Rolling Stones

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When I go to work every day, I try to have a plan. I know before I get there where I want to start, and what I need to get done. It never goes exactly according to plan, but often I get close to accomplishing something close to a job well done. Some days not so much. On those days, it seems like I’m trying to herd wet, angry cats into a barrell, in the middle of a thunderstorm. Those are the fun days that make me happy to be alive. Yes, I’m holding up my “Sarcasm Sign”.  I must remember that a plan is just that: a plan. 

They’re great to have, those plans. One of my favorite sayings is from an old Yiddish proverb: “We plan, God laughs”. I don’t think the Almighty is laughing with us on that one. He knows that it’s His job to be all-knowing, all-powerful, and all those other “alls”. We just need to trust Him to be Him, then go out there and do our best. Still, a plan is a good start.  

I was going to go to college, become a history teacher in high school, and live the life of a revered academic. Yeah, right. I look back on that goal of lessened expectations and realize that I wouldn’t have made it through the first school year in a room with teenagers. Real life steered me elsewhere, and I was saved from either being killed by a mob of teens or spending life behind bars for throttling one of that mob. Funny how things work out. I’m grateful for the Good Lord looking out for me, and I certainly don’t begrudge him a chuckle at my naivete. I would feel a lot better about it, if I’d followed some simple rules of economics, and not squandered my tiny bit of excess cash. Retirement looms, and I sigh the dejected sigh of the “will work for food” crowd. I might get to my social security before crazy Uncle Sam gives it all away, but I doubt it.  Alas I digress. 

I always thought the term “winging it” had something to do with airplanes. After minimal research, I discovered its real origin. It comes from the theater. It refers to an actor, studying his part in the wings (the areas to either side of the stage) because he’s been called upon suddenly to replace another actor. It was first recorded in 1885 and was eventually used towards all kinds of “improvisation based on unpreparedness”. I think that can be the perfect analogy for life itself. Don’t misunderstand, I think a plan is always handy as a starting point. Then life happens. We are all just practicing, off to the side of life, waiting to jump out there and do our thing. When we get our “big chance” we may forget our lines. We might even be called upon to be a character we hadn’t planned on or read the lines for. We may just have to “wing it” and improvise the entire performance. Some of the greatest moments in life happen during those times. We fall in love. We become parents. We nurse sick and dying relatives. Life happens to us, and we react as best we can. There are people who rise to the occasion, and people who fail miserably. Those can be the same person, minute by minute. Nobody gets it perfect every time. So, don’t forget to make a plan for your day, your year, heck-even your life. Just remember that life ain’t a mathematical equation, it’s art. We gotta dance to the tune that the band is playing, with the most skill we can, with the fullness of our hearts. Go. Do. Fall down. Get up. The most important thing: Never, Never, Never give up! 

Thanks for reading this. I was just winging it. I hope God got a giggle out of that, too.  

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Forty 

He was just a little fella. He wasn’t even a week old. He lay in the crib, asleep, just being peaceful and cute as a button. As I watched him sleep, he opened his eyes. He smiled. I smiled. It was love at first sight. His name was Chris.  

I had been in love with Sam for a long time. We never dated. I was always a self-conscience and scared teenager who was nervous around pretty girls. I was never the bold, brash and daring young man. She’d had my heart in her hands since the fourth grade, even if she didn’t know it. By the time we made it to our senior year of high school, I’d despaired of every having my chance. Little did I realize what life had in store.  

     Sam got pregnant in the winter of ‘82, but it took a while for the rumor I’d heard to be confirmed. It hit me like a ton of bricks at the time. Though we’d never dated, I believed it might happen. This whole pregnancy thing might just be God’s way of telling me to move on, I thought. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I loved her.  

After Graduation in May of ‘83, Sam went to live with her aunt in Memphis, so she could be closer to the hospital. I went off to summer semester at Arkansas State University, in Jonesboro, Arkansas to start my education. I’d got Sam’s phone number from her friend Jolynn and called her. We talked a lot on the phone. You remember, the thing that used to be attached to the wall, and had the curly, stretchy cord and a rotary dial? Yeah, that thing. I racked up quite a phone bill on my “Summer Tour” of ASU. So much so, that my mother had to take me to task for it, since my parents were paying for it. I still remember telling my mom about who I’d been calling. That was a nervous conversation on my part. She took it in stride. She knew it’d be useless to tell me who to love. Later, when we got engaged, my mom only gave me one piece of advice. “If you’re going to marry her, you’re marrying that baby, too. You love that boy and treat him as your own.” Best advice I ever got. Maybe the only advice I ever really followed through on, too. It was worth it.  

