Memorial Day

 

     People often confuse Memorial Day with Veteran’s Day. It’s easy for me to remember, because my youngest son’s birthday is on November 11, which is Veteran’s Day. He also served in the U.S. Army National Guard, in Kuwait and Iraq, during Operation Enduring Freedom. Timothy drove trucks for a transportation unit out of Camden, TN in support of the troops there during a nerve-racking year, between 2007 and 2008. He convoyed the roads of Iraq during the times when roadside IED’s were plentiful. He served his country as a very young man of eighteen years old, during wartime, and came home. He’s a veteran, and I’m so proud of him, but this is not his day.  

     Memorial Day began back in 1868 and was called Decoration Day, because people would decorate the graves of our soldiers, sailors and marines with flags and flowers to honor those who died during their service. The Civil War was still very much fresh in the minds, and lives, of the families that the war had touched. North and South gave a total of about 620,000 lives to that bloody conflict. That’s even more than we lost during World War 2 and World War 1, combined (405,399 and 116,516, respectively). Our “smaller wars” were less costly, in numbers. The American Revolution saw 25,000 deaths. You must remember that the entire population of the colonies, at that time, was only a little over two million people, so one out of a hundred people were killed. The War of 1812 (20,000), Mexican American war (13,283), and the Spanish-American War (2,446) barely combined to total the lives we lost in Korea (36,516). Vietnam (58,209) was, until recently, our longest war, but the casualties were spread out over ten years. The Gulf War in 1991 (258) was one of the least costly. It was followed by the War On Terror (7,075), which took over the mantel of longevity for our wars from Vietnam. It just ended last year, with the evacuation and fall of Afghanistan. In total, our nation has given 1,354,664 lives during wartime. This Day of Remembrance is for them. They gave all they had, or ever would have, so that we could live free. They are not just numbers, or casualties, or statistics. They are flesh and blood; sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, uncles and aunts, nephews and nieces. They all left family and friends to serve a great nation. They made the sacrifice so the generations after them would not have to. They are missed by their families. They are mourned. Their lives are honored on this Memorial Day. 

     On Memorial Day, in the past few years, I’ve begun to commemorate the day by putting a pair of boots (Army-desert tan) on my front steps. They sit beneath my American Flag, which flies out front. It is for all those who did not return that I do this for, and for those loved ones that never got to give them one last hug when they returned home. If one person who has lost one son, or daughter, drives by my house on Memorial Day and sees those boots-they will know who they are for. My heart is with them. My son, too, left home in the flower of his youth. He saw things he cannot forget. He lost friends. He struggles through life, even today, with the pain of some of those memories. His life was forever changed. He continues his walk, as a Veteran and a man, because of one simple thing: he came home. To those who never returned, and the families that are left behind I say simply “Thank you.” 

Enjoy the Ride

Enjoy the ride. 

One side effect of getting older is age. It’s natural. Things get old, and they wear out. If you leave a 47 Packard out on your front lawn long enough, it’ll rust. Even if you drive it every Sunday to church, keep the oil changed, and do regular tune ups, it’ll still rust. You can buff it out, rework the metal, and put new parts on it, and it will still suffer structural problems. Not only that, but replacement parts get harder to come by when time does its thing long enough. Expensive, even. You can keep the old girl going, but it’s not going to drive the same. Time is merciless and does not discriminate.  

When you’re younger, you tend to look at the big picture differently. You have a family to take care of, bills to pay, vacations to go on, kids to raise, and bills to pay. Yeah, I said “bills to pay” twice. I didn’t stutter. It feels like that’s all you have time to do. As I advance down this road to senility, (or shall we just say silliness?) I have started appreciating the smaller blessings along the way. I’m making a concerted effort to see the landscape filled with happy children, trees and flowers, and laughter as I putter down the road. The bug splatter on the windshield is still there, but I can look around it, if my wipers won’t get rid of it.  It’s messy, and blurry, but I can still see things that make me smile. The small blessings that make life worthwhile. 

