In the weeks leading up to Christmas, I was absolutely crushed at work. My crazy work schedule made me more determined to gear down and take some time off the week between Christmas and New Year's Day. And, that's what I'm doing today.
This morning, I saw my niece and goddaughter, Kaitlyn, play basketball in a tournament at Overton High School. What a treat to see her play! She played well, the team played well and they beat Hillsboro High School handily. God, I'm proud of Kaitlyn. She's such a great kid. My sister and brother-in-law, Tracy and Gary, have done such good job raising her and her brother, Matthew.
After a brief stop off at the house, I went to the gym. I've been off running - thanks to my broken left great toe - for almost three weeks and it's killing me. I was able to get some time in on the elliptical and to lift weights for a bit, which was awesome. I've felt like such a slug, not being able to run, that getting any exercise at all was a bonus.
I had lunch at Eldey's, where I had a Calfkiller (Grassroots APA) and read the New Yorker. I also spent a few minutes extolling the virtues of Nashville to a couple sitting beside me at the bar, who were visiting from New York City. Imagine that, a couple from New York City visiting Nashville and doing touristy things, and loving it. My, times have changed.
I even got the oil changed in my truck - my much loved 2005 Yukon Denali - which I've owned for a decade and which has almost 187,000 miles on it. When JP was 3 or 4, he used to ask me if I would keep driving until he turned 16, so he could drive it. I love that truck so much that it just may happen.
Now, I'm sitting at Bongo Java, having a "Mood Elevator," listing to Magnolia Electric Company's "O Grace" and Bon Iver's "For Emma" and "Re: Stacks." I could listen to all 3 songs one thousand times and never get tired of them. Sometimes, I wonder if JP or Joe will read this blog one day and, especially if I'm not around, take the time to listen to songs I referenced and that meant so much to me at a certain point in time. I hope so.
I'm so lucky to have those boys. What I really want and what I've always wanted them to get, someday, out of this blog, is to realize how much I loved them and how blessed I knew that I was to have them in my life while I was taking the time to record my thoughts about them and my life, in general.
I can't imagine what my life would be like without JP and Joe in it. Watching their lives unfold is my reward for everything I do, everything I have done and everything I will do in my life. It's truly God's gift to me and it's much more than I deserve.
Wednesday, December 28, 2016
Tuesday, December 27, 2016
Friends That Fit
Last night, JP's buddy, Cooper, and his family came over for dinner, beer/wine and to watch the Independence Bowl (Vandy got smoked by NC State). Jude make Rotel cheese dip and at halftime, Russ and I picked up pizzas from Pizza Perfect.
Predictably, the boys got bored with the football game and went outside in the backyard after dinner. The record 70 degree temperatures in late December, no doubt, made it impossible for them to stay inside. As Russ and I watched, the boys and Cooper's sister, Ella, played football. When I saw our next-door-neighbor's 10-year old daughter watching the kids play, I invited her over. Later, the kids switched to playing tag and ran next door to Erin's house, where the light was better.
Really, it was pretty close to a perfect evening. It's nice to be friends with a family that fits together so well with ours. Jude and I enjoy spending time with Russ and Susanna and the kids play so well together. It's just a good fit.
Our life is so different than it was before we had children. Our friends are different, too, because so many of our friends from the ultimate frisbee days don't have children or have older children. It's a bit sad, because it's hard to stay in touch with friends from the so called "old days." It's natural, I guess, but our life seems to be divided into two parts, "BC" - before children and "AC" - after children.
Cooper slept over and as I left the house this morning, Jude and the boys were preparing for a trip to the Northwest YMCA to swim in the indoor pool.
As an aside, I was upstairs walking out of my office yesterday afternoon when Joe, just up from his nap, ran by me in the playroom at full speed, a streak of color flying by me. "Whoa! Where are you going, Joe?" I asked. "Is Cooper here, yet?!?" he replied. Joe adores Cooper and, in turn, Cooper is great with Joe. Without question, in Joe's mind when Cooper sleeps over with JP, he's really sleeping over with both of the boys.
In fact, all three boys slept in sleeping bags in the floor of the playroom last night, with Cooper in between JP and Joe. Joe was in heaven, for sure, as he got to stay up late, talk to the boys and watch intently as they traded football cards. Joe is 4 going on 8 +.
It's good to have friends that fit, isn't it?
Predictably, the boys got bored with the football game and went outside in the backyard after dinner. The record 70 degree temperatures in late December, no doubt, made it impossible for them to stay inside. As Russ and I watched, the boys and Cooper's sister, Ella, played football. When I saw our next-door-neighbor's 10-year old daughter watching the kids play, I invited her over. Later, the kids switched to playing tag and ran next door to Erin's house, where the light was better.
Really, it was pretty close to a perfect evening. It's nice to be friends with a family that fits together so well with ours. Jude and I enjoy spending time with Russ and Susanna and the kids play so well together. It's just a good fit.
Our life is so different than it was before we had children. Our friends are different, too, because so many of our friends from the ultimate frisbee days don't have children or have older children. It's a bit sad, because it's hard to stay in touch with friends from the so called "old days." It's natural, I guess, but our life seems to be divided into two parts, "BC" - before children and "AC" - after children.
Cooper slept over and as I left the house this morning, Jude and the boys were preparing for a trip to the Northwest YMCA to swim in the indoor pool.
As an aside, I was upstairs walking out of my office yesterday afternoon when Joe, just up from his nap, ran by me in the playroom at full speed, a streak of color flying by me. "Whoa! Where are you going, Joe?" I asked. "Is Cooper here, yet?!?" he replied. Joe adores Cooper and, in turn, Cooper is great with Joe. Without question, in Joe's mind when Cooper sleeps over with JP, he's really sleeping over with both of the boys.
In fact, all three boys slept in sleeping bags in the floor of the playroom last night, with Cooper in between JP and Joe. Joe was in heaven, for sure, as he got to stay up late, talk to the boys and watch intently as they traded football cards. Joe is 4 going on 8 +.
It's good to have friends that fit, isn't it?
Monday, December 26, 2016
Another Christmas Past
It's the day after Christmas and I stopped for a quick cup of coffee and some ruminating at the Good Cup in the Grassland community, halfway between Nashville and Franklin. After that, it's off to work to clean off my desk.
