Rolling Stones

     

   “I don’t wanna go!” I said. My seven-year-old whine didn’t deter my two older sisters, however.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be a baby. It’s really fun. There’s squirrels.” Pam and Mary Ann shot each other a sly smile at one another. Fun for them, maybe. Me? Probably not. Going into the thick woods across from our house in the late afternoon didn’t seem like fun to me. In the sunlight of full day it was alive with the sounds of animals and trees blowing in the wind. On this October day, as the sun began to sink below the horizon, it was full of mysterious noises and shadows. The wind was up and made the shadows dance.I was just a tad scared. My sisters had insisted that they had found something, and wanted me to see it, too. How could I resist? I was being included in an adventure. That’s a pretty big deal when you’re seven. So, I went.

  We trudged through the underbrush of twigs and fallen leaves, our sneakers getting wet in the damp foliage. They walked too fast for me, as always. We walked for what seemed to me to be a long time. I was about to ask them how much longer when I noticed that they had stopped in front of a fence. It wasn’t a regular fence. It was only about two feet high, made of very old wrought iron and shaped like a rectangle. Inside the rectangle was a single tombstone. They had led me to a grave. The marker was very old. It read: Kevin Kemp 1846-1865 and below it was an inscription that read “post tenebras spero lucem”. They pointed to the name.

  “Look, it’s your name! You’re dead.” They both thought that was funny. I was fairly freaked out by even being close to a grave with my given name on it, much less being in the dark woods with it. My sisters opened the gate at the foot of the enclosed burial site, and it creaked slightly, just like in spooky movies. They walked inside. Turning to me they waved me on. Uh oh.

  “Old Mister Kemp said this is his great uncle’s grave. He fought in the Civil War and was badly wounded in the face.” I walked inside with them, listening and looking at the writing on the stone, wondering what the words on the bottom meant.

“He said that an explosion blinded him at the battle of Spring Hill. He lived but couldn’t see. Mr. Kemp says that he was the meanest blind man you could imagine. He hated people because he couldn’t see. Then, one day, they found him out here in the woods. He’d hanged himself. He left a note that said, “Anyone who visits the site of my passing must pass me their sight”. Mr. Kemp said that the spot in front of the tombstone is the exact spot they found him, and that if you stood there, and closed your eyes, you could see out of Kevin Kemps eyes. No one does, because he was so mean, they just knew he’d went to Hell.” I was now officially terrified. The wind howled through the trees suddenly and a large branch above us broke off and fell. It landed right onto my head. I fell and my right eye grazed the corner of the stone on the way to the ground. I lay there for a second, dazed. My wide-eyed sisters pulled the heavy branch from my back and helped me up. My eye was full of blood. From below us came a blood-curdling sound like someone saying “Ahhhh!”, then a low, sad, crying sound. We forgot my injury and just ran for home. Behind us, a sound like a scream under a blanket shot through the woods. My sisters and I made it home in record time.

  When we caught our breath, I realized I couldn’t see out of my right eye. It wasn’t just the blood. I was taken to doctors who said there had been an infection in the nerves. The eye would have to be removed or it would infect both eyes. I’ve lived my life since then with a prosthetic (glass) eye.

  Our parents were sure we’d just made it all up to cover up the fact that we weren’t supposed to be in the woods at night. They never had to worry about us breaking that particular rule again. We moved away not long after that, but there were many times, when we were playing in the yard, that we were sure that we heard that same “Ahhhh” sound, followed by crying. I never went into those woods again. I figured I got off pretty easy. Having one eye is better than none. Or one that only sees the torments of the Underworld.

  We asked Old Man Kemp about the inscription on the stone. He said it was latin. It meant “After darkness, I hope for light”. It would seem that his mean old great uncle got at least half his sight back. I’m not sure he enjoyed it much; from the sounds we heard that October evening. Some things aren’t meant to be seen with the eyes of the living.