Those worthwhile things are different for everyone. My wife and I have eight kids between us, and four grandchildren. Our mothers are still here. We have two dogs that depend on us to wait on them, hand and foot. All of these folks make life worth living. I may creak like an old see-saw when I get up from sitting too long, but I’ll crawl around on the floor to play with those grandkids. I may not be able to understand when they talk about the latest video game, or anime, or new technology, or music, but the conversation brightens my day. We watch our kids become responsible adults and can’t help but want to see what their future holds. Plus, we can still talk to our moms about anything, and everything. I love the ordinary pleasures. I love to finish a story, whether reading it or writing it. I love to watch my wife with the grandbaby. I love to look up at the stars on a clear night. I love knowing that, in the far-away future, my kids are going to be okay when this old jalopy finally breaks down for good. That’s an awesome feeling, knowing your kids are good people. It’s a pretty simple list of what makes life worthy of the trip.  

My body may not be a 47 Packard, but it’s got a few miles left on the odometer. The hood ornament broke off years ago, the tires are bald (pun intended), the radio antenna’s broke, so you can only pick up the one AM station, and the interior smells like an old shoe that stepped in something. Even as I go bumbling down the two-lane country highway of ordinary living, even as parts fall off and are left in my wake like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs, you can rest easy in the knowledge that I’m going to pull down my hat, hang my arm out of the window, and enjoy the ride. I think you should too.  

Mom

I suppose there’s only one qualification to being a mother. You have to have given birth to a child. In today’s society, we have to be careful with labels. Watch the pronouns, too, while you’re at it. I don’t want to rock the boat filled with the alphabet-centric crew or ruffle any of the latest gender bending, cancel culture feathers out there. I just want to be certain we understand the definition of what it takes to be a mother. You have to be a biological female human being that has brought life into this world. No one else on the planet can do that wondrous act, and they deserve the respect, and awe, of the rest of us. With all of our knowledge, technology, and intelligence, there is no other way to make human beings. Sure, we can test-tube it, mix DNA, save eggs, and implant them into someone else, but there’s only one type of being that can handle the whole process of conception, incubation, and birth: Mother.

It’s a good thing, too. Left to our own devices, men would’ve let humanity die out long ago. No joke. I totally appreciate God’s wisdom and intelligence when he put the onus of childbirth onto women. Men are great at the “hunter-gatherer-provider” thing, but the nurturing instinct is in the woman’s arena. She rules. I’m pretty sure that was His plan, all along. It’s just a division of responsibilities to build a family. It doesn’t mean we don’t have some of each others talents and instincts, but both of the sexes have their own strengths and weaknesses. Teamwork makes the dream work, y’all.

My dad was a great provider and protector. Not all men are good at it, but he was. He taught me hunting, fishing, fixing the car, and how to carry my butt to work, even when I don’t feel like it. He taught me the fundamentals of sports, fair play, and to play to win. He taught me to respect others and to hold my head up, and respect myself. When I fell down, he showed me how to “rub some dirt on it, get over it, and move on. My mom has a different, but equally important, wheelhouse. She made me feel that I was special. No, not “lick the windows while riding the short bus to school in my helmet” special! I mean the “I am good enough just the way I am” special. She encouraged me, held me, and showed me unconditional love. She told me that I could be anything I wanted to be. Except stinky. She made sure I knew the fine arts of personal hygiene. Because, let’s face it, nobody wants to be “stinky kid’s” mom. It’s embarrassing.

When I was seven years old, I acquired an infection in my right eye. I clearly remember realizing it. I was oddly calm about it. I just noticed it. I went and told my mom. “Gee, mom. I can’t see out of this eye.” She thought I was just messing around with her. Then she realized I was serious. I don’t recall her freaking out, but she must have. I’m sure she was scared to death for her child’s sake, but she never let it show. We went to eye doctors, specialists, then a surgeon. The infection, as well as the eye itself, would have to be removed. I still remember being in the hospital. It would’ve been scary, had it not been for my mom. She was there with me. It gave me the feeling that I was alright. I didn’t totally understand what was going on, but just her being there with me comforted me. Hospitals are frightening for adult, much less kids. She made sure I had comic books, toys and stuff to make it as normal a place as she could. She took me for walks down the hall, and generally made sure I wasn’t afraid.