I can't quite shake the feeling that something shifted for me, in my life, this Christmas season. Normally, I enjoy tremendously the lead up to Christmas, from Thanksgiving to Christmas day. This year, not so much.
For one thing, I was covered up at work. I didn't manage my calendar very well, as I scheduled two reasonably complicated mediations (one I was mediating and one that was being mediated for me) the week before Christmas. As a result, I wasn't completely free from work until Thursday. It was hard for me to disengage and immerse myself in the Christmas season.
Mostly, thought, I had a difficult time reconciling my mom's deteriorating mental and physical condition, and her new living arrangements, with the idea that I should be excited about Christmas. It makes me sad because JP and Joe are are still imbued with the naivete and innocence of childhood that make Christmas so special. Elf on the Shelf, Santa Claus, playing hide-and-seek when we pick out a Christmas tree (a family tradition of ours), decorating the Christmas tree, Christmas vacation from school, family get togethers, wishing for snow and anticipating the joys of Christmas morning. This year, it seems, I just couldn't get there with them, mentally or emotionally.
This is the first year in, well, forever, that my family hasn't celebrated Christmas with my mom at her house. As crazy and hectic as it often was, it was my family's Christmas tradition. Now, it's gone, never to return. It seemingly happened so fast. It's tough and probably not particularly productive thinking, but I'm struck by the thought that last year, or the year before, had I known what we were facing with my mom in the near future, I would have savored those last two Christmas afternoons at her house more than I did.
There's a lesson there, I know, to live in and appreciate the moment. I'm just not in the mood for lessons, though.
A little over a week ago, I took my mom to the White Family Christmas celebration at the home of Jude's cousin, Chad. It was a large and boisterous crowd with a lot of small children. It was tough for my mom to keep track with who everybody was and to follow the bits and pieces of conversations that took place all around her. In the course of the evening, though, my mom called me her husband, her father and, finally, her son.
I wanted to cry, for her, for me, for my whole family.
Last Friday, I talked to my mom and my sister, Tracy, and made plans to pick up my mom and take her to dinner at my house. When I arrived at Maristone a little after 5:00 p.m., my mom wasn't in her room. I straightened up her apartment, then walked downstairs to the dining hall. Sure enough, she was there, sitting contented at a table with three other ladies, eating dinner. After I said hello and sat down with them, it became clear to me that my mom had forgotten she was supposed to go to my house for dinner.
She asked me if I'd like to go upstair to her apartment for a few minutes. "Of course," I said, and accompanied her upstairs. We visited for a few minutes, as I found a basketball game on television for her to watch. I didn't have the heart to tell her she had forgotten about he plans we had made earlier in the day. She was relatively happy and content, so I told her good night and drove home.
I felt incredibly guilty because part of me felt relieved at not having to deal with getting her outside, into my truck and up to my house in Nashville, then back home. I was relieved though, too, as she seemed happy, at least in that moment. The land of conflicting emotions is where I spend most of my time as of late.
Yesterday afternoon, we went to my sister's house for the first time on Christmas day. I spent 15 minutes or so trying to convince my mom that Tracy and Gary owned the house. She was dead certain it belonged to someone else and, further, that she had never been there before. This, of course, in spite of the fact she spent the night with them Christmas Eve. There was nothing I could say to convince her otherwise. The more we talked about it, the more frustrated she got with me.
A blue Christmas indeed.
I can't quite shake the feeling that something shifted for me, in my life, this Christmas season. Normally, I enjoy tremendously the lead up to Christmas, from Thanksgiving to Christmas day. This year, not so much.
For one thing, I was covered up at work. I didn't manage my calendar very well, as I scheduled two reasonably complicated mediations (one I was mediating and one that was being mediated for me) the week before Christmas. As a result, I wasn't completely free from work until Thursday. It was hard for me to disengage and immerse myself in the Christmas season.
Mostly, thought, I had a difficult time reconciling my mom's deteriorating mental and physical condition, and her new living arrangements, with the idea that I should be excited about Christmas. It makes me sad because JP and Joe are are still imbued with the naivete and innocence of childhood that make Christmas so special. Elf on the Shelf, Santa Claus, playing hide-and-seek when we pick out a Christmas tree (a family tradition of ours), decorating the Christmas tree, Christmas vacation from school, family get togethers, wishing for snow and anticipating the joys of Christmas morning. This year, it seems, I just couldn't get there with them, mentally or emotionally.
This is the first year in, well, forever, that my family hasn't celebrated Christmas with my mom at her house. As crazy and hectic as it often was, it was my family's Christmas tradition. Now, it's gone, never to return. It seemingly happened so fast. It's tough and probably not particularly productive thinking, but I'm struck by the thought that last year, or the year before, had I known what we were facing with my mom in the near future, I would have savored those last two Christmas afternoons at her house more than I did.
There's a lesson there, I know, to live in and appreciate the moment. I'm just not in the mood for lessons, though.
A little over a week ago, I took my mom to the White Family Christmas celebration at the home of Jude's cousin, Chad. It was a large and boisterous crowd with a lot of small children. It was tough for my mom to keep track with who everybody was and to follow the bits and pieces of conversations that took place all around her. In the course of the evening, though, my mom called me her husband, her father and, finally, her son.
I wanted to cry, for her, for me, for my whole family.
Last Friday, I talked to my mom and my sister, Tracy, and made plans to pick up my mom and take her to dinner at my house. When I arrived at Maristone a little after 5:00 p.m., my mom wasn't in her room. I straightened up her apartment, then walked downstairs to the dining hall. Sure enough, she was there, sitting contented at a table with three other ladies, eating dinner. After I said hello and sat down with them, it became clear to me that my mom had forgotten she was supposed to go to my house for dinner.
She asked me if I'd like to go upstair to her apartment for a few minutes. "Of course," I said, and accompanied her upstairs. We visited for a few minutes, as I found a basketball game on television for her to watch. I didn't have the heart to tell her she had forgotten about he plans we had made earlier in the day. She was relatively happy and content, so I told her good night and drove home.
I felt incredibly guilty because part of me felt relieved at not having to deal with getting her outside, into my truck and up to my house in Nashville, then back home. I was relieved though, too, as she seemed happy, at least in that moment. The land of conflicting emotions is where I spend most of my time as of late.