Christopher Taylor Stone turned forty this past Wednesday. He’s a Physician Assistant in Nashville, Tn. He has never once given me a moment of grief in those forty years. I watched as he grew from that sleepy baby and turn into a man of morals, understanding and principles. He loves music, is very much a Gym-Rat and a sports nut, especially baseball. It’s hard to understand how the little fella that used to sit in my lap and watch cartoons has become such a man. The kid could put his Go-Bots together faster than I could. He was always helpful with his brothers and sister when they came along. Teachers loved him. He’s always been a polite, hard-working person. He’s everything a father could ask for in a son.  

As I look back at that first meeting with Chris, I know it was a turning point in both of our lives. I know now why Sam gave me a chance. She saw joy in my eyes when I met that baby boy. She knew, better than I did, that those first few moments would determine if she’d give me even the slightest opportunity to go out with her.  I fell in love with Chris, and she fell in love with me. The rest is history. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.  

So, thank you Chris, for being the man you are. Every father’s goal is to see his son grow up to be a better man than he is, and you’ve been there for a long while.  I’ll take some credit, along with mom, for the first eighteen years. You have YOU to thank from then on out. Keep being you, because you’re perfect just the way you are. I love you. Happy birthday!   And thanks for smiling back at me forty years ago.  

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We were just kids on the playground, sitting atop the Monkey Bars. The old rusty, red (probably lead painted) steel assembly was a modern safety nightmare. Bolts jutted out at all the joints. It was at least ten feet high, and six feet around. You could climb to the top from the inside or scale the outer rungs. The crazy kids would stand on the top, the epitome of danger. Most of us would just hook our legs over an outside bar and hang upside down until our faces turned blue. This day, however, we weren’t playing, just sitting on the bars, atop the rickety old structure. It was, quite possibly, the first time I ever had an actual conversation of substance with the opposite sex. Her name was Sam.   

I’d had a crush on her since Fourth grade, when my family had moved to the small Arkansas town. She was smart, cute, outspoken, especially for the Fourth grade, and wore her long brunette hair in a ponytail, most days. I was a chubby shy kid, with glasses no less. I was the un-coolest fella in the class. And I fell in love with her from across the room on the first day of Mrs. Speigle’s Fourth grade class. Let the Charlie Brown cartoons of unrequited love for the Little Red-Haired Girl come to mind here. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches cannot wash the taste of it from your heart.   

There was a thing we did back in the Olden Days. We sent hand-written notes to people via messengers, usually a trusted pal. This I did, to my dear Sam, through my buddy Tommy. No note returned. No reply was verbally passed to him. None. I don’t remember the number of notes I’d sent her, but it must have been too many. I was in class one day when there was a knock. The teacher, Mr. Shepard, walked to the door, opened it and went out into the hall. A few moments later, he stuck his head inside and motioned towards me. “Kevin, come here for a moment, please.” The words sent a chill down my spine. Nervous, I did as asked. Out in the hall was Sam. “He keeps sending me notes. I don’t like it. I asked him to stop, but he won’t.” Mr. Shepard told her he would take care of it. The notes would stop, “Right, Kevin?” to which I shamefully nodded. “Yes sir”, I confirmed. That seemed to satisfy her, and she turned and went back to her class. “Kevin,” said Mr. Shepard, “sometimes girls just don’t like notes. When they say no, you must respect it, okay?” What else could I say? “Yes sir” and that was the end of it.   

Until this day, probably a year or two later. We found ourselves alone on the playground, after school, talking. We had been riding our bikes and had both stopped to play. She had pity, and no hard feelings for my past behavior, so she talked to me. She was sad. Maybe the saddest girl I’d ever seen. She talked about her dad being killed. That’s a pretty tough subject for anyone to give advice on, much less a grade school kid.  I listened, though. I heard her. She seemed to appreciate that. I told her that she should just take “one day at a time”, mainly because I had heard adults say it. She said that’s what she was doing. It doesn’t sound like much, but that conversation has stayed with me all of these years.   

