Smoking Cigarettes and Watching Captain (Kaaaaang) Kangaroo

Sorry to offend, if I did, with the old Statler Brothers "Counting Flowers on the Wall" number as a post title that I'm still sometimes subjected to when riding passenger in my dad's car. Actually, that's probably the Statler Bros. tune I enjoy the most, so I shouldn't crack on it. Some of the other artists I'm lucky enough to be exposed to in when in my dad's ride -- or he's cranking his music at our family get-togethers:

Oak Ridge Boys
Anne Murray
Elvis Presley (YES!!!)
Freddie Fender

If I'm lucky, I get some:

Johnny Cash
Emmylou Harris

And my brother has since introduced him to:

Over the Rhine

which he likes, and I can be very,very thankful for that. Dad seems to get annoyed when I put my music in, and I still can't figure that out, but oh well.

Now, growing up, the kids in my family heard more than our share of Anne Murray, who seemed to be his favorite, but we also had a lot of this:

Vicki Carr
Tom Jones
Bobby Gentry (one album I remember with Glenn Campbell)
Crystal Gayle
The Kingston Trio (who were his favs)
The Brothers Four (was that the Kingston Trio plus one?)
Roger Miller (whom I still look fondly upon)
Roy Clark
Waylon Jennings
Barbara Steisand

Let me just say for the record, the Vicki Carr lounge lizard stuff:

You're just too good to be true,
Can't take my eyes off of you,
You're like heaven to touch,
I just want to hold you so much,
You're just to be good to be true,
Can't take my eyes off of you.

(Music: BA DAM BA DAM BAM BAM BAMP BAM, BAM BAMP BA DAM BAM!)

I LOVE YOU BAAAAAAAAABY...

Yeah, that stuff. That stuff was merciless. So, too, was Babs, for the most part.

But my questions to The Realm at large are these:

1) What was the music your parents listened to?

and, more importantly (relatively speaking)

2) How do you look back on it?

As major or minor influences in your life or music appreciation? As those silly folks of mine? As in "Please, please no, not that... THE HORRRR-RRRRRRAH!!!"? As in thank you Mom and/or Dad for this or that but NOT THAT?! As in you never give it a second thought? As in "My parents were cool"?

And then the reciprocal question for those that might have children:

What do you think your kids think of your musical tastes now and what will they think when they're older?

Because, despite what I'm saying about my dad, I'm just sure, sure, sure, SURE, SURE... that my kids will think"

"My dad is COOL!!!"

Well, they better.

My Grandma Passed Away

She was the last of my grandparents, in her mid-nineties, and it's been awhile since she really "lived". My dad and his sister both have struggled with when the right time to let her go has been. God and Grandma helped with that decision, thankfully. Today, I'm heading to Asheville, NC for the funeral, which is tomorrow. I'm not sure what exactly I'm feeling, if anything, except that I want to be with my dad (and mom), his brother, and sister to share in their grief. And really that's more because that's how I'd want my kids to be for me rather than for any personal benevolence. Sometimes, I worry about my personhood. Well, many times.

As opposed to my mother's parents, I wasn't that close with my Dad's. They just weren't in our lives as much. Nonetheless, both Grandma and Papa were wonderful people, albeit a little quirky, from what I know, and for the times I saw them, they were good grandparents to me and, as Christians and decent human beings, they helped a lot of people. I used to love going out on Papa's fishing boat when we went down to Miami, and Grandma would cook up the perch we caught and make it taste like fried shrimp. I used to climb in their fig tree and stuff myself. They had a mini-farm and barn, and when I was a baby, they bought Gingerbread, a Shetland Pony, for me. I never got to see the pony much, although I rode him and their other horse when I was down there. They had lots of chickens as well - used to collect the eggs when I was down there... and cats and two or three poodles. Grandma made the best key lime pie, too. And then, I remember she told me a couple stories I almost had trouble believing. One was about her and Papa talking to and encouraging Billy Graham when he was young and had thoughts of abandoning preaching. I wonder if that really happened?

Whatever is in me, though, I just don't feel that much. I'd like to feel more, because I think that'd be more human. She was my grandmother. She loved my dad. She loved me. While I'd like to think it's grief, I'm fairly sure it's rather that my soul's just a little too numb, I don't love enough, and really, my heart's a little too hard.

Lord, soften it.

Happy 40th Birthday Brett!!!

Wanted to wish my brother and semi-regular commenter, under Codename: Anonymous but actual name, Brett, an extraordinary and very Happy 40th Birthday this July 27!!! This is a day early, but it's the weekend, and I may not have a chance to get a brotherly loving, heart-touching post out tomorrow, so I wanted to say Happy Birthday today. The Big 4-0!!! How does it feel man?

For your viewing pleasure, I've linked a list of other folks who share July 27th as their birthdays right here. Some of these people are famous and then, to be truthful, some not-so-famous. Ahem, anyway, I see that you share this special day with other notables such as... whoa! Here's a big one:

Alex Rodriguez - almost certainly a HOF MLB shortstop, except there's that one little... errrr, ummm, didn't he date Madonna?

Hey! Here's another:

Gary Gygax!!! Co-creator of the famous Dungeons and Dragons game!

Bobbie Gentry, Irv Cross, Peggy Fleming... it's a virtual who's who of the celebrity A-list. Except, who's Jason Buck, the defensive end for the World League of American Football Scottish Claymores? How does one such as he make such a high-brow list? Go figure.

Would it make you feel better to know that Juliana Hatfield, Pete Yorn, Bill Engvall, Norman Lear, and Shea Hillenbrand also share your birthday. And famous wrestler Triple H not only shares your birthday, but he also shares your July 27, 1969 birthdate! Wow! I know you're proud about that!

And there's no reason to feel old, of course, because 40's the new 13. Check this out!

Within a couple of years, Jennifer Garner will be making a sequel called 13 Going on 40! You know it's on the come.

And, then, as I know you're very well aware, it's never reeeeeeally a happy 40th birthday without some eerie and profoundly disturbing picture of a malevolent and maniacal clown with a meat cleaver buried in a birthday cake. Those kind of pictures just make the day what it is. And that is, very special.

A VERY, VERY HAPPY 40th BIRTHDAY, BRETT, with all well wishes and hopes for a solid 40 more from The Realm of Possibility!