Growing up, I was the bookish, un-athletic, one-eyed, fat kid, with glasses. I was socially awkward. How did I know that EVERY kid is socially awkward? I thought it was just me. Kids teased me. Bullied me. My brother and sister always took up for me and always encouraged me, but, let’s face it: all kids go through those phases. Some overcome their own lack of self-worth when they make it to junior high school and some don’t. I came out of mine…I think it was last week. My mom, however, could always make me feel like I was the best “me” there was. I’m the youngest of her four kids. Her “baby”. Still am. At fifty seven, she still introduces me as “this is Kevin, my baby”. Stop rolling your eyes, Pam, Joe and Mary Ann. (I’m sticking my tongue out at my sisters and brother as I write this).

My mom’s been like that through my entire life. Through every trial, every mistake, every heartache, she has always been there to A. point me to God for the answers to life’s questions; B. to tell me that she loves me and C. that it will be alright, one way, or the other. That’s what moms do. Maybe it’s because we shared a heart beat for nine months. That’s really a unique relationship. A bond forged in the womb that no other human can break, or simulate. I know all moms have this ability, but MY mom does it best. (Note: Opinions expressed in this article are the opinions of the writer. Please do not write letters to the editor expressing your contention that YOUR mom does it best, because you would be wrong). Let me just let you know, mom, that I am grateful to you for all you’ve done. I’m thankful to you for the amazing person you are, and have always been. I wouldn’t be the man I am today, if it weren’t for you. Thanks, mom.

Just for the record, my fellow genetically handicapped males, don’t think I’m relegating dad’s to a lower level of species just because we can’t give birth. We’re special, too. We’re just not “mom” special. So, unless you can create life inside of you, nurture it for nine months and bring it into this world, and spend your entire life in self-less devotion to that life, then stay in your lane. Mow the grass, kill the spiders, and go to work every day. Teach the kid everything you know. Then tell them to “go ask mom.”

Make sure to get your mom whatever she loves this Sunday. Flowers, candy, lunch or maybe even a big hug and a heartfelt “I love you.” She deserves it. Happy Mother’s Day, to all the moms out there, y’all!

Class of 2023

May is graduation month for those lucky parents and anxious teenagers that are preparing to meet the world of post-high school life. I can’t say that I envy either one of you. Once you get past the pomp and circumstance of the ceremony, stuff is gonna get real. Lots of stuff. If you think the tough part is not falling down when you get handed your diploma, think again oh young padawan. High school is just the beginning; a building block for your future. The bricks will get heavier from here on out. 

I remember being very motivated when I graduated high school. I was going to college. I was intent upon a degree in teaching. Mainly I was motivated to get out of my parents’ house and be without supervision for four years. I’d be grown. Grown folks do what we want. Yes sir, I was ready for it. I even started early. I began college the month after graduation, during the summer semesters. No time off for me. Yes sir, I was ready. Let’s do this thang! 

The summer of 1983 was a blast. I learned so much. How to drink. How to skip class. How to fail biology and Fine Arts Visual. Yes. I failed the basic art course. I learned that one does not simply take an eight am biology class and expect to be awake during class, especially if one drinks into the wee hours of the morning. Oh, I learned a lot.  

I also fell in love with my childhood sweetheart, got engaged and came up with a plan to marry, get campus housing, and finish our education together. My wife to be was my classmate in high school and had a full scholorship to the same school I was attending. We were going to make it happen. Then we didn’t. We let ourselves get caught up in our emotions and think with our…hearts. She decided she wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. Did I mention that she had delayed going to school until after our son was born? Oops, my bad. So, there were other facets to our decisions, but the point is-we took the route that included us bailing on college and me going to work. We didn’t want to wait to be together. Our love would see us through. It wasn’t long after that, I learned something else about love. It don’t pay the bills. 

So, I went to work making a whole quarter above minimum wage-3.50 an hour. I worked about sixty hours a week and pulled down over two hundred bucks a check. It wasn’t long before we realized that our finances would require more than that, so I found a factory job making over twice what I was pulling down. The wolves backed away from the door but stayed within earshot. To make a long story short, my work life was a struggle to find jobs that could consistently live up to reality. My lack of education, or preparation, kept me from climbing any ladder, corporate or otherwise. I had many jobs that were a living wage, but few that I liked, much less loved. By the time we’d been married seven years, we’d brought a total of four children into our family. Stuff had truly gotten real. 

