course I knew parents made many, many sacrifices. Heaven knows my parents did. The thing I didn't realize was that most of the time, you don't even think of it as a sacrifice. Maybe there's no time for such thoughts. You simply do whatever you have to for this precious creature who depends on you in every way. <br />
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All my decisions are made in the context of how they will affect you. I want to be healthier so that I can be around longer for you. I want to be a better person so that I might be a decent example for you.<br />
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You have brought so much change, so much new to our lives. Many are simple things, such as the feeling I have when I carry you into a restaurant or any public place, or knowing I am the person family and friends will hand you back to when you start to cry.<br />
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Even my apps have changed. WebMD Baby, Lyfeline Milestones, and The Wonder Weeks have claimed their place alongside Subway Surfers, Word Streak, and GolfStar. </div>
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Having the opportunity to see the world anew through your big, beautiful eyes has reminded me of the wonder that has always been there. I try to imagine all the new things you must be continually discovering. Realizing the hope and possibilities that lie before you has renewed my own hope. <br />
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You have given me a new perspective on a lot of things. <br />
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Driving, for example, has become one of the single scariest experiences of human existence. Bringing you home from the hospital, I was constantly on edge. What if that car doesn't stop at that stop sign? Why are these lanes so narrow? What if that truck crosses over the median, breaks through the concrete barrier, and comes into my lane? And why must everyone drive the speed limit??? I think ten miles per hour under is plenty fast, ya bunch of crazies!<br />
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I have a whole new appreciation and admiration for anyone who has ever raised a child. No one tells you how hard it is going to be. Or maybe they do, but there is no way to grasp it until you are the one doing it. <br />
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And single parents? I stand amazed. I cannot begin to comprehend how you do it. You are real-life superheroes.</div>
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Sweet Lucas, you have even given me a new perspective on God. Knowing how much I love you, I think, gives me a new appreciation of how much He must love His children.<br />
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Sometimes I am certain I learn more from you than you ever will from me.</div>
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If e'er I wondered if miracles still occur, I can now answer without doubt or hesitation: They absolutely do. You are our perfect miracle. It is an honor to be your dad, and the most enormous responsibility of my life. </div>
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God help me not to mess it up.</div>
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<i>"Before you go to sleep / Say a little prayer / Every day in every way / It's getting better and better / Beautiful boy..."</i></div>
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Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-57535171648272416632016-12-28T06:02:00.000-06:002016-12-28T08:03:44.256-06:00The Soundtrack to My Youth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"I think George Michael may have died..."</div>
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I was sitting at the dining room table at Mom's, having just finished Christmas supper, when I received the text. The year two thousand and sixteen, already cursed with so much darkness and death, had claimed yet another.</div>
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I suppose you never know how news like that will hit you until it does. But amidst all the usual Christmas gaiety - the excitement of the nephews and niece, the adults talking, some Christmas movie on the television -- it took everything within me to keep from weeping openly.</div>
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I walked down the hall for a moment to gather myself. When I returned, I told my sister the news. She looked shocked for a second, then sang a couple of lines of "Faith" and moved on. She didn't get it. She was a bit too young then.</div>
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"Then" being somewhere in the vicinity of 1988.</div>
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Faith. Father Figure. Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go. One More Try. Careless Whisper. That music was the soundtrack to my youth.</div>
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For me, it represents those sweet spot days of thirteen to nineteen. First cars and awkward first kisses. Bonfires and pep rallies and hanging out at the mall. Falling in love and first broken hearts. When the real world had mostly yet to begin to erode the innocence.</div>
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I remember being on a field trip. We were going to Helen Keller's birthplace, I think. On the bus, I had strategically positioned myself on the seat in front of Annalisa Gray, on whom I had a little crush. She was listening to the "Faith" album on her Walkman, which made her even more appealing. </div>
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Though I had both the "Make It Big" and "Music From the Edge of Heaven" cassettes from the Wham! days, I had not yet procured my own copy of George Michael's first solo album. I daydreamed that we might share headphones while listening to it, but as reality would have it, I think she loaned me her Walkman long enough to listen to one song.</div>