Sam didn’t go out with me until after we had graduated high school. We got married in ‘84 and spent almost twenty years of our lives together and raised four fantastic children. She would’ve been fifty-eight years old on July 28th, had she not left this world in 2004. We fought a ten-year battle with her bipolar disorder before it ended in suicide. She left a lot of her life unfinished. Sam was the kindest, smartest, most outgoing person I had ever known. She home-schooled our kids, loved with all of her passion, and never met a stranger. She drew a shy, sensitive husband out of the dark and into the light, sometimes kicking and screaming. She’d be proud of these kids, and grandkids. I see her in them every single day. They remind me that we’re only here for a fleeting moment of time. Savor it. Our lives take many turns, and we sometimes get lost. Let’s all be the person to turn to when that happens. Listen. Understand. Love.   

Anyone who needs to can call 855-CRISIS-1 (855-274-7471) or text “TN” to 741-741, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Crisis Services and Suicide Prevention can help you find a way through the crisis.  You can also call 988 for the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline, formerly known as the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, also 24 hours a day, seven days a week.  

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Funday 

I’ve decided that Monday gets a bad rap. Yup. Monday, normally the first day of the work week, gets a lot of crap about being the worst day of the week. It’s the day most of us must pull on those big boy/girl drawers, gird up our souls, and go start adulting again for at least another forty hours. Nobody seems to show Monday much love. I’m guilty of it, too. The alarm clock rings (it’s had forty-eight hours off, too) and we “stumble to the kitchen and pour ourselves a cup of ambition, and yawn and stretch and try to come alive” as Dolly famously put it. Staring into the beautiful blackness of my French Silk coffee (no cream, no sugar-as God Himself intended it) I smell the Aroma of the Awakening. It’s a good smell. It takes at least two, and sometimes four of those cups, to put enough enthusiasm into my soul to get ready for the workday. Then it’s time to get dressed, do all the regular bathroom stuff (if you’re one of the lucky ones that has their biological necessities on a decent timer-I usually am) and prepare to leave. It always feels sad. Why is that? 

When we were kids, we went to school. We enjoyed some of it, some of it we did not. Most of us did not enjoy having to get up on time, get ready and be off to the races, doing stuff. We’d much rather have stayed home and watched cartoons. Or daytime soap operas and game shows, in my childhood days. No cable channel with cartoons on tap for us. But, alas, it was not usually to be so. We went to the big building with all the teachers, some loved some not-so-much, went to class when the bells rang and waited for lunch and recess to liven up our day. After those two highlights, we went to more classes, and then waited for the final bell at the end of the day. Salvation! Home! Andy Griffith and Mayberry (if you lived in my area, in the seventies and early eighties, that’s what was on when I got home from school)! You got to go outside and play, or to your room and enjoy the solace of toys or comic books. Monday through Friday, we all fought the same battle.  

The weekend was magical. Freedom from school, unless some ruthless teacher had assigned homework-that’d really drag the weekend down. Ah heck, you’ll do it Sunday night, right after Disney went off. Yes, freedom. To play. Watch TV. Read. Listen to music. Things that we love. We had no sense of time, unless your favorite show was coming on TV.  We blew through time like it didn’t exist. That sensation always ended around dinner time on Sunday. There’d be baths (or showers) and a few shows on the tube, then off to bed early. Why? Tomorrow brought the dreaded Monday. The Beast That Destroys Free Time. The Soul Eater of The Weekdays. Ugh. 

Must it be so? Even today? I say, nay. Nay, I say! I say Monday has just had bad advertising, unfortunate PR. It just needs to dress itself up a bit and open a fresh window of sunlight on what it brings to the table. See, there are all sorts of good things about it. If you’re unemployed, Monday probably has no meaning, or power, over you. Going to work means you’re gainfully employed. That’s definitely a good thing, I don’t care what anyone says. Don’t live your life waiting for things to be handed to you, work for them. You can’t do that without a Monday. It’s said that “if you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life”. Well, go ahead and give it a shot. You may not have a job that you feel like you love, or even chose, but try it anyway. Find a way to love it. Find things to love about it. I’d rather be a happy janitor than a miserable businessman.  Make the first day of the week a Fun Day.  

Yes, I said Fun Day. Monday is now Funday. I’m going to start the ball rolling and push it out there. From now on, we start the week with hopeful anticipation and joy to see a new day!  We just need to try to see the positive aspects of it, that’s all.  