This “CliffsNotes Edition” of my early decision-making process has two points. Number one: if at all possible, finish school. Even if you get a liberal arts degree, get a degree. It shows your potential employers that you have what it takes to finish the job. You have determination and staying power. It doesn’t have to be college, either. Vocational schools are everywhere. They can teach you a trade. Still, you have to finish. Number two: have a plan. Even if the plan is simply to finish school, do that. While you’re getting an education you can figure out what you want to do with it. Sure, it’d be great to make a decision early on, and pursue a specific degree. If you don’t know what you want to do, however, go for something that you know you can finish. Whether you work primarily with your hands, or your mind, an education can be the difference between starting at rock bottom, and staying there, or starting the work race with an ever so slight lead on most folks.  

One last thing. Don’t be afraid to talk to your parents about being scared of going out there. They’ve been where you are.  They’ve made their own mistakes. Learn from them. Lord knows, it’s a rare person that learns from other people’s mistakes. We usually wait to learn from our own. Listen to people who have been there. Times haven’t changed as much as you think they have. They too, used to think with their…emotions, also.  

Congratulations, Graduates! 

Focus

I’ve been reading a biography of Theodore Roosevelt. Simply reading about his life is exhausting. By all accounts, Roosevelt was a vivacious, energetic and robust character. He lived more in his first thirty years than two of any lesser mortals manages to pack into a lifetime. By his third decade he had graduated Harvard, served as an alderman in New York City, become an avid sportsman and big game hunter, conservationist, author, rancher and cowboy. In his lifetime he published no less than forty books, the first of which, “The Naval War of 1812” would be so highly rated as to become a reference for the U.S. Navy and required reading. He published it shortly after graduating Harvard, at age 24.  He read at least one book every day, wrote around 150,000 letters and tons of articles and essays. His energy and force of character was the stuff of legends. Needless to say, he didn’t own a smart phone.  

The differences between 1880 and 2023 are stark and unfair, I know. No radio, much less television. No mass media, save newspapers and magazines. The telegraph was in much wider use than the telephone. No transatlantic flights or national interstate system. Most people were used to walking a lot more than now.  People of the “Gilded Age” were hardier folks, physically, than ourselves. We definitely take for granted the many advantages that our era’s technology, has given us. Instant communication in audio, written and video formats are available. The ease of transportation, and the speed, has spoiled us. We haven’t the patience I’m sure they had back then. The sophistication of our levels of distraction is off the charts.  

We’re more distracted today than ever in the history of the human race. There are more methods and means of recreational entertainment than every other era combined. This is the age of the true “Couch Potato”. We have movies, television, and music of every kind, on tap. Our fingers caress the power of all known knowledge and what do we do with it? Bing-watch programs for hours, days and weeks. We play games. We “google” everything. When’s the last time anyone looked up something in an encyclopedia? Or read a book? The ease of access is mind-boggling, if you stop and think about it. That begs the question: are we any smarter for it? I sincerely doubt it. 

We are definitely not healthier for it. Smartphone Zombies are everywhere. Walking around glued to a screen, watching the latest cat video, challenge or fails. Conversation is slowly dying out, becoming a lost art. Society is not being well-served by media stream. It loses out to commercialism. Young people are not learning how to communicate with others in a real sense. The language we use is being abused as well. While people are busy worrying about what pronouns to address one another as, everyone has forgotten how to spell and use their native English. The one place where people do communicate (the “comment” sections) is so fraught with errors as to give the most liberal of junior high English teachers a series of mini-strokes as they read them.  So what do we do? 

Parents, quit making a babysitter out of media. Have that child go outside. Better yet, go outside with them. Play ball, walk, run, skip rocks across the pond. Anything. Play boardgames. Ride bikes. Show them how to be a kid. Get back in touch with your own inner child. All of this will bring you closer together and teach some lessons along the way. You’ll appreciate the lessons, and the memories, a lot more when you get older. Those cat videos will still be there. They’re fun. You won’t reminisce about them twenty years from now with your kid, though. Let’s all try and get out there and do some things with them that we will remember.  Even if you don’t have kids, you can do your part. Take a few extra minutes out of your day to read. Yes, read. A newspaper, a book even. Gasp! How about having a real conversation with a total stranger? It can be a pleasure, when you’re not in such a rush. Tell a joke, a story, or just make small talk. We’re all in this race called life together, and nobody’s getting out alive. We might as well get to know each other on the way to the finish line. See y’all out there! 