Yesterday afternoon, we went to my sister's house for the first time on Christmas day. I spent 15 minutes or so trying to convince my mom that Tracy and Gary owned the house. She was dead certain it belonged to someone else and, further, that she had never been there before. This, of course, in spite of the fact she spent the night with them Christmas Eve. There was nothing I could say to convince her otherwise. The more we talked about it, the more frustrated she got with me.
A blue Christmas indeed.
Saturday, December 24, 2016
Christmas Eve (morning) at Bongo Java
The boys are up and in our bed, watching Dude Perfect videos or playing Madden Mobile on JP's iPad while Jude reads on her iPad beside them. I'm not much for laying in bed after I wake up, so as is my custom, I'm sitting at Bongo Java with a cup of coffee.
It's Christmas Eve morning and I'm one of two customers. The other - a young lady in her mid-twenties - is waiting at the door for someone to arrive, checking her phone intermittently. Yep, right on time, her friend walked in the door. They hug, laugh and walk to the register to order breakfast and a coffee.
Megan - one of my all-time favorite baristas and a Saturday morning stalwart at Bongo - just greeted them with a friendly "He!" and a smile, as always, and is taking their order. Megan loves the boys and they love her, so much so that she babysat for them once upon a time. Megan graduated from Belmont U. a week ago with a nursing degree, having put herself through school. I'm proud of her, very proud of her. She starts work as a nurse in late January, so she only has a couple Saturday morning shifts left. The boys and I are going to miss her.
One of the special things for me about being a regular at Bongo Java is watching the employees come and go. There is a cycle of life aspect to it all, as I watch them start working here, find their way, get comfortable then sometime a little bored and finally, move on to something else.
Take Megan, for example. I can vividly recall the first time on a busy Sunday morning, when EJ put Megan on the line as a barista. She was timid and terrified. And slow, man was she slow. I also saw EJ watching her out of the corner of his eye, deliberately not helping her but making sure she had the capability of getting herself out of the weeds. She did, of course, and the rest is Bonjo Java history.
So many faces, almost all smiling in my memory, working the counter and making coffee for me at Bongo Java Belmont over the last 14 + years. The faces do blur a bit for me and the names run together, although a few stand out for all time. Chad, Jackson, Chuck, Mitch, Meghan, A.J., Adam, George, Megan and the Godfather of the baristas, EJ.
There is Christmas music playing and I can hear Megan the others talking and laughing behind the counter and in the kitchen. The framed photo I took of JP and Joe last year at Frothy Monkey when Bongo Java Belmont was closed for renovations sits on the coffee machine behind the counter ("We Miss EJ" @bongojava, it says). Our family's 2016 christmas card is taped to the other side of the coffee machine, near the entry to the kitchen.
I'd say we're regulars. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Sunday, December 18, 2016
Turf Toe
A week ago Saturday, Jude took the boys to see the Christmas trees at the Governor's mansion. With the morning off, I headed straight for Shelby Bottoms for a long trail run. I was excited because it's tough to find the time to get over there as busy as we are.
As happens from time to time, by the time I put my cold weather gear on, drove to Shelby Park, stretched and started my run, I'd lost my motivation and felt kind of "blah." I strongly considered packing it in and heading to Bongo Java East for a cup of coffee. Instead, I decided to run a quick 5 miles on the trail, as opposed to the 8-mile run I had originally planned.
As also often happens, once I got going, I felt good and was glad I hadn't stopped the run. I ran my usual route on the grass trails, then turned onto the Cornelia Fort trail. Toward the end of the .7 miles of the Cornelia Fort trail, I turned onto a single track trail I don't run often because I knew I could turn around when it ended in a neighborhood at around the 2 1/2 mile mark. That way, I could head back and get 5 miles in by the end of the trail run.
All went according to plan until I hit the 3 mile mark while returning at about the halfway point of the Cornelia Fort trail. Suddenly - and by suddenly, I mean with no warning whatsoever - in full stride, my left foot struck a tree root extending out into the trail that was obscured by the fallen leaves. I fell hard, face first into the ground, arms outstretched in front of me. I groaned as I hit the ground, then slowly rolled over onto my back.
As I lay there, I did a physical inventory, the kind any 50 year old does when he or she takes a bad spill. First, I checked my right shoulder and although it was a bit sore, I didn't think it was any worse for the wear. I wasn't bleeding on my forearms or elbows because I was wearing a cold weather running jacket. My knees were okay, too, but as I stood up, I noticed my left foot didn't feel too good. No worries, I thought, as I walked a few tentative steps, then started running again. Immediately, my left foot began throbbing and I stopped running and began walking. After a quarter of a mile or so, I tried to run again only to have my left foot stop me in my tracks.
Shit, I thought. I'm hurt. I limped the remaining 2 miles back to my truck, the pain in my left foot increasing the longer I walked.
When I got home and took my running shoes off, I could see that my left great toe didn't look good. It was read, very swollen, stiff and cold to the touch. By Saturday evening, it was significantly bruised and even more swollen. I began to worry about whether I had broken it and, more importantly, how this type of an injury might affect my ability to run in the future (thanks Google). So, I decided to go to the emergency room and get it x-rayed.
Fractured distal phalanx. 4-6 weeks with no running and a lot of pain when walking of at least a couple of weeks. All confirmed by an orthopedic at the Vanderbilt Bone & Joint Clinic on Wednesday. Shit. I mean, shit.
How in the hell am I going to handle not running for 4-6 weeks? Time to get back in the gym, I guess.
As happens from time to time, by the time I put my cold weather gear on, drove to Shelby Park, stretched and started my run, I'd lost my motivation and felt kind of "blah." I strongly considered packing it in and heading to Bongo Java East for a cup of coffee. Instead, I decided to run a quick 5 miles on the trail, as opposed to the 8-mile run I had originally planned.
As also often happens, once I got going, I felt good and was glad I hadn't stopped the run. I ran my usual route on the grass trails, then turned onto the Cornelia Fort trail. Toward the end of the .7 miles of the Cornelia Fort trail, I turned onto a single track trail I don't run often because I knew I could turn around when it ended in a neighborhood at around the 2 1/2 mile mark. That way, I could head back and get 5 miles in by the end of the trail run.
All went according to plan until I hit the 3 mile mark while returning at about the halfway point of the Cornelia Fort trail. Suddenly - and by suddenly, I mean with no warning whatsoever - in full stride, my left foot struck a tree root extending out into the trail that was obscured by the fallen leaves. I fell hard, face first into the ground, arms outstretched in front of me. I groaned as I hit the ground, then slowly rolled over onto my back.