These Times We Cherish

I picked up Carson from the Regional Airport in Mobile for his Little League State Baseball Tournament last Friday. He had flown from Orlando, after three days at theme parks, on Delta with a layover in ATL, and he had an escort with him. For Car, it was a big deal riding alone for the first time on a plane, and for me, I was just glad to see that he had made the switch at Hartsfield and, more importantly, to see his little body walking from the ramp. When he was smaller, his whole face would have lit up and he would have run to me for a big hug, but now ten years old, he turned a timid smile my direction when he saw me and held up the Fantasy Football magazine that he had read for the flight. I put my arm around him and gave a squeeze. He did grab my hand, and we walked through the airport holding hands, talking about football, because that was what was on his mind, and that went on until after we had driven away and transitioned into lunch.

The week of baseball was a long one with long days of waiting for games. Once the baseball games started, they were full of highs, lows, and weather delays for the team. Nonetheless, Carson had a great time being a part of the baseball. Baseball, though, was just the excuse for me. These days are passing way too fast.

Fortunately, Carson and I still hug, and he still likes when I grab him and kiss him all over. He laughs and giggles when I grab him from behind and wrestle and tickle him. I got my fill of that walking up and down the hotel halls when it was just the two of us. I don't know what the magic age is when you don't hug or kiss your son anymore, and though it's coming like a locomotive, I'm tossing nails on the tracks and throwing sticks, rocks, straw, dirt, anything I can clutch to try and slow it down. When we went to the Gulf Shores beach on a team trip, Carson asked me to build sand castles with him, and later I buried him in the sand. We also played the "make spectacular catches" game, throwing and catching a football diving in the waves. When other kids joined us, Carson accepted them, but this week, he was happy when it was just him and me. Each trip like this we take now, I wonder if it'll be the last one. We'd work sudokus at night before bed - the hard and challenger ones - and when I wanted to start jotting numbers in the corners, Carson would keep holding me back so we could try to do them just using our heads - not seeing the number puzzles worked out on paper. And almost every night before we turned out the lights when we'd be finishing the numbers, he'd say, "I love you, Dad" with no prompting. I'll never get sick of that. The whole week, Car just surprised me with touching moments, sometimes childlike, sometimes mature beyond his years. I didn't want the trip to end.

Neither did Carson. The last night, we were walking to our room together after the game and had been talking about the Harry Potter movie we had seen with the team earlier in the day. Carson was going to be riding home with his mom, who had arrived to watch the final game or two after her Disney and beach trip, the next day. Just before we got to our room, he broke away from the conversation we had been having and told me, "Dad, I think I'm gonna cry." Although it was sort of out of the blue, I thought I knew what he was talking about.

I might've written this before somewhere here (forgive me if you've heard it before), but when I was in sixth grade, I remember we had some kind of assembly for our whole elementary school (1st to 6th grades back then). At the end, a Sesame Street skit finished the program, and the show's theme played over the loudspeakers. And at the time, the thought occurred to me that I had passed the "Sesame Street" part of my youth. I'd never have it again. And I loved that part of my childhood. Overwhelming sadness sort of floored me, then, and I ran to the bathroom, closed the door of a stall, and wept for the days I'd never have back. Silly maybe, but true.

While not exactly the same, I can't help but think Carson's own thoughts were similar. Something like, this time Dad and I are having - it'll never be like this again. The fact that, if that's what he's thinking, he'd be right kills a part of me inside. I'm old enough now to realize every part of life, and I'm speaking of my kid's lives here, are special. They all have their special parts. Holding him the day he was born. Letting go of his hands for his first steps, or letting go of his bike the first time he rode without training wheels. Comforting him beforehand and then watching him get taken away from the dropoff his first day of school. Pulling in a halibut the size of Carson when fishing on our trip to Alaska a few years back. There have always been special heartfelt moments of togetherness in every life stage. Doubtless, Carson and I will have awesome bonding moments when he's a teenager doing whatever it is he'll be doing, graduating from high school or college, and I won't even mention the m-word. And I've had them and I'll have them with my other son, Davis, and my daughter, Mason, too. None of them are the same, though, and they all leave different imprints on the mind. But if you're not careful, they can also slip your mind.

I don't want to take this time, this specific week we just had, for granted. Ever.

Goin' Mobile

Or, going to Mobile, rather, as in Mobile, AL, for the Huntsville International Red 9- and 10-year old All-Stars playing in the State Little League Tournament. I'll be leaving (and believing!!!) Friday morning when we head down to Mobile for my son's, Carson's, and his team's (pictured to the right) double-elimination tournament. Their first game is set for Saturday at 5:30 p.m. It's been a loooooooooong baseball season, but all kinds of fun. I'm very happy for our stellar Mayfair Park for having a team win the Huntsville tournament, and it'd be nice to cap it off with a good showing at State.

Carson's been pumped about baseball this year, and just when I thought it might be lasting too long, now he's saying he wants to skip football and play baseball in the Fall or play travel ball. Not sure what to think about that yet. Digressing...

Wish us all kinds of luck and good fortun... errrrrrrrrr... I can't lie. Wish us all kinds of winning!!! That's what we really want. Actually, it's been a great experience for the boys and one they'll remember and cherish a long time, hopefully, the rest of their lives. Carson's played on losing teams before, but last year his team won their league, and this year his team (a different one) did it again and went undefeated. Now, his All-Star team has won all their games, so it's been a while since he's taken in that awful, bitter taste of defeat. Can it be a while longer? Let's hope so. The more we win, the longer I miss work! And I know Carson wants to win, big time.

But just so everyone has fun. Right?

GO BIG RED!!!

Side Note: I'm not sure whether I'll have a computer or not, so we'll see what Ken comes up with while I'm gone. Could get interesting around here. But maybe I'll get a post or two in... and leave one in the can that Ken can publish when the time's right. Maybe I'll go all Nostradamus and throw down a quatraint predicting that the stock market will hover around 8,000 next week. Yeah, I'm that good.

Reprise: No Kinda Hunter

I once posted on the misadventures of my hunting exploits, or lack thereof, back when we first started The Realm of Possibility. Yesterday morning I was driving my kids, and we were talking about hunting for some reason. One of the boys asked, "Dad, did you ever kill anything?"

"A snake," I told him.