Remember me

I’ve been to at least three funerals in the past year. It’s something that we all dread. Not death, but going to a funeral. My daddy told me a long time ago that “you have to bury your dead”. It was in response to me saying that “I just don’t like going to funerals”.  People that actually enjoy funerals are, to be honest, few and far between. It’s simply not the kind of gathering anyone should enjoy. Or should we? 

 It’s a fact that funerals are for the living. The rituals, the music, the flowers and the eulogy are all parts of the grieving process for those left behind. All of the traditional things that seem to be geared towards making us cry. Things like touching the dead body can be very important for some people. I’ve heard it said that you’ll dream of them if you don’t touch them. I generally take my chances on that one.  

Through the ages, different cultures have put their loved ones to rest in a myriad of ways. The ancient Egyptians erected the pyramids for their pharaohs and various royalty. I’d be hard pressed to make the down payment on that particular plan. The multitude of different Native Americans did above ground, in-ground, cave tombs and mounds. The Vikings liked to place their people upon a floating beir and set it aflame. Most cultures leave items with those they put to rest. It could be jewelry, armor, swords, eating utensils, horses or cattle. Some even send their wife, or wives to the great beyond with them. I think that’s a bit too far. Not really fair to her, either.  

No matter the ritual or ceremony, one thing we humans have in common at a funeral: we commemorate a life that has left this realm. We all deserve to have people that love us gather together and give us a sendoff into the Great Beyond. It doesn’t have to be fancy. It doesn’t have to follow what society may deem correct. It just has to be a group of friends and relatives that come to say “goodbye and I’m glad you were here”.   

I’m writing my own eulogy. I’m picking my own music, too. It’s going to be songs that I love, not necessarily music you’d expect at a funeral. Stuff that you know I liked. Some Johnny Cash, and definitely Don Williams. I’d like to know that there was laughter and stories about stupid things I’d done, from people who will miss me when I’m gone. I have a friend that used to babysit my kids that will stand in the back, during the funeral, and be silent. She’ll be dressed as the Grim Reaper. Don’t forget, Misty! You promised. I still haven’t found a comedian. I’ll work on it. So, in the event of my untimely death, ya’ll come on by. It’ll be a blast. For you guys, at least. I won’t exactly be the life of the party. One thing’s for sure, it’ll be a funeral neither of us will forget.  

Cool Hats

I love hats. Always have. Baseball caps, cowboy hats, fedoras; all kinds of hats. I’ve loved them since I was a kid. I recall watching old black and white movies from the forties and fifties, thinking how cool Spencer Tracy or Cary Grant were in those fedoras. John Wayne, in his battered old cavalry hat, was the epitome of classic cool, too. When I was a young man, it was all about caps, since fedoras had mostly fallen out of favor, style-wise. Sure, the seventies saw the surge in cowboy hats due to movies like “Urban Cowboy” and “Smokey and the Bandit” but it didn’t last long. I did make a trade with my grade school pal, Eddie, for a ten-gallon brown suede cowboy hat when we were in the fifth grade. It reminded me of Hoss, from Bonanza. I thought I was cool for about five minutes. It’s tough to pull off cool when you’re a pudgy fifth grader, with glasses and a crew cut. Even with a cowboy hat.

The older I got, the more my definition of “cool” changed. It dawned on me, not very long ago, that the very essence of cool is…not caring if what you do, or wear, is cool. You wear it, do it and be it because you feel like “you” when you do. And you love that person, that hat, or that activity. I’ll be fifty-eight this year. It takes time for me to learn new concepts. Now my wife is stuck with an old man who wears anything he likes. Luckily, she loves me. Unless there’s a stain, or a hole in my wardrobe, I seldom get a comment. I think she may have given up on me, as far as “style” is concerned.