As I lay there, I did a physical inventory, the kind any 50 year old does when he or she takes a bad spill. First, I checked my right shoulder and although it was a bit sore, I didn't think it was any worse for the wear. I wasn't bleeding on my forearms or elbows because I was wearing a cold weather running jacket. My knees were okay, too, but as I stood up, I noticed my left foot didn't feel too good. No worries, I thought, as I walked a few tentative steps, then started running again. Immediately, my left foot began throbbing and I stopped running and began walking. After a quarter of a mile or so, I tried to run again only to have my left foot stop me in my tracks.
Shit, I thought. I'm hurt. I limped the remaining 2 miles back to my truck, the pain in my left foot increasing the longer I walked.
When I got home and took my running shoes off, I could see that my left great toe didn't look good. It was read, very swollen, stiff and cold to the touch. By Saturday evening, it was significantly bruised and even more swollen. I began to worry about whether I had broken it and, more importantly, how this type of an injury might affect my ability to run in the future (thanks Google). So, I decided to go to the emergency room and get it x-rayed.
Fractured distal phalanx. 4-6 weeks with no running and a lot of pain when walking of at least a couple of weeks. All confirmed by an orthopedic at the Vanderbilt Bone & Joint Clinic on Wednesday. Shit. I mean, shit.
How in the hell am I going to handle not running for 4-6 weeks? Time to get back in the gym, I guess.
Sunday, December 4, 2016
Christmas at the State Capitol
Last week, the boys and I accompanied Jude to the annual Christmas tree lighting by Governor Hallam at the State Capitol. I think this was the 5th or 6th consecutive year we have attended and, as always, it was fun.
The boys listened to Governor Haslam welcome everyone and introduce a few distinguished guests, including Santa and Mrs. Claus. Next, they watched the Governor and the First Lady press the button that lighted the Christmas tree for the holiday season. Then, it was off to listen to the Governor, First Lady, Santa Claus and Mrs. Claus take turns reading "The Night Before Christmas." And, finally, the boys got to visit with the man himself, Santa Claus, and tell them what they wanted for Christmas.
Governor Haslam
Joe and J.P.
J.P., Santa, Joe and Mrs. Claus
Jude, Joe, J.P. and me
It rained, as it has the last 4 State Capitol Christmas tree lightings we have attended. We slogged back to Jude's work parking garage, fighting the wind and a driving rain, and got in Jude's Honda Pilot, wet and hungry. Here's where the night took a turn, for sure.
As we were driving down Charlotte Avenue, J.P., sitting directly behind me on the passenger side, suddenly blurts out, "Is that Santa?!?"
I looked to my right and sure enough, there is Santa Claus driving down Charlotte Avenue in a bright red Honda Pilot with Mrs. Claus riding shotgun. How did I know it was Santa Claus? Well, for starters, he was still in his "uniform." Also, as he pulled ahead of us, I noticed the personalized license plate - "Mrs. Claus."
Jude and I looked at each other and wined silently. J.P. was quiet and I almost could hear his 8 1/2 year old mind working, trying to process what he had just seen. Finally, he said, "I bet Santa couldn't get he sleigh (and the reindeer) out tonight because it's raining and not snowing."
I breathed a sigh of relief, as Jude and I nodded and agreed with him. "I think that's right." Jude said.
In the meantime, I thought to myself, "Damn, Santa! WTH? Couldn't you at least have changed clothes before you left for home?"
Sunday, November 27, 2016
Joe and Bruiser
Joe and Bruiser, Belmont University's mascot, during the Belmont-Western Kentucky game.
Sidewalk Alumni
As I've mentioned before, I love living so close to Belmont University. Our house is 3 blocks from campus. Bongo Java, where I spend so much time (and where I'm sitting as I write this), is directly across the street from campus. I'm constantly running into Belmont students, whether it's at Bongo Java, in the neighborhood or on campus.
I think there's an energy, a vibe, that comes from spending so much time in and amongst college students. I've never been able to put my finger on it but it seems like there's an underlying sense of optimism and possibility that permeates a college campus and the surrounding neighborhood. The students are young, obviously, getting their first taste of life as adults, away from home. They're generally happy and that's contagious in a way.
Last Saturday night, J.P. and his basketball teammates got to serve on the "paint patrol" for the Belmont basketball team's home opener vs. Western Kentucky University. We met for dinner at Martin's BBQ on Belmont Boulevard beforehand. Then, several of us parked at our house, had a quick beer, and walked to the Curb Center for the game. I have 4 basketball season tickets and we had additional tickets through our group.
Before the game, I ran into my friend, Scott Corley, who was fairly recently named Belmont's athletic director. Some of the boys, including J.P., got their picture taken (by me) with Belmont's legendary coach, Rick Byrd. Most of the boys attended Coach Byrd's basketball camp last summer, so it was a special moment for them to see him.
The boys worked in shifts, with 4 working the first half and 4 working the second half. 2 of the boys were under each basketball goal, mopping and sweeping in the foul lane at each dead ball. The families, including siblings, were seated together in the stands to the left of Belmont's bench. It's such a special group of people, as I've said many times. It was such a great night and everyone was having such a great time, I hated for it to end.
On the walk home, I hid from J.P., Braden and Benton, leaping out to scare them at various places as their parents laughed. The perfect end to a perfect night of basketball and friendship.
Wednesday, November 23, 2016
The Morning After
After returning from Maristone late Friday night, I got up early Saturday morning and drove back down to Franklin to make sure my mom got up for breakfast. I was hoping that her first night sleeping alone went well, and it did for the most part, which was a relief. When I arrived about 7:30 a.m., she was up and dressed, which I thought was a good sign. We sat down, talked for a few minutes and played a game of Trouble, believe it or not.
Trouble is a game of significance for me, as one of my early and fond memories from childhood is my mom playing Trouble with me at our house in La Mirada, California, every morning before I walked across the street to go to kindergarten at Cling Elementary School. We laughed as we played then, when I was 5 years old, and we laughed as we played Saturday morning before breakfast, when I was 50 years old. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
We had breakfast together in the dining room, which was nice. There is a hierarchy among residents that impacts who sits where and with whom, strangely enough. More on that later, though. Patti Sparks stopped by and relieved me at 10 a.m., so I could go to J.P.'s basketball team and accompany he and his teammates to the Belmont-Western Kentucky game Saturday evening. I left with a heavy heart and a few pangs of guilt, as I felt, in a way, like I was getting time off for good behavior.