When my grandson, Cayde, gets dropped off at our house on Mondays, he comes rolling in like a boss. He checks to make sure his TV is on, and his Gigi has the remote. He gets his Sock Monkeys off the couch and onto the floor (where they belong) and gets his tickles and “boinks” from Gramps. Then, it’s bye-bye waves to Dad and Gramps and an attitude that says, “I’ve got a lot of playing, eating and sleeping to do, time for you guys to go!” so we get our forehead kisses and high fives, and we split for work. He’s got a schedule to keep. He loves his job. Why can’t we do the same with ours? I see absolutely no reason why we can’t. So, henceforth, Monday shall forever be Funday! Go forth and enjoy! 

Shout out to Cayde Stone Bishop, the aforementioned grandson of yours truly. He turned a total of Two Years Old on the eighteenth of July (last Tuesday). He was a “preemie baby” and scared the mess out of everyone when he entered our life. He’s since become one of my favorite people on the planet. He spreads love, joy, and “uh-oh’s” everywhere he goes. He’s grown so much in just two years. He’s also taught me so much about loving life. He’s one special little boy, and I love him “to the moon and back”. Happy Birthday, Cayde (Lefty)! Gramps loves ya, Grandson! 

Don’t forget: Funday from now on! 

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I’ve mentioned before that I don’t have much of a “green thumb”. I’ve accidentally made a few things grow, but I’m mainly a death sentence to the botanical world. I try to stay to the simple stuff. Instead of tomatoes, I planted potatoes early this spring. It was actually Laura’s Idea. My wife started saving the “leftover” spuds out of the bag. You know, the ones that started sprouting eyes, ears and noses. She’d read about how to plant those and wanted to give it a shot.  It was simple, just dig a hole, stick em in it, then cover said hole. They took about three months to grow. When the leaves that sprouted started to wilt, I dug up the potatoes. Viola! An entire meal’s worth of Fried Potatoes. Laura fixed some pork chops to go along with them, and we enjoyed them immensely. I ate most of them. Because I love me some taters. It was very satisfying to eat what you grow. I think it made it taste even better just to know I had a small part in making it happen. 

About five years ago, I bought a sad looking discount tree at the local Wally World. It was a pitiful little skinny Willow tree, with a thin trunk and a few dozen tiny, fragile branches. It was less than twenty bucks. I thought I’d be great to plant a tree in our front yard, for our eventual grandkids to play in, and under. I took the poor, hapless thing home and planted it smack dab in the middle of our front yard, which is probably about a quarter, to a half, acre. It stuck out of the grass like a lonesome cactus in the desert. I had high hopes, but my realistic self said “don’t get too attached, you know how YOU do with plants” and I curbed my enthusiasm. We’d just have to wait and see.  

The same afternoon that I planted the Willow tree, we had a storm come up. I don’t know how high the winds got, but it felt pretty bad. We sat in the house and listened to the fast-moving rain pound upon our metal roof, and the winds shrieked for just a few minutes. We heard a slight “bang”. Nothing huge, but enough to make us jump. I got up to walk through the house, checking for any window, or ceiling damage, when it stopped storming. All at once, it was clear again. There was a slight drizzle, but that was it. We all went outside to see the storm pass. At first everything looked fine. The side of the house, the edge of the roof, all looked normal. As I backed away from the house, I noticed something was missing. The northern half of the roof. Oh boy. It had disappeared. I walked around the house to the front yard and found it. Okay, most of it. The shredded metal roof was scattered all over the yard, and across the road that ran past my house, and in the field across from our home. There were big and little pieces of metal, wood and insulation everywhere. Some were stuck in the ground, like crooked fence posts, and some were just lying there. It was a mess. 

In the middle of that mess stood a tiny Willow tree. The fella had taken all that wind and went with the flow. He’d dodged the wreckage that flew around him and stood there, a defiant little rebel. I examined him and decided he just might live. I decided he needed a name. Bruce Willow is what we call him. I’m kind of a big “Die Hard” fan. I figured if he could weather that kind of storm, he deserved a name. Bruce Willis’ character John McClane runs on broken glass, is repeatedly beaten, bruised and battered during the course of that movie. I think the little Willow deserved to have a name worthy of his perseverance. A couple of years later, we lost part of the “new” roof to high winds, yet again. Bruce stood the test again, living up to his namesake.   