A lot of hooting and hollering came after that. "Yeah, Dad hates snakes!" "Was it poisonous?" "Didja blow it's head off?" Until the noise quieted and Davis asked, "No, did you ever kill anything real?"

They waited, and I said, "No. I came close once, I suppose. It was the only time Zack really ever got upset with me." (Zack was my "f-i-l" in the other story).

"Really? He did? What happened?" they asked.

We were turkey hunting in the Spring, and it was my first time at that. I was with Zack and my brother-in-law at the time, Mark. Zack, while a great deer hunter, was really just learning how to turkey hunt at the time. The dawn had gone and it was into mid-morning, and we were heading back to his cabin. As we walked, Zack used his turkey "screecher" caller box (I forget what they're called) to call out - the female turkey sound - to any straggling gobblers. Suprisingly, at least to me, he got an answer that sounded something like: gggrrrrrbbgggrrrrlll!!! Hey! was the look that passed between Zack and Mark. They told me to wait in a certain spot near a dirt road, and they'd try to circle around where they had heard the turkey reply and try to get him to come my direction.

I planted myself a good twenty minutes behind a bush aside the road, gun at the ready, sweating like a melting snowcone in a sauna, to wait for a turkey I didn't think was ever going to come. Across from the road was a clearing that sloped down away from me with just a couple of trees in it. Then, suddenly, after about a half an hour, I did hear something. I figured it was probably a squirrel or rabbit, but I raised my gun just in case. Now, remember, I had never shot anything, but I didn't think it'd be a big deal. Lo and behold, a real, 100% actual wild turkey strutted out from behind one of the two trees in the clearing, and I had a clear shot.I have to say, it was a beautiful bird.

Then... I thought to myself, "You know, I'll probably have a better shot when it passes by the other tree." However, I also knew it was sloping down the hill as my finger caressed the trigger of my shotgun. If I was going to take the shot, I needed to take it now. So in fine Rich Pearce fashion, I decided that I'd take the shot if it passed by the next tree. The turkey went behind the tree.. and I never saw it again.

Only a minute later, Mark came up and said, "You saw it, right? It was right there."

"Oh yeah, I saw it," I replied.

"Did you have a shot?"

At this point Zack walked up. I nodded. "I think so. It was right there." I pointed twenty five or thirty feet away to a space in the clearing between the two trees." Well, er, yeah. But I thought I might get a better one once it passed the other tree."

"Wait!" interrupted Zack. "You mean you had a shot, and you didn't take it?"

At that point, I don't remember much of what was said except that Zack was upset with me and I should never pass up an open shot. Not one of my fonder moments in life.

Turns out, that was the only game I ever had a clear shot at in my few times hunting before I started creating clever excuses to get out of going.

-----

"Wow, so you had a decent shot at the turkey, Dad?" Carson asked me. "Why didn't you take it?"

I looked back at him and then to Davis before my eyes returned to stare down the road which I was driving.

"Because, guys, there was a slight chance I might have hit it."

The Magic... Goes

A couple of weekends ago, my eldest son and I had "the talk." He was standing aside my car, ready for his Little League All-Star practice, and he just blurted it out.

"Dad, is Santa Claus real?"

The whole Santa Claus mythos, I know a lot of Christians have trouble with it. I'm not one. While I respect those that choose not to lie to their children about a jolly old fellow (some hundred years old) that lives with elves, bee-bops about on a jingling sleigh drawn by flying reindeer, and delivers toys in a sack on said sleigh to one billion families on a singular night each year, it's not something about which I really want to quibble. My parents and grandparents (both sides) were Santa families, most of my childhood friends believed, we watched and loved the Christmas specials (there's a Top Ten list I made somewhere on the site), and for me, each family can come to their own decisions about that. But as for Rich, FEED THE LIE says I.

Carson's ten, so he's believed longer than most. Time and circumstance as they were, he caught me unsuspecting and offguard - but don't many of the landmarks of life hit us like that? My son brought his evidence when I rhetorically asked him, "What? You don't believe in Santa Claus?"

"How does he get down all those chimnies with all those toys?"; "What about all the houses without chimnies and with locked doors?"; "What about the people without homes or the ones that live in apartments?"; "Are there really flying reindeer?"; "Isn't the North Pole uninhabitable?"; "Wouldn't his sleigh burn up in the atmosphere going as fast as it would have to travel to get to every home in one twelve hour night?" (Cunning as I am and proud of the fact that you can't slip a Santa Claus question by me, I countered that last one with the fact that the way the world turns, he actually gets twenty-four hours.)

Of course, wisdom being the better part of valor, I tabled the discussion for the night and changed the subject to baseball.

When I was a Santa-believing child of five or six in Ocean Springs, MS, I remember my know-it-all (at the time), seven-year old friend asking me if I wanted to hear a secret. I looked up to him, and he was the fastest kid on our block and in first grade, so I said, "Sure." And he proceeded to enlighten me about Santa Claus, or the lack of one thereof. I don't have many crystalized memories of my five- and six-year old years, but this is one that has lasted. I was sitting on the toilet of my parents bathroom, and I blurted out the same question my son did to me to my parents. They gave each other "the look", and then my dad did something kind of wonderful. He told me the truth about Santa Claus but then followed that up with a story about this thousand dollar train set that he and his brother received at Christmas when they were boys that there was no way in the world that his family or his grandparents could afford. Obviously, I don't remember his story word-for-word, but it left an indelible magic of the Santa-side of Christmas for me when he could have just let me suffer the come-down.

Stealing from Dad, I called Carson into the bedroom alone the next morning while his brother was playing Wii and his sister was building with blocks, and I echoed Dad's story as I told him the truth about Santa Claus... and his wife, elves, reindeer, and the North Pole... and Peter Cottontail... and the Tooth Fairy... and the Great Pumpkin... and the Thanksgiving Turkey that brings presents to good, little children on Thanksgiving Eve...

The experience turned out good for both of us, but it's certainly a precursor of more (personally) dreaded things to come. Right now, my relationship with all my kids is one where I hug and kiss them, go and eat lunch at school with them, dance crazily in the house with them to fun songs, and they love and want all that. But the day's coming not too long from now, where while they'll still want the love in a different fashion, there's also the breaking away that comes with life. That's gonna hurt. Carson's question was the prequel.

Yuck. Anyhow, merry Christmas in July!