       The little guy was lost. He peered into the darkness and tried to discover the path home, but he couldn’t remember the way. It seemed as if he’d been out here for a long time, but he couldn’t tell how long. Minutes, hours, days…they had no meaning to him. He hadn’t wanted to leave his warm little hiding place, but the hunger had become unbearable. So, he had wandered out into the dark. The little shivering child had kept within sight of home at first, looking for something to eat, until he sniffed something unmistakably edible off in the distance. He nervously scurried towards it, forgetting about safety. When he found the clump of bread, he began to devour it like an animal. He lost all perception of anything that didn’t have to do with quenching his hunger. His mouth full, his mind engrossed in the joy of food, he was surprised when the beast thundered from above. He froze in place. The unseen beast snorted and wheezed in the pitch black. Then silence. The child ran in the direction he thought was home. He was wrong. 

      The little one found himself in an even darker place than before. It smelled bad here. He thought the sky was closer, too. That couldn’t be right. He waited to see if the beast was nearby. Would the awful sound surprise him again? After a few seconds, he moved. When there was no response, he relaxed a little and finished swallowing his bread. He wished for water, but there was none. He managed to force it down. He walked further on, to find a giant cloth hanging from the low sky. He looked up as far as he could see. The child began to climb. He was a very good climber and managed to make it to the top in no time. As he pulled himself over the edge, he felt a great joy in being able to do it all by himself. Maybe from this high up perch he would be able to find the way home. He was just beginning to get his bearings and turned to see where he’d arrived, when the beast roared again. He froze in fear as he realized that the beast was right in front of him! The huge, round hairy thing was close enough to touch. His deep rumbling was so close that the child felt it, as well as heard it. With the cliff behind him, he had no choice but to run forward and hope to escape. 

      The thing’s bulk was covered with long, black hair that hung down to the ground. The child could climb it, so he did. He made it to the top in what felt like a lifetime but was just a few heavy heartbeats. From the top, he could feel the beast move beneath his feet. He stopped for just a second, and realized he could make out the way home in the distance. Then the thing moved. It rolled one way, and the little one was forced to run again, this time towards home. As the thing rolled, the child ran by two huge, closed eyes that opened as he passed. His heart was pounding in his chest as the eyes blinked. The child jumped for his life. He flew through the air and landed hard on the soft ground. Not waiting to see if he was hurt, the child ran for home, hoping the beast wasn’t following. The scream behind him shot through his spine like a jolt of electricity, but he didn’t stop. He vanished into the safety of the dark night. 

      The light came on suddenly. 

“Kevin! What’s wrong? You screamed.” Mom said. 

“I think a mouse ran over my head!” he said. 

“Well, go back to sleep. We’ll put a trap in your closet in the morning.” 

“Okay…” he said. 

Mom turned the light back off, but left the door cracked so the hall light could reassure little twelve-year-old Kevin. He pulled the covers up and over his head to protect him from the hungry little beast in the closet. The daylight would embolden him to be the hunter of monsters, but tonight he would fear the little claws and teeth of the hungry beast in the dark. 

Every Beast has its own fears. 

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      It’s finally Autumn. Leaves are starting to turn into those beautiful yellow, brown and orange extravaganzas that are Fall colors. You know, just before they die? October brings us the wonderous sights, and smells, of the end of summer and the start of something cooler. Sometimes Autumn will even linger long enough for us to enjoy it, before we slide headlong into the ugly Winter. In our neck of the woods, we’ll be lucky if we don’t have to endure a few more heat waves before Thanksgiving (or Christmas, maybe?), but at the least we don’t usually have to shovel much of anything to get to our cars. Except mud, perhaps. The cool mornings are enough for the present, and I love them as much as the heathen holiday to come. Yes, my friends, Halloween is coming.

      When I was young, I longed for Halloween, with the cheap masks (complete with a faulty rubber band) and tons of candy to rot your teeth out. The one time of the year when it was socially acceptable-nay, expected-to beg from door to door. “Fall Festivals” at the local church, bobbing for apples, blindfolded games where you stuck your hand in a box, feeling cooked spaghetti and raw hamburger meat to freak you out. Ah, those were the days. It was okay to get scared back then, even when you knew what was going on. Costume contests were taken seriously, and pictures were coveted of a favorite outfit. Children walked the block around their house, collecting all sorts of goodies. Suckers, jawbreakers, sweet-tarts, and candy bars were popular. You still said “thank you” if a well-meaning adult gave you an apple, or orange, but it was only because your momma taught you manners. Old metal flashlights were used going up and down the sidewalk, even if the streetlights were on. Every kid gets a kick out of using a flashlight, after all. Neighbors watched out for errant kids, because they were expecting us to watch out for theirs, too. We had fun. We got sick on candy. It was over too quickly.