I talk to Bruce every morning. I tell him, usually from my car as I’m headed out to work, that he “looks great this morning”, and that “I love ya, Brucie!” and stuff like that. Yeah, I’m a corny, sappy guy. When I push my grandson, Cayde, in his little car, around the house we always go drive under “Bruce’s Car Wash” and let the now green and full Willow branches flow over us as we both giggle and feel the tree tickle us. He’s grown. He’s at least nine feet tall. He’s fully leafed, with many branches flowing from his trunk and then dipping to the ground. He’s a beautiful tree. Every time we’re out front, we’ll walk out and say “hi” and touch his slender, but strong trunk and branches. I think of him when it storms, but I know he can handle it. He’s Bruce Willow the Die Hard Tree.  

It’s pretty awesome to plant something that you can eat. To taste the fruit of your labor and know that you can survive on what you grow is a very satisfying emotion. There is also something pretty special about watching a tree that you planted grow into the fullness of life. The feeling you get when you watch a two-year-old play under its shade, and even talk to it, by name, brings an incredible warmth to my soul. I feel a connection with that tree that gives off a vibe like family.  I hope that Bruce Willow will be here when my great grandchildren get here, so they can hear the story about how he got his name. Yup. I told you I’m a pretty sappy guy.  

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Okay, so maybe I’m not quite done with ranting. Bear with me. The opinions I’m about to share are mine, and mine alone. Have patience.

I’ve always viewed myself as a “pro-life” person. If that doesn’t tick off at least half of you, I’ve also come to realize that it’s not as black and white (or pro-life and pro-choice) as the media and politicians would lead you to think. I also believe a woman has a right to her own body. Where it gets complicated is when another person inhabits her body. Another complication is when you consider the rights of that unborn child. How do you separate the two human beings in a legal, ethical and moral way? Let’s not forget the fact that it took two humans to make that child. Doesn’t a man have any rights in whether a child he helped to create will live or die? The issue has so many facets that most people boil it down to the simplest terms. Pro-choice. Pro-life. Pro-abortion. Anti-abortion. In our society today, if you’re Pro-life, the Left defines you as a hater of women. If you’re Pro-choice, the Right defines you as a baby killer. In my youth, I saw this issue in these simple terms also. I’ve learned, over the years, that, just because I’ve believed something for a long time (or had an opinion about it) doesn’t mean I can’t be wrong.

There was a woman in Arizona that learned her second child had a condition called alobar holoprosencephaly. It’s a condition in which the brain doesn’t separate into the normal two halves. She was twenty three weeks and four days into her pregnancy. Her doctors informed her that her baby had a sever form of the condition, and would either be stillborn or die shortly after birth. The Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade days later. She was ultimately forced to carry the child to full term and give birth. The baby had forty-four hours of painful life until leaving this world in her mother’s arms. Personally, I feel that was the right thing to do. I also know that it shouldn’t be my decision. It should have been the mother and father’s choice.

There are individuals out there who have had tubal pregnancies that doctors, and clinics, wouldn’t perform DNC’s to remove the fetal tissue, because of confusion over what the Supreme Court’s ruling meant to their liability. They didn’t want to be sued.

Since Roe was overturned, abortions nation-wide have only been reduced by six percent. I hope the trend continues downward. I believe abortion on demand isn’t right. I believe those children deserve a chance to live. I also know that it’s not my body I’m talking about, and that a woman has to have the right to make an informed choice. Nobody wants to see women dying from illegal, backroom abortions, or treated like walking wombs. Surely we can find an answer to this dilemma.

The abortion issue is a hotbed of emotion and passion and will tick off someone quicker than a wet willy. It’s an important topic that needs to be addressed at the individual and national level. The argument for, or against, legal abortions needs to be debated and decided upon. The Supreme Court can only define and interpret what the Constitution says, and it’s language and intent can be ambiguous and unclear on many modern issues. What I strongly believe is needed is a Constitutional Convention that would argue the issue publicly. An open forum to debate what the people want, and add it to our beloved Constitution. Let the outcome be added to that bedrock document and seared into our national conscience. I don’t know if it would outlaw abortion with, or without, stipulations, or if it would enshrine a woman’s constitutional right to an abortion. What it would do is give our lawmakers an opportunity to take a stand and get something meaningful done. What do you say, representatives and senators? Instead of spending money, and time, trying to impeach each other, how about we turn that divisive, polarizing energy into something that might actually mean something in the long term? I dare you.  