I need to say a word about Patti Sparks and Jan Baker, two of my mom's closest friends. Friendship, true friendship, is difficult to define. But I know it when I see it, and I see it in the relationship between my mom, Patti and Jan. The selfless way they treat her, care for her, talk to her and simply love her renews my faith in man and, really, in God. Patti and Jan have been a sounding board for me and have given me invaluable insight and advice.
When my mom was still living at home the last few months - and really struggling - Patti and Jan were a constant presence in her life (along with their husbands, Ben Sparks and Don Baker). They were at her house almost every day, checking on her, taking her to the grocery store or out to dinner. What means the most to me, I think, is Patti and Jan didn't forget about my mom when she began to fade away. In fact, they did the opposite. They took time away from their families (husbands, children and grandchildren), and continue to do so, to spend time with my mom when she needed t them the most. That's true friendship and I can never thank them enough for that.
I get emotional thinking about the two of them and writing about them because of how special they are to my mom, and to Tracy, Alice and me.
My mom is adjusting to her new circumstances, to her new life, and I am, too. I have needed to write the past few blog posts - to vent, if you will - to help me try to put what has happened to her in perspective. There will be more venting, but there will more posts about my boys in happier times. My mom would want that.
Trouble is a game of significance for me, as one of my early and fond memories from childhood is my mom playing Trouble with me at our house in La Mirada, California, every morning before I walked across the street to go to kindergarten at Cling Elementary School. We laughed as we played then, when I was 5 years old, and we laughed as we played Saturday morning before breakfast, when I was 50 years old. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
We had breakfast together in the dining room, which was nice. There is a hierarchy among residents that impacts who sits where and with whom, strangely enough. More on that later, though. Patti Sparks stopped by and relieved me at 10 a.m., so I could go to J.P.'s basketball team and accompany he and his teammates to the Belmont-Western Kentucky game Saturday evening. I left with a heavy heart and a few pangs of guilt, as I felt, in a way, like I was getting time off for good behavior.
I need to say a word about Patti Sparks and Jan Baker, two of my mom's closest friends. Friendship, true friendship, is difficult to define. But I know it when I see it, and I see it in the relationship between my mom, Patti and Jan. The selfless way they treat her, care for her, talk to her and simply love her renews my faith in man and, really, in God. Patti and Jan have been a sounding board for me and have given me invaluable insight and advice.
When my mom was still living at home the last few months - and really struggling - Patti and Jan were a constant presence in her life (along with their husbands, Ben Sparks and Don Baker). They were at her house almost every day, checking on her, taking her to the grocery store or out to dinner. What means the most to me, I think, is Patti and Jan didn't forget about my mom when she began to fade away. In fact, they did the opposite. They took time away from their families (husbands, children and grandchildren), and continue to do so, to spend time with my mom when she needed t them the most. That's true friendship and I can never thank them enough for that.
I get emotional thinking about the two of them and writing about them because of how special they are to my mom, and to Tracy, Alice and me.
My mom is adjusting to her new circumstances, to her new life, and I am, too. I have needed to write the past few blog posts - to vent, if you will - to help me try to put what has happened to her in perspective. There will be more venting, but there will more posts about my boys in happier times. My mom would want that.
Monday, November 21, 2016
Settling In
Okay. I need to get the rest of this out of me. Things will get better. They have to.
I arrived at Maristone to relieve Alice at 4 p.m. on Friday, my mom's second day there. She immediately greeted me with pleas to take her home. She was confused and upset, as has been the case more and more at sundown since the end of daylight savings time. I've learned that's pretty normal with people in her condition.
The plan was for me to spend the afternoon and evening with my mom, eating dinner with her in the dining room, then to leave shortly before bedtime. I insisted, and Tracy and Alice agreed, it was imperative to get her used to staying by herself overnight. Plans in theory almost always work to perfection. In reality, though, it's often an entirely different story.
Almost immediately, my mom asked me if I was staying the night. When I told her no, she got agitated. Truthfully, I can't describe it any other way than to say that she pleaded for me stay the night and not leave her alone. I was heartbroken.
I began crying as I told my mom how hard this was for me, for all of us. I told her I knew that she didn't really want Tracy, Alice and me to be away from our families every third night to stay with her. I told her my boys needed me at home at night. Kaitlyn and Matthew needed Tracy home at night, too.
Somehow, when she saw how emotional I was, she became my mom again. "I know," she said. "The boys need you. I know they do." Suddenly, just for a brief moment, my mom was comforting me, like she always has done. I don't know if it was a breakthrough or God's grace, or maybe a little of both.
So, we just hung out together the entire night.
We played checkers. (I picked up some games earlier that day.) It's hard to explain but playing checkers with her was like a summer rain shower, where it rains but he sun peaks in and out of clouds. In other words, I laughed with her as we played but I cried inside as she struggled with the rules and couldn't remember whether she was red or black. I think that checkers game is a metaphor for my life with her moving forward. Laughter and tears, mixed together.
We at dinner in the dining room downstairs. After dinner, we settled in to watch Independence HS vs. Cane Ridge HS in the quarterfinals of the high school football playoffs. Sadly, my mom couldn't keep track of which team was which until I wrote down that Independence HS was wearing white. That was the only way she knew which team to cheer for. Again, laughter and tears.
My mom insisted there was ice cream in the freezer compartment of her small refrigerator, although I told her that simply wasn't the case. Then, she thought there was ice cream in her freezer outside, undoubtedly referring the deep freezer at home or the extra refrigerator in the storeroom at home. Finally, I opened up the door to her apartment to show her that there was only a hallway outside, not the carport and the storeroom. In the end, I drover over to Publix and bought her some Klondike bars.
We sat not on the couch together, still watching the football game, and looked at old photographs of the boys on my computer. Her head began to nod and I let her fall asleep. When she woke up at 10 p.m., I suggested she go to bed, so I could leave and go home to my family. We argued a bit about that but she gave in after a few minutes, and shuffled to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
I helped her into bed, tucked her in and told her I loved her as I tried to fight back the tears. I turned off the lights, closed the door behind me, took the elevator downstairs and walked to my truck, head down and lost in thought. I felt so conflicted, relieved to be leaving but guilty at not being able to do more for her. I planned on returning the next morning to eat breakfast with her and to see how the night went.