      Kids like to dress up in scary costumes and play pranks on each other. Some of us adults still enjoy it. I know I do. The thrill of being scared follows us to our teen years, and beyond. It may be silly to wait in hiding to jump out of the dark at your buddy coming around the corner, but it’s still fun. A set of vampire teeth helps raise the jump height a little, too. I think that a healthy scare, now and again, is good for you. These kinds sure beat the adult-type fears of missing too many car payments or forgetting your wifes birthday. Now, THAT’S some scary stuff.  

      Since I think we all like a good scare occasionally, I’m going to be bringing you a few “spooky stories” this month. Some are true, some not. Either way, don’t take them too seriously. Remember, it’s supposed to be fun. If you get scared, there’s no extra charge. If you read the stories by flashlight, under the covers, it might help. Enjoy!

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      It was a long time ago, in a very dark place in my mind. My world had collapsed around me. I could see no hope. Sorrow and sadness had blinded me to it. I had wandered into the swamp of depression and gotten lost. My heart ached and my mind raced. I was drowning in a sea of coal black quicksand and had run out of strength to fight. Only two choices lay before me: live or die. The world around me didn’t feel real anymore. The only emotions I had left were all the ones that no one wants to feel. Dread. Hopelessness. Depression. Anxiety. The constant pressures of life had compressed my world into a densely packed cube of darkness. I lived my small life in a tiny cell, a prisoner of my own mind and thoughts. It seemed to be ever compressing, crushing my life and soul. Life, or death, seemed irrelevant. Neither one seemed to be the better choice. I could have done either, and felt that it didn’t make a difference either way. I was so wrong. I’m glad I’m here today.

      People loved me through it all. Though I felt so lonely, I was never alone. My parents, my sisters, my brother, and many members of my family were there. They all did what they could. They tried so hard, prayed for me, helped me, provided so much support and kindness to me, even when I didn’t deserve it, appreciate it, or even see it. When we let our minds get lost in depression, when our sadness takes control of us, we often lose sight of those who love us. We let the sadness win. Our hearts will wilt like a dying flower if we put it in a dark, dry place. We need light. We need water. We need love. I thank God for all of you who were there for me when I tried to close the door to my life. Mom, Dad, Joe, Mary Ann, Pam, Jennifer-you all suffered right alongside me. You loved the unlovable. You gave me pieces of your own lives that you needed, just because you love me. Thank you. I wouldn’t be here without you. If not for you people, I would not have gone on to have a life.

      We all have people who care about us. Those who love us when we are unlovable. Even people that push everyone in their life away from them still have someone that cares. God is always there. He always loves us, and always cares. He’ll put people in your life that will love you, too. While we live our busy lives, He will put people in our path that need us. He asks that we care about them, just as He cares about us. Jesus told us the two greatest commandments were to “love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind” and to “love your neighbor as yourself”. (Matthew 22:37-3). To be there for each other, in our worst times, when we are at our worst, is what true love is all about.

      Every day there are people out there that are contemplating their own choice between life and death. They need to know that they are not alone. We need to talk about how we have walked down those same paths and how we survived. They need to see our love in what we do. Others care, even when you don’t deserve it. When it comes down to the basic truth, we need each other. Loving each other is why we’re here. There are those that struggle with mental and emotional issues that can’t hear us. Some people won’t listen. Some people will choose to leave this existence no matter how much we love them. It’s still worth it to try. It was worth it to me. I’m glad I’m here, and I’m grateful to God and my family for the life I’ve lived since they helped me crawl out of that murky place.

      September is Suicide Prevention Awareness Month. If you are battling with thoughts of suicide, depression or any other life crisis, you can dial 988 and talk to people that can help. You need to know that people are willing to help you through your crisis. They are all around you. You are important, loved, and worth fighting for. Don’t let go of the rope. Reach for the hands to pull you up, and out, of your own murky place. There is hope. Never give up. Never.

“And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life with one eye, rather than having two eyes to be cast into hell fire.”