Chick Turned One Yesterday and I Had Some Semi-Related Thoughts

My daughter, that is.

This is the way we do things: my younger son's fifth b-day was in March, but his Kingdom Birthday Party was last weekend. My girl's first b-day was yesterday, which means her party will come, say, maybe sometime in August -- which so happens to be when my birthday is. And, of course, I'm getting to the point where birthdays aren't celebrated so much as hidden and locked under old freezer chests until they suffocate to the point of saying, "Uncle!" and are mentioned no more. My oldest son turns eight in September, and he can just STOP!!!

It truly is amazing how fast time goes. Do you guys remember (and I know this is asking a lot for some of us) when you were young and summer vacation came around? Man, I thought it lasted forever, at least in those years before I was ten. Christmas just never came -- you had to wait like ten years for it. And, unfortunately, when the school year did come around, it was eternal.

Then, something happened and time sped up... Enough of the melancholy.

Anyway, I now have a one-year old girl crawling around the house and cruising when she can. As a prize, she got to go to the pediatrician today for her one year old check-up and got three shots. "Thanks, Daaaaad!" She did well, though. Hardly cried at all. I'm sure she'll be a little sore throughout the day -- but her Nana's got her ;) She'll be all smiles when I go to get her tonight after the Angels' (who are now somehow 4-4-1) baseball game.

Just as important I suppose is that there will be many women playing Bunko at my house tonight, so thank goodness for baseball!!!

The whole point of this post -- well, really there wasn't one -- is that my daughter turned one, and God has blessed me in the greatest of ways. She is a delight, and I love her with everything. It's nice to love like that, isn't it?

The Party

My son's 5-year old birthday party, the one for which I had been building the castle, ended up a magical celebration for the boy. We had Sir Lancelot leading a dubbing ceremony, where our son was crowned king and all the other children were dubbed lords and ladies of the realm. Following that, Merlin put on a magic show that entranced the forty or so lads and lasses that attended. We, then, had a treasure hunt for kingdom jewels that were hidden somewhere in the yard. Before the pizza and cake, we presented a check to the Children's Hospital - one of those big placard checks - which said we had raised $1,000 but in reality it's a little more. The doctor that had done my son's surgery when he was three months old (my boy, not the doctor, of course) accepted the donation. He's the one with the vision to take volunteer services to the poor in Alabama and later nationwide, so we feel like that's a great cause. A friedn had come over and baked a three-layer castle cake that looked truly marvelous. Picture the witch's sweet-laden cottage in Hansel and Gretel, and then imagine it's a castle instead. That's how it appeared.

My 14-year old nephew and I finished the castle about an hour and a half before party-time, and that's after I took Friday off to work on it and then the two of us pulling an all-nighter (well, we finally went to sleep at 5:00 a.m., but I was back awake at 7:45 and he at 9:00. So really, there wasn't much sleep, and I was living off fumes for the party and clean-up. Still kind of am a day and a half after.

Nonetheless, the castle ended up looking grand. Four towers/turrets with long walls, a drawbridge that could be raised and lowered (which, granted, is what makes it a drawbridge), and a portcullis. We painted "stones" on the towers, giving the castle a real look. And, in the end, it passed every test. The kids loved it, the adult guests thought we had bought it, my wife stated it was more than she ever imagined, and it even took a beating from the late Saturday night storm, withstanding the torrential rains and wind. So we received a passing grade. I do have to confess, without my totally game nephew (I had vastly underestimated the work), the structure would not have gotten finished in time for the party -- thank you Lord for him.

Seeing how seriously the kids took the dubbing, watching them transfixed by the magic show, and then having sword fights galore across the back yard -- and lastly, getting to hear kids as they walked away say things like, "That party was sooooo AWESOME!!!", well, it almost makes me think all those late nights and the all-nighter were worth it. But the crowner that does make every minute and dollar invested worth it is knowing that through my son's eyes, he couldn't have had a better party. My first remembrances (now) are when I was a five year old, and I'm betting his oldest memories, once he's grown, might be of this party - and that's kind of a cool thought.

On a separate but related note, my older son (7 year old) and I were talking late last night as I was putting him to bed - and we discussed how while we were having this fun party, there are other Christians in all parts of the world that cannot have these kinds of events, either because of their government laws, poverty, they don't have the resources, etc. It's good to keep everything in perspective, and I'm so pleased, in a fatherly sort of way, that my eldest son sees how much excess we have and has compassion for others. Obviously, it's one thing to talk about having compassion and another thing to show it, but it has to start with the seeing. And then having a soft heart. And he does have a tender heart. God couldn't have given me a better gift -- and it wasn't even my party.

Bottom-line: Banner castle! Banner party! Banner weekend! I'm so glad it's over...

Gonna Build a Castle

Each year for my younger boy's birthday, we've had a big party. When he was young, he had cranial stenostosis (of the sagittal variety) and the good doctors at Children's Hospital performed surgery when he was 3 months old (another post entirely, and I could go on at length about the problem) to correct the skull abnormality where his skull grew over his soft spot too early. Anyway, for the last three years, for his birthday, in lieu of presents, we accept donations to the Children's Hospital, specifically to help out the work of Dr. John Grant (the plastic surgeon who performed the surgery), in his effort to take his services to the needy -- starting with what's called the "Black Belt" of Alabama -- most of whom have no insurance, and to perform his surgeries on a volunteer/donation-funded basis on children with cranial stenostosis and craniofacial problems (cleft palates).

Well, this year, my wife's invited the doctor and also the local and Birmingham media to come to the party to generate additional support here in Huntsville for Dr. Grant's work.

For the past two years, my son's had a Captain Hook/pirate b-day and a Peter Pan Neverland party. For each of these shen-digs, I've made a major construction out of mainly cheap lumber and refrigerator boxes. The first time was a huge ship around our fort in the back yard. The thing ended up looking more like Noah's ark with Jolly roger flags than it did a pirate boat, although I had nets tied from the boat to the fort and the fort tarp colored black with a skull and crossbones. the next year I constructed a Neverland Lost Boys hideout, which didn't turn out nearly as good. Well, this year, my wife has requested a castle. And she has a threshold of satisfaction that I need to meet in my castle-building as she completes all the other stuff required for the party (i.e. invitations, cake, giveaways, etc.).