The symbolism of tucking my mom into bed was not lost on me. In fact, the significance of the moment overpowered me. The parent had become the child and the child had become the parent. And so it goes.
I arrived at Maristone to relieve Alice at 4 p.m. on Friday, my mom's second day there. She immediately greeted me with pleas to take her home. She was confused and upset, as has been the case more and more at sundown since the end of daylight savings time. I've learned that's pretty normal with people in her condition.
The plan was for me to spend the afternoon and evening with my mom, eating dinner with her in the dining room, then to leave shortly before bedtime. I insisted, and Tracy and Alice agreed, it was imperative to get her used to staying by herself overnight. Plans in theory almost always work to perfection. In reality, though, it's often an entirely different story.
Almost immediately, my mom asked me if I was staying the night. When I told her no, she got agitated. Truthfully, I can't describe it any other way than to say that she pleaded for me stay the night and not leave her alone. I was heartbroken.
I began crying as I told my mom how hard this was for me, for all of us. I told her I knew that she didn't really want Tracy, Alice and me to be away from our families every third night to stay with her. I told her my boys needed me at home at night. Kaitlyn and Matthew needed Tracy home at night, too.
Somehow, when she saw how emotional I was, she became my mom again. "I know," she said. "The boys need you. I know they do." Suddenly, just for a brief moment, my mom was comforting me, like she always has done. I don't know if it was a breakthrough or God's grace, or maybe a little of both.
So, we just hung out together the entire night.
We played checkers. (I picked up some games earlier that day.) It's hard to explain but playing checkers with her was like a summer rain shower, where it rains but he sun peaks in and out of clouds. In other words, I laughed with her as we played but I cried inside as she struggled with the rules and couldn't remember whether she was red or black. I think that checkers game is a metaphor for my life with her moving forward. Laughter and tears, mixed together.
We at dinner in the dining room downstairs. After dinner, we settled in to watch Independence HS vs. Cane Ridge HS in the quarterfinals of the high school football playoffs. Sadly, my mom couldn't keep track of which team was which until I wrote down that Independence HS was wearing white. That was the only way she knew which team to cheer for. Again, laughter and tears.
My mom insisted there was ice cream in the freezer compartment of her small refrigerator, although I told her that simply wasn't the case. Then, she thought there was ice cream in her freezer outside, undoubtedly referring the deep freezer at home or the extra refrigerator in the storeroom at home. Finally, I opened up the door to her apartment to show her that there was only a hallway outside, not the carport and the storeroom. In the end, I drover over to Publix and bought her some Klondike bars.
We sat not on the couch together, still watching the football game, and looked at old photographs of the boys on my computer. Her head began to nod and I let her fall asleep. When she woke up at 10 p.m., I suggested she go to bed, so I could leave and go home to my family. We argued a bit about that but she gave in after a few minutes, and shuffled to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
I helped her into bed, tucked her in and told her I loved her as I tried to fight back the tears. I turned off the lights, closed the door behind me, took the elevator downstairs and walked to my truck, head down and lost in thought. I felt so conflicted, relieved to be leaving but guilty at not being able to do more for her. I planned on returning the next morning to eat breakfast with her and to see how the night went.
The symbolism of tucking my mom into bed was not lost on me. In fact, the significance of the moment overpowered me. The parent had become the child and the child had become the parent. And so it goes.
Saturday, November 19, 2016
No Going Back
I'm stealing an hour at noon at The Good Cup, an eclectic, hole in the wall of a coffee shop in the Grassland community, just outside Franklin. I just want to take a deep breath, figuratively, and contemplate the two most painful days of my life.
We moved my mom into Maristone Thursday morning. It was difficult, though not as bad as I thought it would be, probably because we all were so busy. Because she was only taking a few pieces of furniture and the double bed from the guest room, along with some clothes and frames photographs, the movers were loaded and gone in less than three hours. I ran a couple of errands for her, then met Tracy and Alice at Maristone with the move in well underway.
When I walked into Maristone for the first time, I was overwhelmed with, I guess, sadness. I saw several elderly people quietly eating lunch in the dining room, some of them hunched over with the ravages of old age. It suddenly hit me - they're just like my mom. In fact, she's in worse physical shape than many of them. My second thought him me even harder - they're not leaving here and neither is my mom.
Damn, it's hard to write that last sentence. It's hard to write any of this, but I have to get it out, once and for all, although I'm not sure why. The last 2 days are a jumble of emotions and thoughts.
Jan Baker arrived shortly after noon with my mom and she seemed okay, though confused. She started to settle in and I felt good enough about things that I left and went to the office about 3 p.m., planning to spend a couple of hours there. Just before 5 p.m., Alice texted me and asked me to come back to Maristone right away. As often seems to happen at sundown, my mom had gotten confused and was becoming more and more agitated with Tracy.
I packed up my gear and left the office and got Maristone a little after 5 p.m. When I walked in her apartment, my mom looked up at me from her chair and asked, "Will you take me home?" "No," I answered, and I could feel my heart breaking. "This is where you're going to stay." She gave me a blank stare, totally confused, and asked, "Why would I do that?" She got more and more agitated as I tried to explain to her why she was there.
I suggested Tracy take some things to her car to give her a break because I could see that she was close to despair. Sadly, Tracy bears the brunt of my mom's resentment, much as my mom did when she was taking care of my grandmother in her later years. I quickly realized there was no reasoning with her because she wasn't capable of remembering why she was Maristone or understanding that it was the best thing for her.
Eventually, she settled down and I left Tracy with her for the night. Tracy slept there to keep her company.
Friday morning, I worked from home for a bit then ran some errands for my mom. Her remote was missing and I stopped by her house, our house, to look for it. As I walked inside, the stillness enveloped me and I fell apart. It's hard to explain, but it was like the mostly happy spirit that had inhabited the house for the last 44 years had died. I sobbed to myself as I walked from room to room, memories flooding my mind like images on a movie screen. It was so sad. So much of that house was my mom and suddenly, in less than three hours, she had vanished, gone forever. The spirit in the house died when she left. It was just a house, like any other house, because it was no longer her house.