Matthew 18:9 KJV

      I’ve had it since the age of seven, so it’s over fifty-one years old. It’s the only thing I’ve saved for so long. It’s been a talisman, a center of conversation, a source of both confidence and humility for me. It has affected my life in many ways, helping to shape my image of myself in different ways. When I was a kid, I was called names because of it. When I was a teenager, it kept me from fulfilling my desire to go into the military. I found it both comforting and irritating at any given moment. It’s been a sort of camouflage that hid my deformity. In these later years I’ve found it to be a nuisance more days than not. I still wear it, mainly to make others more comfortable around me. Yes, I have a prosthetic eye.

      More commonly called a “glass eye”, they haven’t made them from glass for a long time. They’ve been making them from acrylic plastic since the nineteen-forties. It’s pretty durable, and easier to work with than glass. I’ve been wearing the same one for over five decades, so I can attest to it. Most people only notice that it appears that I have a “lazy eye” because after the first ten years or so, the muscles that help the eye move are slack, due to unuse. It just sits there, looking pretty.

In the last few years, I’ve taken to wearing a patch instead. Not always. Just when my eye irritates me or causes me discomfort. The plastic has, over the years, stopped absorbing as much moisture as it originally did, and that causes friction on my eyelid. That, in turn, causes mucus to form on the eye itself. Yuck, right? Well, it’s about as comfortable as it sounds. I keep a patch handy, in case that gets unbearable. The alternatives are either walk around with a bare socket or take it out every thirty minutes or so to wash it off. Neither of those options are very convenient. I get a lot of “what happened to your eye” questions when I wear the patch but imagine the reactions I’d get if I just went “commando”. Yeah, I’ll stick to the patch. The older I get, the less I care about making other people more comfortable about it. I do care, however, about how I feel. Picking my nose in public is something my folks told me is socially unacceptable. I feel the same way about doing that with my eye.

      I got picked on when I was a child. I cried sometimes. I felt bad about being different. I didn’t want to be different. I let myself be hurt by jokes and puns back then. I’m grateful for a family that encouraged me and didn’t treat me differently. My brother and sisters all stood up for me at school whenever I was subjected to ridicule by the mob. They felt that was THEIR priviledge. Nobody picks on baby brother but them. Just kidding. Seriously though, thank you. You guys are still awesome. I’m usually the first one to tell an “eye joke” now. I’ve learned to accept who I am. I don’t take myself too seriously. I recognize that who I am has nothing to do with my prosthetic eye, or my patch. It’s all in how you deal with what life hands you. I choose to see beyond other people’s differences and disabilities because of what I went through. I think, oddly enough, that having one eye has expanded my horizons, rather than merely limiting my visibility.

      So if you see me out and about, wearing a patch, you’ll know that there’s not anything wrong. I just left my eye at home, or in my truck. I choose to wear it, or not, like my many caps or hats. I decide on what I’m comfortable with that day. It’s more of a physical “garnish” to me. I kinda like being different. Our differences are what make us unique. People who can’t see that are blind in their own way. Remember: “in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.” Yup. Til next time. I’ll keep an eye out for ya!

“Who am I? Why am I here?”

Vice Admiral James Stockdale’s opening line during the Vice Presidential Debates in 1992.

I’ve used that quote for many years, in various circumstances. It’s probably the best question anyone can ask of themselves. Admiral Stockdale went down in very cordial flames in the course of that debate, for several reasons. One was that his hearing aide wasn’t on at times. He had trouble standing for long periods of time, due to leg injuries he suffered in Vietnam. The main reason he didn’t do well was that he wasn’t a politician. Neither he, nor his running mate Ross Perot, had any hands-on experience running for office, much less holding it. By the close of the debate, Stockdale was lampooned as a tottering old war horse that was clearly out of his depth. It’s hard to argue that analysis, based on how the debate turned out. He was much more than that, and it saddens me that most people won’t remember him for anything else.

The quote Stockdale led with was in reference to the age old question of “who WE are”, as the second part pleads for an answer of “why ARE WE here”. As a philosophy scholar, Stockdale lived his life studying, and debating, those very questions. Yes, I said philosophy scholar. He’d written books on the subject and taught at the Hoover Institution at Stanford University. He’d been president of the Naval War College before retiring from the Navy with thirty-four years of service. He presided over The Citadel for a few years as well. Seven and a half years of his service were spent in North Vietnamese POW camps, following the downing of his A-4 Skyhawk during a mission over the same country. As the senior officer at the Hanoi Hilton, he organized the men, did all he could to keep them alive and hopefull, and endured more pain and hardship than we can imagine. In 1976 he was awarded the Medal Of Honor. There is so much more to this man than a soundbite or one failed debate could reveal. Yet, that is what most folks remember him for. Life isn’t fair. I believe Vice Admiral Stockdale would agree.