Back to hats. I have more than a dozen caps, around four fedoras, three cabbie cabs, three straws and two wool cowboy hats. I have a couple of “Elmer Fudd” cold weather hats that are fur lined, with ear flaps and will not be worn unless the temperature is below freezing. Otherwise, they make me sweat like I’m toting bricks. I also have a Sailer’s service hat, known affectionately as a “dixie cup”. I’m particularly fond of the navy. My nephew-in-law, Casey, is a career submariner. The hat’s unique. Maybe I like it because I like Popeye. I found it at a thrift store for cheap. It fit. I’m keeping it.

My favorite hat would have to be my birthday Stetson. After years of watching a certain Elmore Leonard character, Raylan, rock a hand-crafted Stetson, I finally got one for my birthday a few years ago. I love this hat. I feel Old School Cool in this thing. It fits. It’s beautiful. It was also too expensive. I didn’t wear it for the longest time because I felt like I’d ruin it. That’d be awful. Then I realized, the cool thing about cowboy hats is that they get even cooler when they’re aged, and battle worn. I may not be any cooler, but the hat’s cool. I guess I’ll have to settle for that.

Wearing a hat kind of gives you confidence. It emboldens you, if you let it. You have to commit to the persona. At least, that’s what I thought, until my grandson, Cayde, took me down a notch. On the weekdays, his grandmother (Gigi) keeps him while mom and dad work. I get to see him for a few minutes early in the morning, before I head off to work. During the week, I usually wear one of my soft cabbie caps. Every day he gives me a kiss goodbye by leaning his forehead forward, for me to kiss. Before he does, though, he always takes my cap off, walks over to his Gigi, and makes her put it on. I guess even this one-year-old toddler knows I’m bluffing on the “cool”. He’s right. She’s way cooler than I am.

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I See You

I See You 

She was just a little girl with long, brunette pig tails and wide eyes. She was her daddy’s little girl, the light in his eyes. A country girl, born and raised in the rich farmland of the Mississippi River Delta, in Missouri. The open fields were her playground. She walked the dirt roads between her house and her neighbors without a care in the world. She was the youngest of twelve children. Her parents loved this last addition to their his-mine-and our mixture of kids. Her father wasn’t a young man when she came to him. All of her brothers and sisters were much older, some already had families of their own when she was born. They were more like uncles and aunts in some ways. She was special. She was Little Sis. I didn’t know her then, but I can still see her. 

Her father owned her heart. He was her first love. He doted on her, loved to have her near, even when she was rowdy and rambunctious. Maybe even especially then. She loved to ride her bicycle on the country roads, with her pet chicken riding on the front handlebars. She was a happy girl.

Mischievous, playful and carefree. I wasn’t there, but I can still see her. 

She was a good student. A strong reader, and speaker. Her teacher, Mrs. Glass, was so taken with her abilities that she entered her into a speech contest. Mrs. Glass came up with a skit for her to do, with multiple characters to act out. She won first prize and a Blue Ribbon. Her folks were so proud. She was only in the second grade. I wasn’t in the audience to watch her perform, but I can still see her.  

She was still just a girl when her father was struck down with a brain hemorrhage. The family

cared for him at home, her included. He improved but he was never the same again. Her father wasn’t able to farm anymore, so they sold the farm and moved.  Her mother worked at the local school cafeteria. He lived some years afterwards before death finally took him. Her first love. Her life changed forever.  I didn’t see her tears, but I can still see her crying.

 She quit school before finishing the eleventh grade. She wanted to go to work, to help out. To have her own car. She worked at the local truck stop/cafe, waiting tables for the truck drivers and farmers. She grew into womanhood long before the sexual revolution. I didn’t hear her sass the truck drivers, but I can hear her now.  

The little woman began writing to a soldier. He was in the Army, stationed in Europe during the 1950’s. He was from Arkansas. They got to know each other through their letters. When he was discharged, he went home to his folk’s place, outside of Forest City, Arkansas. She didn’t hear from him. She decided to go see him for herself, to meet this man she’d been writing. In the days before interstates and fast travel, she drove from Southern Missouri all the way to Forest City, alone. In the time before “Google Maps” she headed to the tiny Post Office and got his address.More accurately, she got directions through the sparse dirt roads that lead to his address. When she arrived, one of his brothers had to go fetch him. He was down the road talking to a man about a car. She was standing on the porch when he arrived. He bounded up the steps and patted her on the head as he headed to the front door. He’d mistaken her tiny frame for one of his little brothers. She laughed and said, “Is that all you’ve got to say to me?” I didn’t see it myself, but I can still see her laughing. 