No more Thanksgiving or Christmas gatherings with family. No more gatherings of family and friends to watch a big football or basketball game. No more anything. Just a house full of junk to be thrown out, cleaned and eventually sold.
I wish I could say I felt better when I left, that perhaps all I need was to let my emotions take control been for a few minutes. No, I felt just as sad, if not more so, when I left the house and drove to Maristone Friday afternoon to stand vigil, so to speak, as mom in her altered state tried to acclimate herself in what she really has no idea is her new, and last, home.
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
Moving Out
This is the post I never thought I would write.
Tomorrow morning, we're moving my mom to an assisted living facility in Franklin. As someone who never has been adept at handling change, I'm paralyzed by my emotions and memories of our lives, and my mom's life, in the house on Brenthaven Drive she has lived in for 44 years. How did we get here so fast?
I know, in my heart, it's time. For my mom, it's gotten to the point that we have caregivers there for 8 hours each day and Tracy or Alice has been staying with her at night. When someone is not there with her, she's lonely, confused and scared, and that wrecks me. She has such a difficult time navigating her way through the house that if she stays there, it's only a matter of time before she falls and injures herself. Saddest of all, perhaps, is that in the mornings, Trace and Alice have had a hard time rousing her from the chair she sleeps in at night.
I am so angry, I guess, with God at giving her this burden to bear. After all she has been through in her life and all that she has given to Tracy, Alice and me - and to many others - why would God take her mind and memories away from her, bit by bit, day by day? Why couldn't she be allowed to enjoy her golden years like so many of her friends, driving herself to her grandchildren's sporting events and hosting holiday gatherings at her home. My faith, always so strong and such an important part of my life, has been shaken. I'm searching for a sense of perspective, now, and unable to find it.
It's so difficult for me to organize and process my thoughts about my mom's move. So many memories in that house, in that back yard and in that neighborhood. It occurred to me as I left the house the other day that virtually all of the stuff she accumulated over the years that is so special to her - photographs, trophies, the latch hook rug of Snoopy I made for Debbie Billings one summer in high school, framed newspaper articles about the Titans' Super Bowl Run - is just stuff that's going to end up in a landfill somewhere, sooner rather than later. Depressing, but true.
This isn't about me. I realize that, for sure. But my mom has been such a vital and important part of my life for so long, it devastates me to see her going through this. I want her to laugh again, to feel safe again, to not be lonely and to enjoy the life she has left to live. Is that too much to ask? I hope not.
Tomorrow morning, we're moving my mom to an assisted living facility in Franklin. As someone who never has been adept at handling change, I'm paralyzed by my emotions and memories of our lives, and my mom's life, in the house on Brenthaven Drive she has lived in for 44 years. How did we get here so fast?
I know, in my heart, it's time. For my mom, it's gotten to the point that we have caregivers there for 8 hours each day and Tracy or Alice has been staying with her at night. When someone is not there with her, she's lonely, confused and scared, and that wrecks me. She has such a difficult time navigating her way through the house that if she stays there, it's only a matter of time before she falls and injures herself. Saddest of all, perhaps, is that in the mornings, Trace and Alice have had a hard time rousing her from the chair she sleeps in at night.
I am so angry, I guess, with God at giving her this burden to bear. After all she has been through in her life and all that she has given to Tracy, Alice and me - and to many others - why would God take her mind and memories away from her, bit by bit, day by day? Why couldn't she be allowed to enjoy her golden years like so many of her friends, driving herself to her grandchildren's sporting events and hosting holiday gatherings at her home. My faith, always so strong and such an important part of my life, has been shaken. I'm searching for a sense of perspective, now, and unable to find it.
It's so difficult for me to organize and process my thoughts about my mom's move. So many memories in that house, in that back yard and in that neighborhood. It occurred to me as I left the house the other day that virtually all of the stuff she accumulated over the years that is so special to her - photographs, trophies, the latch hook rug of Snoopy I made for Debbie Billings one summer in high school, framed newspaper articles about the Titans' Super Bowl Run - is just stuff that's going to end up in a landfill somewhere, sooner rather than later. Depressing, but true.
This isn't about me. I realize that, for sure. But my mom has been such a vital and important part of my life for so long, it devastates me to see her going through this. I want her to laugh again, to feel safe again, to not be lonely and to enjoy the life she has left to live. Is that too much to ask? I hope not.
Saturday, November 12, 2016
The (Almost) Forgotten Legend of Johnny Bag of Doughnuts
One night a couple of weeks ago as Jude and I were going through our bedtime routines, J.P. turned to me as we was getting into bed and said, "Daddy, tell me a story." I paused, smiled and my heart skipped a beat at those magic words spoken by my 8 year old son.
And thus, for one night, Johnny Bag of Doughnuts was back in our lives.
There was a time - a lifetime ago, it seems - when I used to lay on the floor and tell J.P. a story every night after he climbed into bed. It was a special part of the day for me, for sure. The very best part of my day, really. It was a time to unwind and spend a few minutes alone with my son, and to leave the ups and downs of a busy day far behind me. It was a time to engage his imagination and mine, to make up elaborate stories on the fly or sometimes to continue a story from the night before, as he lay on the edge of his bed, facing me and listening raptly.
The main character of each and every story? Johnny Bag of Doughnuts, J.P's alter ego I created after an early dalliance with another character named Johnny Pasta. Generally, the stories centered around some recent activity or event of particular interest to him - the State Fair, the Winter Olympics, Belmont Basketball, the Lakers, the Predators, etc. - with Johnny Bag of Doughnuts playing the starring role in the story.
Through his nightly exploits as Johnny Bag of Doughnuts, J.P. saved the State Fair (probably his all-time favorite); grew giant pumpkins in the front yard of our house on Elliott Avenue; played drums and sang with the Avett Brothers at a street fair in front of Bongo Java; rode in a sled on snow 10 feet high from our house to Bongo Java and back again; welcomed all of the Nashville Predators as they got off the team bus at Bongo Java and showed Pekka Rinne, Martin Erat and Shea Weber how to his "stomp rocket" worked on the Belmont U. soccer field; drove a 4-man bobsled in the Winter Olympics (with E.J., Adam and George from Bongo Java) watching in person and cheering him on; played basketball with Kobe Bryant (many, many times) as a fill-in for an injured or sick player; dunked on Zach Randolph while playing for the Lakers at a game in Memphis (he loved Zach Randolph's reaction when he dunked on him so much that Zach appeared in multiple stories that had nothing to do with basketball); played hockey for Nashville Predators; practiced hockey with the Nashville Predators at a hockey rink underneath our house that you got to through the basement; scored multiple touchdowns for the Tennessee Titans; and played basketball for Rick Byrd (Belmont) or Kevin Stallings (Vanderbilt), often with Jack McDaniel or another friend from Children's House.