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Independence Day

I’m just a good ole boy. I was born, and raised, in the South. I own guns. I drive a pickup truck. I don’t like the government telling me what to do in my everyday life. I’m also a firm believer in the Constitution of the United States of America, and all the beauty that document outlines for a government “for the people”. I believe I live in the greatest country on the face of the planet. I also think that we can do better.

Where has all the common sense gone? Our political system is broken. Not because our government has failed us. We have failed our government. We’ve stopped using our common sense. We’ve allowed politicians to run amok on party platforms, and let them hide behind party loyalty. We are at the pinnacle of “”us versus them” of party politics. We need leaders that will use their heads for something other than doorstops to hold open the party door. We elect people to solve problems, not to get re-elected next time the polls are open. Problem solving requires compromise. It needs to involve common sense answers to real problems.

One problem this country has is gun violence. Not the “mass shootings” that you see highlighted on television. The real gun violence isn’t what’s being reported. It’s much simpler than we think. The statistics for 2021 tell us that, of 48,830 gun related deaths in the U.S., over half of those were suicides. That’s 26,328 people dead. The total number of suicides, in 2021, were 48,183 people dead. That means that suicide is killing people marginally less than guns. The other big number of gun deaths-murder-stands at 20,958 people dead. That is eight out of ten murders in the U.S., for a total of 26,031 people dead.

Mass shootings are defined as incidents where three, or more, people are killed. In 2021 there were 690 deaths from mass shootings. I did the math. Out of a total of 48,830 number of gun deaths, mass shootings were a tad over 1.4%. Suicides were at 54%. What gets the publicity? Mass shootings. Why? It sells. It gets headlines. It fires up the left, who desire more gun control, as well as the right, who argue the 2^nd Amendment. We argue semantics while people are literally killing themselves. What can we do to solve this problem?

Guns can be manufactured with fingerprint identification locks. It’s a smart technology that allows only the gun owner to use the gun. There’s no end to the types of safeties we could put on firearms with the advances in technology that we’ve seen in the past five years. If we can make machines that think, we can figure out how to make a safer gun. Mandating manufacturing guns with individual safeties is not unconstitutional. We have a right to free speech, yet we have libel and slander laws that keep us in check. We have the right to privacy and freedom from illegal search and seizure, but we still give law enforcement loopholes to circumvent those because they need to be able to do their job. It’s common sense.

Can we please stop arguing over the petty, and start finding solutions to the important stuff? I ask my representatives in the House and Senate : find real solutions to the problems you see killing your constituents and stop worrying about the next election. I say to my fellow citizens: stop electing people who don’t find ways to solve the real problems.

As we celebrate our beautiful country’s birthday, may we all be thankful for our freedom. I love this country. May those we elect love it enough to do what is right. God bless y’all.

Rant over.  

Nineteen years ago, you went on the great adventure. That’s a whole adult ago. There is an entire army of great-grandchildren you’ve never seen with your earthly eyes. My grandson, Samuel Ethan Wayne Stone, bears your name into the future. It’s strange to tell stories of you to people who’ve only seen pictures of you. It makes me miss you, all the more.I've learned a lot about being a dad, since you left. Most of it by remembering things you would say, or do. You taught me a lot. Some of it was trial and error. One lesson, I would say, is that we are all just doing our best. We make mistakes along the way. Nobody is perfect. Deal with it. When you do mess up, own up to it. Do your best to fix it, and move on. Don't dwell on it. Live life in the moment. It's little enough time, here on earth, to spend it in regret and remorse. Remembering is fine. Learning from the past is even better.

I miss your laugh. And your smile. I see it sometimes, in myself. It’s said that we all become our parents in some ways. It’s inevitable. I know it’s true. I’ll never be you. You were ten feet tall, with a booming voice that commanded respect. You made people feel safe. You took care of us. Occasionally, though, I’ll hear myself laugh, and hear you. I’ll say something and hear your voice. I hear it mostly when I’m playing with my grandchildren. It’s when I’m happiest, my most honest, self. You can’t fake happiness when you’re playing with toddlers. They’re the most honest creatures on the planet. They will definitely call you out. You’ve got to get down on the floor and “Be” a dinosaur, a race car, or just a pillow. When they dance, it’s from their soul. They expect you to do the same. When I play with them, I feel you there. That’s a good feeling.