The rest is Stone Family history. They had four kids. Two boys, two girls. She took them to church and made a home for them. She did all the hard work of a homemaker, without regrets or complaints. She was there for them when they awoke every morning, and when they lay down to sleep. Baseball, softball, football and basketball games, they were almost always there, in the stands, rooting for their little ones. I was the youngest boy, so I did get to see those parts. I can see her still rooting for us, today. In our own minds, we’re still the same kids that used to love to ride our bikes till the streetlights came on. We still feel the same, even though our bodies tend to argue with us much more now. No matter how old you are, whether you work a paying job or at home, we are grateful for being who you are. When you think that life has changed you, or beaten you down, don’t forget that you’re still that happy little girl that romped on the playground and beat the  boys at sports. We appreciate you. We love you. Most of all, we see you.  

Laura’s House

     Laura’s House

       The first time I really talked to her, we had a disagreement. I supervised the housekeeping staff of a nursing home, and she was the Dietary Manager. There was a long, noticeable mark on the dining room floor that she was convinced was made by my floor technician and the machine that scrubbed the floors. I was equally convinced that it had probably been made by her staff, with a mop. We stayed civil, but both were adamant. That was twelve years ago and neither of us has ever conceded defeat. It must be love. The discussion led me to look her up on social media. Yes. I stalked her. She was recently separated, had two grown sons and two adopted daughters, lived next door to her mom and had a sly smile that disguised a stubborn streak. One of the daughters’ names mentioned in the many photos I painstakingly caroused had the curious name of “Bubbles”. I was amused. I decided to use it as an ice breaker the next time I had the opportunity to talk to her.  

      Laura Gail and her friend Linda were sitting in the courtyard partaking of contaminated air not very much later that week, so I took it upon myself to join them. I listened to them make small talk until I found my opening.  

“What about ‘Bubbles’ I asked. What’s the story there?” I asked, innocently. 

“Well that’s a long story…” and she began to weave the story of her second husband’s nieces, who were in an unfortunate family situation and were in need of stability in their living situation. Laura Gail had stepped up and raised them like her own for the past seven or eight years. The fact that she’d already been divorced from that husband didn’t stop her from helping. She was, essentially, a single-income mother with four children and some very different family dynamics. I stayed mesmerized by the story, mainly because of her pretty eyes and the natural flow of her story-telling abilities. When she finished, I smiled, took a pause before I explained: 

“That’s awesome, but I just meant ‘how’d she get the name “Bubbles”?” 

She blushed a bit, and with just a dash of embarrassment told a much shorter story about her daughter’s name. She had me hooked at that point. My heart was hooked, to be specific. 

      The twenty-fifth of March, this Saturday, we will celebrate eleven years of marriage. It’s not the first marriage for either of us. We were not young and idealistic when we wed. We had all eyes open, and knew our limits and our expectations. We had both had “interesting” romantic pasts that gave us realistic approaches to life’s crazy, winding roads. We were both very different, and very much the same. That being said, I fell for her like a ton of bricks. 

      Our marriage hasn’t been perfect. I’m not an easy man to live with, or to put up with. She’s loved me, in spite of my mistakes, stupidity and the innate ability to put my foot in my mouth at the wrong times. She brought balance to my life. She filled my heart with a down to earth love that wasn’t there before I met her. She doesn’t let me get away with any crap. She’s a very practical person. A “do it now” kinda gal. I’m a procrastinator. She likes to balance her checkbook. I can’t find my checkbook. We’re the couple you probably wouldn’t put together if you met us separately, but when you see us together you say “Yep. They’re perfect for each other.” I agree. 

I live in Laura’s House. I may have a corner to myself (I actually have more stuff/junk than she does) but it’s always going to be Laura’s House. It wouldn’t have mattered if I had bought and paid for it. She’s my queen. It’d be hers to rule, regardless. Those eyes, that smile and that aggravating sassiness keep my heart locked up in her hands. I’ll take the corner, as long as I’m with her. It’s worth it. Happy Anniversary, Laura Gail. I love you!  

p.s. 

That was a mop streak on the dining room floor. Just sayin. 