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The next year, she and I would perfect the art of the <a href="http://littlenibbler.blogspot.com/2011/12/when-second-base-was-but-distant-dream.html" target="_blank">tongueless kiss</a>. (Is art the right word?) I got my own copy of "Faith" and flat wore it out. As it almost always does, the music outlived the crush.</div>
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I guess eventually the music outlives us all...<br />
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<i>"I'm looking out for angels, just trying to find some peace..."</i></div>
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Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-83545414064861368362016-11-17T10:11:00.000-06:002016-12-09T15:38:03.748-06:00Twas the Night Before...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The day of the wedding, I had lunch by myself. A few of us had gone go-karting and hung out in the arcade that morning, after plans for zip lining fell through. I wound up at a little seafood joint two blocks from the beach — just me, my crawfish and my Yuengling. My last meal as a free man. And not a bad choice, I might add, though some collard greens and cherry cobbler would have consummated it nicely.<br />
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As the crawfish began to disappear, I wondered if <i>I’d</i> be consummating <i>anything</i> anytime soon. That is, considering the near-disastrous events of the night before.<br />
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Rehearsal had gone well enough, highlighted by the scrumptious swine delicacies of Hog Wild BBQ. I was most excited about our recessional song (the Baja Men wedding classic, “Who Let the Dogs Out”) and my reception “mixtape.” It was obvious (to me) that the old deejay hadn’t lost his touch.<br />
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Sure, one groomsman had been an hour late, and one bridesmaid missed the whole thing after getting lost in Mississippi. (She looked like the lone survivor at the end of a horror movie as she avowed, “People think Alabama and Mississippi are the same. They’re not. Mississippi is way scarier.”) But I figured if that’s the worst thing that happened, we were in good shape. <br />
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It wasn’t.<br />
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LJ and his wife invited us out to the Flora-Bama afterwards. I should interject here that I <i>may</i> have given Fiancee Bone the impression that we would not go out after rehearsal. I did this by telling her, “We will not go out after rehearsal.” After all, we still had our vows to write! (Procrastination being the mother of…. No wait, procrastination being the tie that… Eh, whatever, I’ll finish that line later.)<br />
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But we (I) was feeling guilty and trying to fit in as many friends and family as we (I) could. After all, almost everyone had driven a minimum of five hours to get here. So we (I) agreed (volunteered us) to go. <br />
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We rode with them and left Fiancee Bone’s car in the parking lot of the Gulf State Park Pavilion. Our only instructions were to be cleared out by midnight because that’s when the gate would be locked.<br />
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The Flora-Bama was sprawling and historic, if uneventful. It seemed the sort of place you really had to be inebriated to enjoy. We got back to the Pavilion by 11:30. The gate, naturally, was locked.<br />
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After a few minutes of hemming, hawing, and investigating the situation, I decided there was space enough between the gate and a nearby utility pole to fit the car. Perhaps you already have some idea where this is going?<br />
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As I navigated the five-speed, front-wheel drive German sedan towards the seemingly ever-shrinking gap, I looked at the three of them — LJ, my best man and friend of twenty-plus years; Mrs. LJ, well-intentioned if uber-panicky; and Fiancee Bone. The skepticism was palpable.<br />
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I pressed on, determined to skillfully maneuver Fiancee Bone’s car through the opening, across a sandy threshold and into our future together. Hero, thy name is Bone.<br />
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(I believe it was Gordon Lightfoot who once sang, “Heroes often fail.”) My mistake was being too careful. Not wanting to damage Fiancee Bone’s vehicle, I took it too slow. The front-wheel drive, rather than working to pull me out of the sand (did I mention I was driving through sand?) only served to dig me in deeper -- literally <i>and</i> figuratively, I was thinking about this time.<br />
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I scanned Fiancee Bone’s face, trying to gauge her, um, enthusiasm. On a scale of “I’m leaving and driving back home tonight” to “I love you forever,” it was a solid “I may not be speaking to you for awhile.” We’d be fine. Let’s face it, she’d surely put up with way worse than this in our time together. I was inexplicably optimistic.<br />
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The three of us — LJ, Fiancee Bone and myself — got out to try and push. Mrs. LJ got back into her own vehicle, presumably to panic some more or hide from the police that we all assumed would be arriving any minute. <br />
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Though buoyed by Mrs. LJ’s constant declarations of “This is never going to work,” pushing was a no-go. The front wheels were nearly half-buried by now, thanks to some excessive gassing it earlier by yours truly. The thought crossed my mind that no girl should have to be pushing a car from a stuck position the night before her wedding. But in some way, it made me love her even more. I looked at her again, and in that moment, I felt pretty confident she was <i>not</i> having similar thoughts about me.<br />