The political landscape we see coming with each passing day makes me long for someone like Stockdale. A truly honest, well meaning and kind person who wants to find answers. Not a career politician, jockeying for power and party placement, or a multi-billionaire, wanna be king, or oligarch. I want to believe in someone’s character again, to have passion for an individual with a soul. I want to see someone lifted up to the office of the people because we know they will do what is right, good and moral. I want to know that the person has endured hardships, learned how to better themselves, and has the courage to see our nations people through the same. I’d like to see humility and character make a comeback, and conversations replace debate. We need someone we would feel comfortable leaving our children with, because, my friends, that’s exactly what we’re doing. I wouldn’t trust either of the current candidates to watch my dogs.

We limit our solutions politically to two parties, which is a sad state of affairs. I see moderation as a thing of the past, with radicals from the left and the right being so focused on winning office, or attacking their rivals, that no one has time to govern. Independents are hopeless causes, pushed out of the system with full force of intent. I pine for the person running for office that can actually stand for something good. Someone I can trust. I’d vote for James Stockdale, were he alive and running. Even in his present state, he’s a better man than what I see on the probable ticket.

God Bless America. Y’all pray, now.

Our dining room is small, about twelve feet by twelve feet, I think. There’s a tiny kitchen, maybe actually a kitchenette, off to the side of it, and it opens up to our living room. It was probably a beautiful wooden floor at one time. In the present time, it’s a bit worn. The floor is raised about four or five inches and creates a small deck. I’m not sure why the designer chose this, but, hey it was the seventies. I bet the trailer had some pretty cool shag carpet and wood paneling at the time, too. Don’t misunderstand, I actually love that dining room. I think the wood floor is nice, especially since it hasn’t had to be replaced and has remained sturdy. Some of the best times of our marriage has included that room. Many a game nights have seen us at the table, in that room, trading blows at spades with our sons and their mates. We’ve probably played every board game in our robust “game closet” in that room. It holds a lot of good memories. No, what bugs me is the extra step up to enter the room.

Okay, four inches isn’t very much of a step, I know. Can you guess how many people have tripped on that step? Me neither, because I don’t know exactly how many people have been in the house since it was built. I can guarantee you that’s the same number that have had near death experiences while trying to pass innocently from one side of that cliff to the other. I personally have tagged, tripped, wobbled over, and stubbed into it a least four million times in the past eleven years. Sometimes loudly. Sometimes gravity took over and I kissed the floor. There’s been instances of people teleporting into the living room loudly, using only a dining room chair that attempted to stay balanced on only three legs. You’re not really a member of this family until you’ve nearly died going into, or coming out of, our dining room. Call it a rite of “passage”. The phrase “watch the step” is quite well used around here. After you’ve neglected to heed that warning the phrase you hear next is “there’s a step there”. That’s what is heard while you are either picking yourself up from the linoleum or, after a near miss, trying to slow your heartbeat down to a non-stroke inducing rhythm. It’s like the weather. We all get a piece of it.

I think it’s an inspired design, that floor. It’s a lot like life. Seriously. We see the room. We want to go into the room, but there’s a step there. We know there’s a step there. We know it’s only four inches tall. Not much of an obstacle at all. We still trip on it. Sometimes we fall. Rarely, but occasionally, we will bleed as a result. We’ll cuss at it, laugh about it, and then forget about it until we “rediscover” it later. There’s so many things in life that are exactly like that step. Tiny obstacles like getting out of bed. Going to work. Having gas in your car. Shaving. Balancing a checking account without paying the bank fees. Saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Rolling your eyes too loudly at your wife. Little things that we all trip over from time to time, although we know perfectly well they’re there. Sometimes we trip hard (and need a ride to work), and sometimes we just have a near miss (and our wife decides not to notice your eye-roll). Whether we end up with a skinned knee or just a faster heart beat we still have to pick ourselves up, learn from it, and try not to do THAT again. Then we move on. We don’t let those little trips stop us. That dining room is still a pretty good destination, and we won’t let that obstacle stop us from eating our dinner, or playing cards or a board game, because those people we love are there, too. They’ll be the ones telling us “there’s a step there”, because they care. And they’ll still think it’s funny after all these years. So whether you’re stepping over obstacles in life, or in my dining room, be careful. There’s a step there.