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Laura’s Nail

   There's an old rusty nail in our bathroom that my wife's hair dryer hangs from. It's an ugly old nail, and a bit loose in the wall, at that. We'd been married several years before we decided to repaint the bathroom. I took all the fixtures down in preparation and said something to her about installing a rack, or a hook, for her to hang her dryer on. She said no. Her nail was just fine. Don't touch her nail. I tried to convince her that something besides that rusty old nail would look much better. She seemed to get mad at me for even implying I would remove the nail and I was bewildered. What sentimental stature could this rusty nail hold for her? She shared the short story with me with a ting of the anger still in her voice and in her eyes.
     My wife's previous husband was a bit different from me. He'd had a hard life. Lived the redneck ghetto life. A bit of a thug, you might say. His stints in prison and jails had lasting effects on him.  He was controlling and manipulative. Although they'd started their life together happily, he'd become a different person rather quickly. Drugs played their part but couldn't excuse the way he tried to control every small aspect of her life. He berated her, called her names and insisted on things being done the “right” way. Read that as “his” way. The day he tried to remove that nail was the day she stood up. He'd thrown the nail away without asking her about it. That triggered her.  There was a verbal fight that got pretty intense, but she held her ground. She had bent over backwards for him. Done all the chores to his liking, down to the last minuscule detail. She drew the line here. He backed down and fished the nail out of the trash and put it back where she had it. The nail stayed.
      So now I began to understand the importance of the nail. It was a symbol of her independence more than as a good place to hang a hair dryer. Over the years we've painted, re-floored, put up shelves and different accents in our bathroom, but that rusty old nail remains. It's still an eyesore. It's still a bit loose in the hole. But as long as she wants it there, then there is where it'll stay. I want my wife to be happy. I want her to have all the nails she wants. 
     Nails are important. They hold things together. Two separate things are joined by a long piece of sharp pointed steel that pulls them together and makes them into something that neither one was in the beginning. You build things with nails. Chairs. Tables. Rooms. Houses. Even relationships. Each nail is sharp. You have to force it in. You displace a tiny bit of wood in order to make them hold together. Such is life. Such is a relationship. Each of us have our own nails. Things in our life that define us. They may be big things. They may be small things. But they are ours. They are US. Some of those nails we use to put together a relationship that becomes a WE. The force used to drive the nail into the wood can be looked at as pain. Pain that we put ourselves through in order to change into something new. When two people commit to each others lives, they create a new being that compliments both, resembles both, but is a new thing altogether. It's a beautiful thing, when it's done right. When it's done wrong, those nails can create a monstrosity that either builds a cage around one, or puts one on a pedestal. It's in this circumstance that we have wasted our nails.
     Every good thing about ourselves is a nail. Each individual nail is an attribute, a personality trait, or an emotion that makes us who we are. They may be your dreams, your aspirations, or your goals. You may have some special thing about you that you don't want to share with anyone else. Maybe you want to save that part of you.  You may want to use it later. Maybe you won't . You use them sparingly, because they are important to you. Everyone has a bag of these nails that they want to save, to horde, to ration out only when they want to make something special. They may never want to use them. That's ok, too. It's their prerogative, because it's totally their call. No one else gets to use those nails. They belong to you. You get to decide when, and where the nail goes. If you want to put it in the wall and hang your hair dryer from it, that's up to you. It's your nail. 
      When you love someone, you give yourself to them. In a good relationship, this goes both ways. In a bad one, it's a one-way street. There has to be give, and take. Share, and share alike. Love is not selfish. If it is, it's not love. It's something else. You also must love the person as they are. Trying to mold, change and transform someone into your idea of perfect is a bad idea. Even when they're willing, it's a breach of trust to insist they adapt to your idea of what is right. Let them be themselves. You wouldn't have fallen in love with them if they were already perfect. You fell in love with their unique imperfections. In time, those imperfections become diamonds in your eyes and you realize that is what makes them special. To be the perfect couple you must see that their “nails” belong to them. When, and if, they want to use them in your relationship, that's totally up to them. You can't force them to build something with it that they don't want to build. Let them be the architect of their life. When your paths, plans and creations come together in the construction of life, there is real beauty in it. That's when you find out that those old rusty nails are really beautiful.
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