So here's the deal. I'm planning on having four circular turrets (which I've started and the process is painfully slow) made of two planks, cardboard circles duck-taped to them to hold the form, and then roofing material (the back stuff that goes under the shingles) circling the planks. I'll cover that with gray butcher paper, and then I'll use black paint to create a stone-like look. I'll use cardboard to create the circular chess-rook top of the tower. Or so I'm thinking. For the castle walls, refrigerator boxes covered by the butcher paper. For the front, I'll have a upper wooden frame connected to two turrets, and a refrigerator box will be staped to the front of the frame. I'll cut a drawbridge from the fridge box with pulleys to raise and lower the thing, and then I'll have a cardboard portcullis stuck on the back stapled halfway down.

So that's the plan. However, these turrets are problematic because they're not sturdy, and it's hard for me to make them alone without someone holding up the planks. All the work is done in the late night hours, which is fine except the no help thing. Anyway, if anyone has a better plan -- beside just renting a moonbounce castle [that won't cut it] -- especially for the turret-building, let me know. I'm REALLY, REALLY open to suggestions. Keep in your consideration that I'm not handy at all. But let me know.

My wife's sent out 67 invitations, so the pressure's on to make this thing look pretty good.

Yikes!

The Inevitable Doom and Gloom Sets In

Last night, in my older son's machine pitch baseball game -- the team upon which I'm an assistant coach -- I had the following discussion with one of our boys as I was coaching first base. He's our fifth batter, and he led off our fifth inning (we were down 7-1 at the time) with a hit. Here's how it went:

"Nice hit, bud! Now, stay alert! As soon as he hits it, you be ready to run."

He gazes at the plate, looks me dead in the eye (from under an oversized batter's helmet), and says, "He's gonna strike out."

I pause for a moment, consider the batter who, granted, is in a slump (but he's still one of out better players), and say, "No. Nah, he's going to get a hit. You just be ready when he does."

Strike one. Strike two.

"He's going to be an out, just like I said." Strike three! "See, told ya."

The batter bangs the bat down and runs for the dugout. Meanwhile, the next batter strides with certainty to the plate. Certainty meaning that he knows that's where he's supposed to go rather than certainty that he may actually make contact with a baseball spraying out of the machine.

"C'mon, John!" I holler and then clap my hands. "Come see me. Alright, get ready to run," I reiterate to our player on first. I hunch over to watch how high the ball's going to go over the plate so I'll know whether the batter should move up or back in the box.

"I think he's going to strike out, too." It's the voice of the kid on first again, sounding like a world-weary cynic that has seen no end to famine and plague.

"Have some faith in our teammates," I tell him, still staring at the batter. "He's going to hit the ball."

"I don't think so. I think he's going to strike out."

Strike one. Strike two. Strike three.

"See? I was right."

Straightening up and turning, I glance at my baserunner, and he peers at me with eyes shadowed by the lid of his helmet. "Let's cheer on our team. Not tell ourselves they're all getting out." He shrugs at my comment.

Our next batter, and we're getting closer to the end of our order, which, lemme tell you, strikes fear in the hearts of many a mechanical pitching device.

"He's going to strike out, too. I'm just gonna be standing here for all three outs. We're going to lose, you know?"

I take a deep breath and sigh. "Come on, Clay!" I yell, hoping beyond hope that the little fellow up at the plate that hardly swings the bat at the ball gets a hit just so this player at first has to run to second. And more, I can tell him, "I told you so" instead of having to listen to it come from him. "We're getting a hit. Come on, babe!"

Strike one. "I really do think he's going to strike out."

Clang! A foul, strike two. But at least he made contact. "See there," I said. "He's ready to hit now."

Strike three!

"That's just what I thought. I told you he'd strike out."

"Alright, let's go get our hats and gloves," I tell him.

Boy, did that conversation get old fast. In between my encouraging our batters and my earnest desire to wring this kid's neck, the sad part was that I believed him. The bottom of our batting order is not strong. In fact, it's very weak. Like one strand of a rope trying to hold the line with a locomotive weighing down on it type of weak. And that's with missing our two weakest players who haven't made it for the last two games. We won the game on Monday - in the one game that's at another park where they use coaches to pitch instead of machines (the rest of ours are machine pitch) -- by some miracle of fate (or really good coaching, I'm still debating) , but chances are -- looking up and down our line-up and then at the teams from our park, if we don't improve drastically, dramatically, and miraculously, we won't win another game.

At the same time, winning at this age isn't everything. We have an autistic player on our team who has a difficult time focusing in the batter's box or in the field. And then we have the one kid on our team nobody else wanted because he's both the worst player in the league and a trouble-maker. Then, we didn't know as many of the kids as the other coaches did when drafting. So... while we have four or five guys that are pretty good players, in baseball, that's not enough when you bat twelve. This is a season I'm really going to have to work on my own attitude so I can exemplify Christ while our season swirls down the ol' turlet (to coin a phrase). Not sure that it helps when a cynical seven year old is telling me all his teammates are going to strike out -- and following that, they do. But I've got to try. There are so many more important things in this world, but for some reason, losing stays on my mind longer than those others. In this, I think I'm a lost cause.

Now, I'm playing the real-life role that Steve Martin acted out in Parenthood. Except, I'm fairly sure my wife's not pregnant. She better not be.

My Son's mp3

My son won his school's Math-a-thon by collecting the most money for the math work he completed and, in doing so, was awarded an mp3 player. Now, we have the most noteworthy responsibility of downloading a batch of 30 decent, "mainly" kid-friendly songs. [He has requested U2's Vertigo and a couple of Bill Mallonees -- that's my boy -- but for the most part that's not what I'm looking for].

I'm asking for requests for songs that a seven-year-old (who likes more grown-up music, probably, than most seven-year-olds) might enjoy. Here's a few that I've come up with or that they've played at his school, and this should give you an idea of what song types I'm hunting:

Hound Dog, Jailhouse Rock, and Blue Suede Shoes (Elvis)
Rockin' Robin (who knows?)
Build Me Up, Buttercup (The Foundations)
When Bull-frogs Croak (Zak Morgan)
Joy to the World (Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog) (Three Dog Night)

On the other hand, he's specifically requested NO Father Abraham, London Bridge, Mary Had a Little Lamb type stuff.

That's sort of where I'm going. That said:

Suggestions?