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Fiancee Bone began to call family members and friends to see if there was anyone who could pull us out, while Mrs. LJ consoled her with utterances of “I’d be so upset if I were you.” I separated from the group a bit and walked back to the car. That’s when I saw it — wedged down in the corner of the driver’s side window — the world’s tiniest post-it note.<br />
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I held the absurdly small piece of paper in the light and read it’s once-important but now terribly untimely message:<br />
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“Gate is dummy locked. Please lock up when you leave.”<br />
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Why? Just… why?<br />
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First of all, notes on cars go under the windshield wiper, everyone knows that! I'm pretty sure that's in Deuteronomy, or would have been had post-it notes been invented in 1500 B.C., right between gleanest ye not thy fields after the harvest and something something something thine brother's oxen.<br />
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Secondly, who buys the 1/2 inch by 1 3/4 inch post-it notes? They are very hard to see! Nothing says "I wanted to leave you a note so technically you couldn't say I hadn't, but I didn't really want you to get the message" more than this.</div>
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Now you understand, Fiancee Bone hadn’t wanted to go out in the first place. Plus there was the little matter of the car getting stuck while it just so happened I was the one driving it. So I was already skating on the thinnest of ice. But this bit of news, which meant the entire misadventure could have and should have been avoided, had turned that ice to slush. <br />
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I walked back to the group — they had remained preoccupied — and did not say a word, but simply handed the note to Fiancee Bone. My brain must have suppressed the memory of her reaction in the interest of self-preservation or something, because I cannot recall a thing that she said.<br />
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In order to put the finishing touches on my magnum opus, I strolled over to the entrance, easily removed the lock and swung open the gate. Voila! Well, at least I’ll know for next time?<br />
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Not more than a couple of minutes later, we noticed the headlights of a vehicle begin to slow and pull off the side of the road. How were we going to explain our situation? There’s no way the police would believe the truth. More likely, they would think we’d broken in, went joy riding in the parking lot, probably smoked a few doobies, and got stuck on our way out. I began to wonder what the Gulf Shores Jail was going to look like.<br />
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Would it be like the Andy Griffith Show? That wouldn’t be so bad. Or would it be more like Law & Order? Would I get my own cell or would I be in holding with a bunch of other criminals? I knew that regardless I would not be able to “go” in that little sink/toilet thingy with no privacy. I’d just have to wet myself. Of that, I was certain.<br />
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As it turns out, my toilet nightmare would have to wait. It was not the cops. Instead a white jacked-up truck had pulled up. Two boys who looked to be no older than nineteen or twenty got out. Without saying a word, one hopped into the bed of the truck and began pulling out a chain. The other offered nothing more than a brief “Ya’ll stuck?” greeting as he began to tie one end of the chain around the front right wheel of Fiancee Bone’s car. It was as if they had done this a hundred times before.</div>
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Displaying a prowess normally reserved for a NASCAR pit crew, they had us unstuck within three minutes. It would have been sooner but <i>someone</i> didn’t realize he had the car in reverse at first. We insisted they take twenty bucks for their trouble.<br />
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Back on the road, we saw the white truck again on the strip. It was turning into the Hooters. A well-deserved reward, I thought.<br />
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Meanwhile, Fiancee Bone wasn’t saying much. Probably thinking about how to convey her undying devotion to me in her vows.<br />
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“You know, one day we’ll look back on all this and laugh,” I offered, feebly. <br />
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From her reaction I gathered that today was not that day.<br />
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"Tomorrow we can drive around this town, and let the cops chase us around. The past is gone, but something might be found to take its place..."</div>
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Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6006953.post-60721273633863201742016-11-10T19:22:00.001-06:002016-11-19T13:05:49.033-06:00How Old We've Gotten, How Many We've Lost<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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It was the spring of my discontent. One of several. I had been unemployed for about two months, ever since I called out one Friday night at the Food Fair so I could attend the county basketball tournament. At the tender age of seventeen, I was on my own. </div>
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Well, that's not entirely true.</div>
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I mean, I still lived with my parents and they fed me and stuff, and I was still in high school. But... I had stocked my last gallon of milk, fronted my last aisle, stolen my last grape... (What? They're like half a cent each. I ate like three a night. Who amongst us hasn't absconded with a bit of produce without paying, let them cast the first stone... OWW! Who threw that?!)</div>