  My daddy was a manager, and assistant manager, of truck stops for most of his work life. I grew up in a house that saw him wrestle with staffing, corporate drama, personalities run amok and rolling change at night. He always made it look easy. He was a very likable fella at work. People respected him and he liked what he did for a living. He was good at it. I wish that I’d asked him what he had wanted to be when he was a young boy, what his “dream job” would’ve been. I wonder if he wanted to do something else with his life. I know he grew up poor, and in a big family, so being financially secure was always on his mind. Practicality aside, I wonder what he would’ve done, workwise, if he’d been given the opportunity. My money is on racing. He raced stock and “C” cars on dirt tracks back in the sixties and early seventies, so I know he loved it. I should’ve asked him when I had a chance.

  I fell into “middle management” rather by default. Maybe more like “my-fault”. If you don’t have a plan, and you manage to mess around long enough, you’ll eventually be left with some jobs that others won’t take. I did. Not this one, but a floor tech job that was low pay, no benefits and very, very “ground floor”. It so happened that the supervisor of that department was destined to change jobs soon, the next two supervisors didn’t work out, or left for other jobs, and the office was soon to be vacant. I had less than a year on the floor tech job and they offered me the spot. Maybe my work ethic was showing, or maybe they’d just ran out of candidates, but I entered the Beige Collared world of “Working Supervisors” in an Environmental Services Department (read “housekeeping”). It eventually opened a whole new world to me. I’ve learned to love it, much like I think my dad did with managing truck stops. I feel like I’ve followed in his footsteps in a way. I’ll never be able to fill his shoes, but I think I know a little more about him because of it.

  The things I’ve learned about leading a crew are very basic. Most of it came from my dad, and mom, over the years. I just realized that leading a staff isn’t any different than any other kind of leadership, be it a family or a team. Here are my simple guidelines for being a good leader:

  1. Be honest and expect it in return. If I can’t tell someone the whole story, I won’t lie to them. Nobody appreciates being lied to.

  2. Talk to people the way you want to be talked to. It doesn’t really matter what you’re asking someone to do: ask them. People need lead, not “bossed”. It takes only a minute to be polite, and it will always pay off. Even when I’m being critical, I try to be nice. I tell everyone that “as long as you don’t raise your voice, curse, or call people names, you can say pretty much what you think, and how you feel to me” I believe in that. A conversation is always better than an argument.

  3. Be competent. Know how to do your job, and their job. Work beside people, don’t drive them. You don’t have to be able to do their job better than them, you just have to make sure to make their job easier to do and help them when they need it. When you don’t know something, admit it. Don’t pretend you know everything just because you’re a leader. When you don’t know an answer, fess up. Then go learn how to find the answer, or solution. If you don’t know what you’re doing, or won’t learn, your people will know. Don’t be that guy. He’s not a leader.

  That’s pretty much my handbook on leadership. There’s nothing earth shattering in those guidelines, but they’re pretty solid. I think my dad would’ve agreed with them. He should. I learned them by watching him. Thanks, dad.

     There’s been a lot of birthdays in our family this month, and more to come. It’s got me thinking, which is rare and not always a good thing. My mother in law’s birthday was Tuesday. Sammy, my grandson, turned four on the eighteenth. My other grandson, Cayde, turned two on the eighteenth of July. My daughter Candice turned thirty-seven last Saturday, my son, Chris, turned forty on the second of August. It would seem that a good, cold winter is a very good opportunity to get to know one’s spouse in the biblical sense. Maybe it has something to do with television being mostly re-runs that time of year, I don’t know. Birthdays will keep coming every year, unless one takes a turn for the worst and heads for the great beyond. There are really only those two options. We celebrate them mainly because we’re so happy that we made it to Option A again. When we’re kids, it’s about the presents. When we’re older it’s about the privileges like driving, drinking and joining the military. We feel “grown” with the Magic Number Eighteen. We can do what we want. Nobody can tell us what to do. We can get a job, have our own money, and spend it on whatever we want. That joy lasts about five minutes, or at least until the first light bill, or car note, comes due. Then we realize how badly we screwed up. Youth is never appreciated until it’s gone. By then it’s too late.