I guess that’s the biggest lesson of all. Be there. Only a dad can teach you some things. Moms are the most fantastic creatures on the planets (except for Grandma’s) but they aren’t designed to do it all by themselves. There are plenty of them that have to, and they do great, but having dads around helps them a lot. I specialize in mud holes, currently. Sandboxes, rock throwing, dandelion picking, and Superman flying. I tickle a lot. I shoot imaginary fireworks at bellies and go “boom” when it hits them. Stuff like that. It doesn’t sound like much, when I see it in black and white, but it’s important. I’m here. They know I love them. They can play with me. It’s okay to scrape your knee. It’s okay to keep getting up and trying again. It’s the same with grandads, as with dads.

I’ll keep doing my best, dad. I wish you were here, though. Thanks for being there for me. I’ll see you again someday. Until then, I’ll be at the mud hole. I love you, Dad.

As a Christian and the dad of a gay son, I’d like to examine my own feelings today about Pride Month. I say “examine” because I’m still feeling my way around the whole subject, myself. My son came out to my wife and I around five years ago. He waited until last year to come out to the rest of the family. I told him then that I’d love him unconditionally, regardless of his sexuality. I told him that he was the same young man that I’d watch grow into manhood, knowing that he was a good person and a fine son. Even if I couldn’t claim to understand what he was going through, I’d accept who he is, and try to support his decision to live his life as he saw fit. It’s his life. He must live it. I just have to love him, and I do. Sounds simple, right? Let’s dig a little further, and I’ll try not to bury myself.

I’m a conservative guy, with traditional views of sexuality. My son is well aware of my views, and we agree to disagree on some basic things. It’s not that we avoid talking about them, just that we understand each other enough to know two very important things. 1) We disagree and 2) we love each other without needing to agree. I didn’t change my religious, or political, views when he came out to me. I reflected, read, researched, thought and prayed about how I felt, and how I believed, quite a lot. I’m sure he spent years doing the same thing. I still believe as I did before. I also still love the man I’ve seen him grow to be today. His character hasn’t changed in a fundamental way. I know he is experiencing life differently than he did before. I think he is enjoying more freedom in his life, with his truth being known. I know he’s still a humble, giving and kind person. I know his strength and his love are two vibrant aspects of his character. I know he is a good man. I couldn’t love him any more than I do today.

Pride Month was brought about because society, religion, and government used to make it policy to repress sexual expression in the past. It wasn’t just taboo, it was (in most states and cities) illegal. People were arrested, jailed and beaten for their sexual orientation, or activities. In the past, people of the wrong race, or gender, were treated similarly. As an American, I believe we all have the right to our own “pursuit of happiness” without fear of persecution. I believe we all have the same rights, under the law. Not more rights, or less rights, but the same rights. If I can use my religious beliefs to take away your rights, then someone else can use their religious beliefs to take away my rights. It’s that simple. I understand that my freedom stops at the end of my nose, and so does yours. While I feel that many groups, and individuals, take their freedoms way too far, that’s the price we pay for living in a free society. People have the right, in the United States of America, to live their lives without fear. The people who celebrate Pride Month have that right, too.

While I must say that I’ve never flown a Rainbow Flag during Pride Month, I’ve been considering it. I’ve never marched in an LGBTQ Parade, either, but there’s always that possibility. I hold many beliefs that are inconsistent with the gay lifestyle and its political ideologies. I would still consider flying that flag, or marching in that parade, if just to celebrate one thing. The one thing that tells me that all people of the LGBTQ community are not stereotypes. The one thing that shows me, by example, that different doesn’t mean bad. The one thing that reminds me that, even in groups of people I may disagree with, there are people of stellar character and worth. The one thing that pushes me to love, instead of judge. His name is Mike.  

My wife and I spent our anniversary in a local hotel this past March. It was a simple and modest getaway, planned to fit our budget. We traveled all of twenty minutes away from home to take a short break from our normal surroundings and not have to worry about all the little day-to-day chores that make up life. We cruised a bargain store for fun. We stopped at a shoe store, or two, and Laura found some well-needed shoes. We ordered a pizza and relaxed in a spa tub that was less than adequate. It wasn’t the Ritz-Carlton, but we had a good time. Even some high winds and a thunderstorm that made our ill-fitting hotel door rattle didn’t dampen our enjoyment of the evening. We celebrated our eleventh wedding anniversary with a mutual appreciation of each other, without breaking the bank. It was nice to spend time together without letting the dogs out to pee every fifteen minutes, if nothing else. We are not complicated people. 