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That May, I landed a weekend job at the local AM radio station. It was, um, quaint. They still had a fifteen-minute swap-and-shop phone-in program (think of it like Craigslist on the radio) every weekday. Each morning at 7:57 they (we) aired the funeral announcements (think obituaries on the... well, you get the idea).</div>
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It also happened to be a country station. The year was 1990. Up 'til then, I had not been all that keen on country music. In fact, we were just coming out of my favorite decade of pop music, and I was pickin' up whatever Casey Kasem was countin' down.</div>
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As it turned out, my hiring coincided with a remarkable country music boom. Garth had come out in '89, along with Clint Black and Alan Jackson. George Strait, Alabama, and Reba were all in the long sweet spots of their careers. Brooks & Dunn were about to break through, along with Tim McGraw, Faith Hill, and on and on. Coincidence? Well, as I just used the word "coincided," then yes, completely.</div>
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I still remember the first time I played/heard "Friends in Low Places." It was on a 45 (think compact discs for old folks). Perhaps it was because I was still a few months away from my first crippling heartbreak and had never tasted beer, but the song didn't strike me as all that remarkable. In fact, I predicted then and there that Clint Black would indeed have a longer, more successful career than Garth. Still waiting to see how <i>that</i> one turns out.</div>
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I saw the change from vinyl to CD's to mp3's. Commercials went from carts (think re-recordable 8-tracks) to mini-discs to mp3's. And within a couple of years, the station applied for and was granted an FM license. Eventually, I moved to full-time working the night shift on a real FM radio station (think SiriusXM for old folks).</div>
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Anytime someone would ask about my job, the answer was always some variant of "I'm only doing this until I find something else/figure out what I want to do for a career." I assume it was part of my Peter Pan syndrome, always waiting for some fantastical ship whose arrival was always just around the corner. </div>
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Then one day, it was twenty-five years later. And I had spent approximately twenty-one of those working for various radio stations filling an assortment of positions, from DJ to reporter, producer to high school football scoreboard co-host.</div>
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So why did the career-that-wasn't end? Well, consider that except for the most recent, every other radio station I had worked for has since been bought out, changed format and moved, or shut down entirely. I have never spoken truer words than these: Clear Channel killed the radio star.</div>
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Perhaps I'll write more about my radio days later -- I can sense the masses clamoring. But what got me thinking about those days were last week's CMA Awards Show. My sister texted (think Snapchat for old folks) the day after the Awards to see if I had watched. I had not. </div>
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The last station I worked for was classic country, '50s through '90s, which probably contributed to my being mostly abhorred by what passes for current country music. (And while I'm at it, you pesky kids, you get off my lawn!)</div>
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She went on to inform me, due to it being the 50th Anniversary, there had been a tribute of some sort and quite a few of the old guard had appeared. So I spent a bit of Thursday scrounging around YouTube watching clips.</div>
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Soon I found myself on the outskirts of Nostalgia-ville, cruising down a warm and fuzzy stretch of Memory Lane (one of my favorite roads as you may have noticed over the years). There was a montage of some of the legends who have passed, including Waylon, Haggard, Cash, Keith Whitley, Tammy Wynette, and George Jones. </div>
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I had not expected to become teary-eyed, yet there I was.</div>
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The music had played a significant role in my life, certainly that was some part of it. I think it's fairly common to feel a connection with the people and things who share our little strip of time. The singers and bands, actors and athletes, songs and TV shows. In all the years of creation, these were ours.</div>
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But mostly I suppose it had to do with that old familiar reminder of time's swift and certain passage. Watching Alan Jackson, George Strait, Dwight Yoakam, Vince Gill, Randy Travis, Alabama, and others on stage, I soon had the thought, "Wait a second. How did <i>they</i> become the old guard?"</div>
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For you may be able to convince me of many things, but you will never convince me that the early '90s were twenty-five years ago. Feels more like ten. <i>Maybe</i> fifteen. But twenty-five? One third of an average lifespan? A quarter of a century? It seems as impossible as a thing can be.</div>
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I swear just the other day I was dusting off an old Charley Pride LP, placing it on the turntable, back cueing it to the start of "Kiss An Angel Good Mornin," and flipping the switch from 45 to 33 1/3...</div>
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Geez, that must have been <i>some</i> switch.</div>
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"If we had an hourglass to watch each one go by, or a bell to mark each one to pass, we'd see just how they fly..."</div>
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Bonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10096591352278195759noreply@blogger.com4