Remembering

A visitor from Heaven
If only for a while
A gift of love to be returned
We think of you and smile

A visitor from Heaven
Accompanied by grace
Reminding of a better love
And of a better place

With aching hearts and empty arms
We send you with a name
It hurts so much to let you go
But we’re so glad you came
We’re so glad you came

A visitor from Heaven
If only for a day
We thank Him for the time He gave
And now it’s time to say
We trust you to the Father’s love
And to His tender care
Held in the everlasting arms
And we’re so glad you’re there
We’re so glad you’re there

With breaking hearts and open hands
We send you with a name
It hurts so much to let you go
But we’re so glad you came
We’re so glad you came
-- Twila Paris, A Visitor From Heaven

Taylor David
He would have been nine today.

H.A.T.U.

Oh by the way, I've been married to Brenda 13 years as of today. Lucky 13? Unlucky 13? Bah! Neither. Tonight when we go out to celebrate (as I miss "24" although we'll tape it just the same), I'll drink to 13 more better than these last, and 13 years from now, I'm toasting to 26 more years better than the first 26.

Happy Anniversary To Us!!!

Anything else of note happening today or has happened in history on March 20th?

Alien Zombie War World

This weekend, which was so excellent - in the 70s, breezy, shorts weather - that I could have just camped outside the whole two days and three nights long, I took the time on Saturday to play with my younger son (who turned five years old March 6, btw) at his level. My older son was playing, too, but if he'd had his druthers we'd have been playing some sport or contest. I think I've mentioned several times, my younger loves his imaginary worlds, usually pirates and Peter Pan. In the same breath, I've probably written that it's hard for me to just play in those imaginary worlds for hours at a time.

Anyway, Saturday it was Alien Zombie War World. My older son had arranged the way this world was working. Aliens had attacked our world and they had some mechanism to bring themselves back to life once dead, and after that, they could only be killed in one way - to take them to the Earth's core. Meanwhile, the aliens were wreaking havoc with their undead counterparts all over the world, and we were part of the last vestiges of the former world trying to save what was left. At first, my sons wanted to be robots, but when I joined in, I told them I wanted to be part of humanity. All of a sudden, my younger, "Agent 2" wanted to be a cyborg. "Agent 1," my older son just wanted to be in charge. That was cool with me.

I told him, okay, if you're in charge, then I want to be the toughest guy. Waaaaay-eeeeellllll, that started a fight. He wanted to be the toughest. I said, okay, then, I'm in charge. That was fine with him. Agent 2, meanwhile, got to be the special ops agent who was our "stealth" man. All that was great... until we started playing.

But before we did, I named myself, the leader, Bork. I called Agent 1: Hamilton and Agent 2 (the cyborg): Schaeff (short for Schaeffer). It was time for a mission. Before they went, however, we all armed ourselves with pirate swords, naturally, as pirate swords are the most effective weapon against alien zombies. Then, I sent Hamilton (who informed me that he was the only one who could take the alien zombies to the core) and Schaeff to the alien stronghold to steal their maindrive computer disk. They'd bring it back, we'd plant it with a virus, and then they'd go on Mission 2 to reinstall it and therefore corrupt the main computers of the aliens, thereby rendering them effectually without communication.

They started out on the mission, but I wanted them to report back. That little detail irked Hamilton, who wanted no part of me, Bork, being in charge. I had empowered him, and now he was the leader. Since I'm about as mature as my two kids, I argued, with an explanation that he was like the quarterback, and I was the coach. I still called the plays; he just ran them. He ended up stomping the ground and shouting, "BUT THIS ISN'T FOOTBALL!!!" For him, it was worth making it a knock-down drag-out that ended up with him pouting in the playhouse alone. So Schaeff ran the mission by himself. And guess what? Even without Hamilton, we completed the mission about thirty minutes later.

Eventually, Hamilton came back out and led the alien zombies to the Earth's core, but then he mutinied, and we all ended up fighting each other.

We did all this while I was watching my daughter, who crawled around outside on a sleeping bag and played with toys the whole time. Aside from arguing with my older boy over and over, it ended up being a really good time and special for my younger boy.

In fact, the next day, he wanted to play it all over again. Sunday after church when we went outside again, he excitedly asked, "Dad, can we play that game again with the aliens, and where your name is Dork?"

Slow Crawl

After nine and a half months, my daughter's crawling. Oh the trouble we can get into now with a seven and a four year old running around leaving popcorn, pennies, sugar pops, bite-size toys, paper wads, and writing utensils in their wake. Her new diet's liable to have a heavy increase in iron and lead.

Nonetheless, it's awesome. My favorite part is the proud facial expression she displays every time she crawl-waddles a few "steps" forward. When I start cheering for her, she has to process a moment. Then, she breaks into gaping smiles like jack o' lanterns I've cut the bottom half out of. Just the opposite of when I tell her, "No-no!" She processes that word for a few seconds, then she explodes into a crying fit. Since it hurts to hear that, I suppose the answer is to spoil her, right? I'll try to get the first two kids right, and then I can spoil this one -- since she's my little princess -- isn't that the way it's supposed to work?

She's a late crawler so hopefully she's a late walker. She's loves to stand, though, so it may not be too much longer. My first son was walking at the end of nine months, but my second waited until almost a year. Druthers? I'll take the second. That way, you're still proud, and you buy time. Of course, it's only bailing water from a sinking ship, because the big trouble's on its way no matter what.

But it's the kind of big trouble I love ;)

Portrait of Grandy

Come this July, my side of the family -- parents, brother, sister, sister's family, cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and family friends -- are returning to the Smoky Mountains cabins near Dillard, NC for a reunion. The reason I mention this is that the last time our family had such a get-together, the hernia that my grandfather had lived with for the majority of his life ruptured. The recommended surgery he required, one that he at first begged not to have, and eventually underwent basically did in his ninety-plus year old body, and he died shortly thereafter. At least he made it back to the hospital in Lakeland, FL where he had lived for nearly thirty years. I flew in and sat with him in the hospital days before he finally passed, taking turns with my aunt, cousin, friends, and mom. Every once in a while, I fed him ice chips... a small price for everything he bestowed to me.