In the morning we packed up our stuff and decided to eat some breakfast before heading home. A very convenient waffle house was less than 100 feet from the hotel, and we do love a good waffle house breakfast. It’s good, simple food. Right up our alley. 

She sat on a chair, next to the door. She had a big bag at her feet, possibly a gym bag. She was wearing plenty of clothes, but it was still cool out, especially after the storm last night. I thought she might have been waiting, either on a table, or her party to join her before she got a table. Her arms were crossed, resting on her chest, and her head was down, and eyes closed. We grabbed a booth and asked for menus. It was Saturday morning, and fairly busy, so the waitress took a bit before coming back for our order. After deciding on our choices, we chatted about this and that. I was sitting where I could see the girl by the door. She hadn’t moved. No one had joined her. It slowly began to dawn on me that she was alone. She wasn’t really a customer. She was a person of the street. My wife and I talked about the sadness of it all, and both inwardly wondered what brings a person to this point. In our hearts, we prayed for her. 

We ordered and received our breakfasts, which were good. Not perfect, but definitely good. We critiqued the food, as we all do, but we pretty much devoured it. Didn’t have to do the dishes, either. I love that about eating out. As enjoyable as our meal was, I couldn’t help but watch the woman sit there. I wondered where she must’ve slept last night, in the thunderstorm. It had to be tough, living on the streets. When the waitress came to pick up my payment for the meal, I couldn’t contain my curiosity. I asked her if “the woman over there” was okay. She explained that, yes, she was fine. She was a regular here. She wasn’t here every day, but at least several times a week. She knew her well. The waitress went on to say that they called her “Cookie”. She used to be a schoolteacher, once upon a time. She had kids. She had a good family. She also had a myriad of mental health issues. She went on to explain that “Cookie” wouldn’t let her family, or kids, take her into their homes. She wouldn’t take medicine for her illness. She didn’t say that the woman preferred to be homeless, she just inferred that she wouldn’t impose her problem on the family that loved her. It was truly sad. I asked the waitress if she would give her some money for me. My hope was that she would be more comfortable taking it from someone she knew.  She said yes, so I gave her a small amount of cash (above the tip for the waitress, of course) and thanked her. It was enough for a good meal. As we left the little diner, the waitress was waking Cookie up. “C’mon, sugar, wake up. Are you hungry, honey?” 

As I started our car, I felt a swell of emotion. I didn’t come to tears, but it was close. Part of it was shame. I was ashamed of myself for not doing more. Another part of it was knowing that there was only a tiny amount I could realistically do for Cookie. She’s an adult with a mental issue. She has every right to refuse to take her meds, or to choose not to live with her family. If she’s not a danger to herself, or to others, the law makes it hard to force her to get help. I know, from personal experience. 

My first wife passed away in 2004. Sam was an intelligent person, a fantastic mother, and my first love. Ten years into our marriage, she was diagnosed as bipolar. This was long before it was common to speak of mental illness, much less advertise medications and treatments on television, as they do today. There was a heavy stigma that hung around it, making dealing with it even worse. We had good years, then we had bad years. She voluntarily got help at first. She tired of medications, side effects and doctors, eventually. There were commitments to facilities, some voluntarily, some not. Our marriage suffered, our kids suffered, and our lives were whittled down to the bare nerves. I turned to alcohol. I was not the picture-perfect, suffering spouse. I added fuel to the bipolar fire by trying to escape our daily predicaments. There was a time, towards the end, when Sam was homeless, too. I could look at Cookie and see Sam sitting there. It made my heart ache, and my eyes red. Sam took her life in 2004. She went home. She’ll never be hungry, or homeless, again. 

May is Mental Health Awareness Month. There isn’t a month, or day, that goes by that I am not fully aware that there are people like Cookie out there. Not all mental illness is to her extreme, but depression and anxiety are things that affect everyone. Light wards off the darkness. Conversations about our problems put them into the light. We don’t need to wait for the right month to arrive to talk about the problem. Maybe we can’t make it disappear, but we can try. We can normalize the discussion and not be afraid to speak about it. Every family has someone with a form of mental illness. Not every family will talk about it. We need to hear from those who know what doesn’t work, as well as those with the right answers. There are people trapped inside their own minds out there. They are running a maze, trying desperately to find the door out. Families and communities need to find ways to hold those doors open for them, and to break down the walls that block them from getting out of the maze. We need to have more sympathy, less judgment, and, most of all, love for them. Every little act of kindness helps. Even if it’s just one good meal.    

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