     We still celebrate birthdays, even after we’re too big for toys. It’s nice to know that people are glad we’re here. Even an inexpensive card or a phone call to say “happy birthday” is a treat when we’re older. Our loved ones take a little time out of their day to let you know that this is “your day” and we’re glad you’re still here. But seriously, where’s the presents? As we grow older it gets harder and more complex buying presents for grown folks. There’s only so much originality you can come up with on the fifty-eighth year in a row. Sometimes we’re surprised by what comes, sometimes we’re baffled. It’s the thought that counts. Yup.

     I always freak out a little bit as someone’s birthday comes near. I’m not a great gift giver. I try, I really do, but being a procrastinator has its drawbacks. I tend to like to give sentimental gifts (read as “cheap” to some) but some folks don’t do sentimental. Those are usually the ones I give Pet Rocks, or something equally valuable to (also read as “cheap”). As I said, it’s the thought that counts. Yup.

If you’re looking for a message in my column today, good luck. If pressed for one, I’d just have to say be happy to be alive and on this spinning rock for another year. That’s how I feel about it.

Happy Birthday, Y’all!

I’ve locked my mother-in-law up in a small trailer, in my back yard. She’s not being harmed, but she’s not having fun. There’s only one window in the one-room trailer, and it has a thirty-year-old air conditioner in it. It still works great. She has a shower and a toilet. The shower curtain has a realistic beach scene that hypnotizes one into thinking they’re at the ocean. At least until you flush the toilet you’ve been sitting on three feet away while you were staring at it. There’s a small hospital bed and a comfy recliner for furniture (besides the handy toilet). She can watch all the non-cable network programming on tv that her heart desires. She’s got all of her oxygen-related equipment there, too. Her COPD requires it. It’s the least I can do for her. Kitchenette, min-fridge, and microwave round out the major accessories to her captive living quarters. It’s a lot like a prison, probably, but without the crowd. My wife is allowed to bring her a cooked meal in the evenings and visit as long as she likes. I’m no monster. I have a heart.

Now, you may be asking yourself “why is this poor woman being subjected to such abuse?” Or, if you’re more like my wife (her daughter), you may be asking “how do I get to live in a little trailer all by myself, too?” She’s quite an introvert, my Laura Gail. If she’s well fed (as picky as she is, that’s not an easy feat by itself), has an ample supply of ChapStick and (most of all) a private bathroom, I’m pretty certain that she’d trade places with Gma in a quick heartbeat. I can’t do that, however, because the grandson (Lefty) won’t allow her to be incarcerated without it being at Gigi’s house. All his stuff is there. Otherwise, I’d have locked her up, too. Add to that the whole “Kevin loves Laura Gail’s cooking and doesn’t want to live off of peanut butter, canned chili and popcorn again” thing. So Gma has to do her time all by herself.

The reason she’s being incarcerated is simple. She’s got a crew working at her house, putting in a new floor. They’re replacing about ninety percent of her entire house’s floor. The little trailer she’s staying in has been home to several other members of her family through the years. Her grandsons, Jon and Cody, have both lived there. Jon was there the longest. My own son, Tim, lived there a couple of times, and my son, Mike, lived there for a few years. I’ve even used it for an office to write in, at times. She charges ridiculous rent. It would’ve been skyrocket high in 1980. She’s been guilty of helping each and every one of us think today’s rents are ungodly high. She didn’t even make them cut the grass. I reckon I’m special. She’s given all of us the opportunity to save some dough, even if we never actually got around to putting it in the bank for long.

So thank you, Gma! We appreciate everything you’ve done and continue to do. Thanks for being a great landlord, a mentor, and planting your voice inside our head whenever we wonder if we should do the hard thing, the right thing, or the lazy thing. We don’t always heed your voice, but it’s always there, telling us to do what is right, good and industrious. We love you, and hope you get out of the “Little House” (as opposed to the “Big House” of Prison) and back into your home soon.

I’ll let everyone know when Gma gets out of jail. Heck, we may even have a “Coming Out” pary for her! Don’t tell her though. It’ll be a surprise party.