Young Threlkeld -- better known as Grandy to me, all of his grandchildren, and all of his "adopted" grandchildren -- had been born in Clayton, GA, and I know very little about his childhood and growing up except that he played high school basketball in a time "when the referees called traveling violations, not like nowadays when these boys take ten steps and you never hear a whistle." He couldn't stand the way the sport had changed. Of course, his lifetime saw a lot of change. But before I get off too far, I do know that he loved his roots. Whenever we accompanied him and Grandma on visits back to Clayton, even with his bloated hernia, he walked with a spring in his step and a spark of life he didn't often show. He'd meet people he hadn't seen for fifty or sixty years and start conversing with them as if they had seen each other every day. He always found people he knew, and he always seemed to like them. The reverse was true as well.

The Great Depression had been hard on him and his family. Grandy loved FDR and what the government did to bring people out of the Depression. He was a lifelong, "yellow-dog" Democrat - well, almost "yellow-dog" but I'll get to that. A professional barber from start to finish, Grandy never made it too much above poor, but years after retiring the man still cut hair, most of it for free. He had a wife, Janie, for nearly seventy years and two daughters, Sandra and Patsy (the first of whom is my mom) that he never stopped loving. By all accounts, he was a terrific and beloved father.

But I only knew him as a grandfather.

As with any person, the dynamics of life paint a blurred vision, some of it dark, some of it light, and most of it somewhere in-between. By that, I mean, he had both virtue and faults mixed in with the journey of life he took. Hitting the faults first, because the more time passes the less these mean to me, for one thing, Grandy didn't believe in the Holocaust. You could show him history books, have him listen to news shows, heck you could have brought people that had been there with numbers on their arms and he would have told you plain as day that it never happened. It just never happened. Also, as a barber, Grandy had his share of dirty jokes, but those for me, especially as I sat on his barber stool time after time and we both got older and older, became more endearing about him than anything else. The one issue I always had a problem with was his racism. Coming from a poor background and then following that up as a poor barber, Grandy had been raised in a racist environment and he never departed from that way of thinking, which was: white folks are better than black folks, period. It always drove me crazy hearing this nice, loving man throw out the "n-word" time and again, and I heard it mostly when he cut my hair.

One of the proudest moments of Grandy's life was in direct relation to his racism. While on the stool, if I heard this story once, I heard it at least a dozen times as my locks were shorned: When he was younger, Grandy worked as a barber at a Florida navy base outside Melbourne. For a long time, whites and blacks were required to have separate facilities for their crew cuts. Well, de-segregation occurred on base as it did in most places. It so happened that a black ensign (or whatever the naval term for the men going into basic - equivalent of an army private, I believe) came in to have his hair cut by Grandy. My grandfather refused. The navy man said, "You have to," to which my grandfather said, "Let's take it up with the skipper." (I know, I know, shades of Gilligan. Right, little buddy?) Ended up, the skipper came down on Grandy's side, and he never cut a black man's hair as long as he worked on that base. He loved that story.

Mostly, though, Grandy's racism usually seemed more theoretical than practical, and especially as he got older. He had African-American neighbors with whom he was on very friendly terms, and any time they were in need, he'd provide. When I asked him about these acts, he usually smiled and would reply, "Well, he's pretty nice for a 'n-word'."

In the end, any of his misbegotten beliefs that came along with who my grandfather was paled to me. Because no one I've seen loved like he and Grandma did. And I loved him, fiercely.

Grandma and Grandy had always been great to me and my siblings. At some point in high school, however, I stopped seeing them as just my grandparents, and I started getting to know them and love them. The fact was, they had always done that for me, and now it was time to treat them accordingly. The time spent doing this, mainly in my college years, ended up with me... well, falling in love with my grandparents. I'd grocery shop with them. We'd watch The Morton Downey, Jr. Show (they called him "The Mouth") together late at night. I'd spend time talking to them about their lives, then and now. And I'd wonder why I took them for granted for so long. Any break I had in college, instead of heading to where my parents were -- and since my grades were heading that way, it was usually a good place to stay away from -- I'd drive to my grandparents, including one entire summer break. They felt like home, and they treated me like a king. What more could a selfish teenage/twenty-something boy want?

Like me, Grandy was phlegmatic, and Grandma basically ran him and his household. She'd say, "Do it," and Grandy labored, and with his hernia most work was a true labor for him, to get it done. He'd get frustrated every once in a while and say, "Now, Janie, I'm doing what you told me to do?" when she'd nag him once too often. But for the most part he just took everything she dished out (and don't get me wrong, she wasn't malicious at all, just a little demanding). And through it all, he loved the heck out of her. Not in words that I heard often. Just in every action he undertook. Ephesians talks about men loving their wives like Christ loved the Church and sacrificed Himself for Her. I've never seen a better example than in my grandfather's servanthood to his wife. He amazed me. Even when Grandma had lost most of her mind from the dementia caused by repeated TIAs, his concern was ever for her welfare. In fact, I'm convinced he held on as long as he did simply because he was afraid for what might happen to Grandma if he died (i.e. nursing home, etc. - things she'd never want), plus he knew how reliant she was on him. He whispered words to this effect to my mom and her sister just before he died.

So, yes, I'll remember him as a servant of my grandmother. Also, I'll remember him, and Grandma, as servants for me. Anytime they heard I was coming, they got so excited. They pulled out all the stops to fix all my favorites. Fried chicken, barbeque, ambrosia and peeled and cut oranges, gizzards and noodles, watermelon, greens, three-layered yellow cake with chocolate frosting, three-layered red velvet cake, lemon meringue pie, and key lime pies. Their closets were a delight of Little Debbie and Hostess cakes, candy, chips, pickles, just so many things I could just open and say YES to.

I can still see Grandy going out to the garage to peel and cut up those oranges in a three gallon bowl. I see him over the stove adding batter to the fried chicken or making his famous barbeque and its sauce. I can still hear his knock on my door awaking me so I could make it to the summer job I had on time- he cared soooooo much more than I did. I can still feel him cutting my hair and telling me the old joke where the guy asks God to save him from the flood, and the guy dies after a helicopter, raft and boat come to him but the guy says he's waiting on God to save him. I can also hear him telling me, "Rich, I sure do love ya son."

If I ever have one half of the love of my grandfather for my wife, children, grandchildren, friends, neighbors, and even "enemies," then I'll have lived as successfully as a person can in this fallen world. My times with Grandma and Grandy were probably as close to Heaven as I'll ever know on this earth, because I felt nothing but love there. And I loved in turn.

I realize this sounds more like an essay than a piece of art, but portraits often aren't the best art has to offer. Still, it's written in fondness and in love for someone I'll never forget. Rest with Jesus, Young Threlkeld. Rest well, my Grandy.

For Granted

Tonight, as almost every night, I danced my little girl to sleep. Just held her and swayed to a bunch of music not at all appropriate for an 8-9 month old child while my wife worked on the computer in the other room. For two hours, I cradled her in my arms with her precious head lying against my shoulder. It was good.

Before that, I had played with her on a blanket in our living room. Her toys, wooden spoons, plastic Uncle Sam hat, and pillow lay around her, and she was all smiles. We used the spoons to drum on the plastic hat. I'd shake her toys, she'd grab them, and immediately they went to mouth. She'd lean over and sprawl all over me until she fought her way to a standing position and then she'd fall all over me again and giggle.

Every once in a while, my youngest boy would take a break from watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and come join us (my other boy's strep recurred, so he's back in bed). He'd frolick around and revel with us for a couple of about five minute spans and then return to watching Johnny Depp. My girl and I would go back to our own business.

She's pushing herself up and is sooooo close to crawling, but she hasn't quite figured it out, even with my learned teaching from parenting her two predecessors. Which is more than okay. Once they're moving, trouble's on its way. But she's wanting to crawl, and I'm enjoing watching her work up to it.

Really, I'm enjoying everything. And trying extremely hard to let it all crystallize permanently in my brain. Or soak into me and let my mind be a sponge that never gets squeezed. Because you know what? I'm going to forget it. Not all of it but close enough.

We taped a lot with my boys as babies, but even with the footage, which we rarely if ever watch, I can hardly remember doing what I'm watching or seeing them like they are in the video. My wife is big on taking pictures, and those help the memory some, but now when I look at the pics of my oldest when he was 3 or 2 or younger, it's not like I can recall those days from merely looking at a photograph. Some memories resonate, but not close to enough.

I wish I knew of a way to burn these days in my mind. Not so that I can wish for them again sometime later down the road, but more to remember how special they were. And they are special. Watching her work to pick up a cheerio, to hone those motor skills. Jowls that I can't keep myself from kissing. Our tickle battles. All the baby smiles that melt my heart. Her struggle to crawl and to stand. Dancing with her atop my head until she laughs so hard I think she's going to spit up. All these tender moments that flash by and fade in the mind's eye. And I'll lose them.

Fortunately, every stage of this growing up thing is a great stage, and what I lose at one age is replaced by other special moments just as heart-rending at another. But whatever I have or have not done to keep the memories ever-present, it hasn't been enough. I didn't do enough, and I know I'm not doing enough. I'm going to lose most of them. And I regret it.

I'll do my best to remember what I can. In the end, that's going to have to satisfy me. That, and loving those three kids with every ounce of me I know how to use until I'm dead. Maybe then, God'll grant my wish of playing me a rewind. Maybe not, but I think I'll ask.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

[Chances are, once I see Him, all this stuff I worry over's gonna fade away, so I won't really be asking anything of the like, but while I'm here, it's hard not to think this way.]
Fatherhood

Blazers Move to 4-1

Our kids won again, this time 16-3. They're really starting to figure it out. Coaching has been a huge part, and the way the Blazers are turning it up on the defensive end, we'll be hard to beat from here on out. Unfortunately, the team that beat us 8-6 in Game 1 is still undefeated, and they won 16-2 today.

Which means we may be competing for 1st place loser. gag!!!

These are 7, 6, and 5 years old, so shame on me for saying what I just did. I'm the loser.

Of Noble Stations

Here in The Realm, (while many need not hear this at all, I'm quite certain) some of us parents gallop straight-long into the mistake of that middle-ages-old problem of desiring our sons to be knights and our daughters to be princesses, and then exhorting them in those directions alone. Sometimes, our station may be such that those goals might be all but impossible, yet we maintain them while neglecting the aspirations of those we are attempting to mold. For what could possibly be better for them than to be Cinderella at the ball or Lancelot du Lac, the most famous knight that never lost a joust or duel? We only want what's best for them, and in our utmost discernment, we realize what that best is.

I received an e-mail from a good friend a couple days ago. In it he wrote (emphasis mine):

We have had to release [their oldest son's name] a little from our grip and let him sink or swim on his own with his homework, karate, and all things he wants to achieve. It is amazing how difficult it is not to try to mold a child into my preconceived notion of what will be good for him. He is just not me and cannot benefit from "wisdom" I try to force on him. That's not how wisdom works.

Wisdom. I love how it does work. After rearing his child for ten years, my friend has discovered (probably a while before he wrote the e-mail) that knighthood befits his child not at all. Thus, to send him into a squire's apprenticeship instead of encouraging the lad's love and gifts of tending a Realm orchard would someday eat away at his grown boy's soul. Perhaps another parent sees their daughter as the supreme medic of The Realm and foresees sending her off to only the best of The Realm's educational institutions and medic labs, yet their daughter's dream is that of a glass blower -- to make craft so beautiful that all in The Realm of Possibilty are moved by it. Unfortunately, as wise parents, we understand that a living in glass-blowing is a hard one, and our child can do more... be more... than their youthful and wistful dreams allow.

The fact is, some are going to desire knighthood with all their heart and soul. Others will prefer to work the lord's gardens. Neither station is nobler than the other. However, what happens when we've pushed that gardener half-heartedly into the knighthood, and he stands to face the afore-mentioned Lancelot in a battle of honor yet then fails to compete? Anger, diminishment of our sense of pride as parents, and the rejuvenated fire to push harder, which only damages the young knight's psyche all the more.

At some points as parents we must take inventory of our little ones, see their strengths and weaknesses, interests and dreams, and then dare ourselves to support them in those... even if the dreams only amount to being that man wheeling the cart from house to house during the plagues, shouting, "Bring out your dead!"

[Note: Sorry if this sounds preachy; I'm sure it does to some degree. However, I think so many have been affected by the parental ideal for us as children/teens/youths, and we bring that baggage into our relationships as parents, that sometimes it just needs to be said, even if it is common sense. And then, sometimes I'm just getting something off my chest. You can decide which it is this time. And as always, blessed are those who can be offended by what I write and look past it to see the bright, sunshiny me behind the words :) ]
Parenthood