And on and on it went. On nights when I was really on my game and my imagination was running in fifth gear, J.P. would yell "NO! NO!" when I stopped in the middle of a 2, 3 or 4 part story right at a climactic moment and said, "to be continued." The next night, we would be back at it, as he insisted on a "recap" to catch us up to where we were ended the previous night before I continued with whatever tale I was telling.
We shared that time together, every night, J.P. and I. I knew it was special at the time and I sure as hell know, now, that it was special then. I miss the innocence of those nights spent together, right before I kissed him good night and he drifted off to sleep. I miss my life a bit from those days, too, when things seemed less complicated.
Here's to you, Johnny Bag of Doughnuts, gone but certainly not forgotten.
And thus, for one night, Johnny Bag of Doughnuts was back in our lives.
There was a time - a lifetime ago, it seems - when I used to lay on the floor and tell J.P. a story every night after he climbed into bed. It was a special part of the day for me, for sure. The very best part of my day, really. It was a time to unwind and spend a few minutes alone with my son, and to leave the ups and downs of a busy day far behind me. It was a time to engage his imagination and mine, to make up elaborate stories on the fly or sometimes to continue a story from the night before, as he lay on the edge of his bed, facing me and listening raptly.
The main character of each and every story? Johnny Bag of Doughnuts, J.P's alter ego I created after an early dalliance with another character named Johnny Pasta. Generally, the stories centered around some recent activity or event of particular interest to him - the State Fair, the Winter Olympics, Belmont Basketball, the Lakers, the Predators, etc. - with Johnny Bag of Doughnuts playing the starring role in the story.
Through his nightly exploits as Johnny Bag of Doughnuts, J.P. saved the State Fair (probably his all-time favorite); grew giant pumpkins in the front yard of our house on Elliott Avenue; played drums and sang with the Avett Brothers at a street fair in front of Bongo Java; rode in a sled on snow 10 feet high from our house to Bongo Java and back again; welcomed all of the Nashville Predators as they got off the team bus at Bongo Java and showed Pekka Rinne, Martin Erat and Shea Weber how to his "stomp rocket" worked on the Belmont U. soccer field; drove a 4-man bobsled in the Winter Olympics (with E.J., Adam and George from Bongo Java) watching in person and cheering him on; played basketball with Kobe Bryant (many, many times) as a fill-in for an injured or sick player; dunked on Zach Randolph while playing for the Lakers at a game in Memphis (he loved Zach Randolph's reaction when he dunked on him so much that Zach appeared in multiple stories that had nothing to do with basketball); played hockey for Nashville Predators; practiced hockey with the Nashville Predators at a hockey rink underneath our house that you got to through the basement; scored multiple touchdowns for the Tennessee Titans; and played basketball for Rick Byrd (Belmont) or Kevin Stallings (Vanderbilt), often with Jack McDaniel or another friend from Children's House.
And on and on it went. On nights when I was really on my game and my imagination was running in fifth gear, J.P. would yell "NO! NO!" when I stopped in the middle of a 2, 3 or 4 part story right at a climactic moment and said, "to be continued." The next night, we would be back at it, as he insisted on a "recap" to catch us up to where we were ended the previous night before I continued with whatever tale I was telling.
We shared that time together, every night, J.P. and I. I knew it was special at the time and I sure as hell know, now, that it was special then. I miss the innocence of those nights spent together, right before I kissed him good night and he drifted off to sleep. I miss my life a bit from those days, too, when things seemed less complicated.
Here's to you, Johnny Bag of Doughnuts, gone but certainly not forgotten.
Friday, November 11, 2016
Trumped
Wednesday, November 9, was a strange day indeed, in a "through the looking glass way." Donald Trump was elected the 45th president of the United States of America.
I don't think anyone saw it coming. The pollsters were wrong. Republicans were wrong. Democrats were wrong. I was wrong. Whether you were for Hillary Clinton or not, her ascendancy to the presidency seemed inevitable throughout the campaign. Well, it wasn't.
The mood, at least in my neighborhood in the Belmont-12South area of Nashville and among my friends, was drastically different that it was eight years ago after Barack Obama was elected president. Then, there was a feeling of hope and pride, I think, that America had elected its first African American president. Change was afoot. Anything was possible. A new day had dawned.
Wednesday morning, I ran into our next door neighbor as she pulled out of her driveway to talk her daughter to school. She rolled down her window, looked up an me and sighed. "Weird morning," she said. She looked like she might be about to cry. It was a weird morning, for sure.
I talked to the husband on a close friend. His wife was devastated, in large part because she believed that in her lifetime, she would never see a woman elected president.
There are so many sides to this presidential election. So much to read. So much to learn. So much to understand.
As I told J.P. when I drove him to school Wednesday morning, we're Americans first, Republicans and Democrats second. I hope people remember that in the coming days.
I don't think anyone saw it coming. The pollsters were wrong. Republicans were wrong. Democrats were wrong. I was wrong. Whether you were for Hillary Clinton or not, her ascendancy to the presidency seemed inevitable throughout the campaign. Well, it wasn't.
The mood, at least in my neighborhood in the Belmont-12South area of Nashville and among my friends, was drastically different that it was eight years ago after Barack Obama was elected president. Then, there was a feeling of hope and pride, I think, that America had elected its first African American president. Change was afoot. Anything was possible. A new day had dawned.
Wednesday morning, I ran into our next door neighbor as she pulled out of her driveway to talk her daughter to school. She rolled down her window, looked up an me and sighed. "Weird morning," she said. She looked like she might be about to cry. It was a weird morning, for sure.
I talked to the husband on a close friend. His wife was devastated, in large part because she believed that in her lifetime, she would never see a woman elected president.
There are so many sides to this presidential election. So much to read. So much to learn. So much to understand.
As I told J.P. when I drove him to school Wednesday morning, we're Americans first, Republicans and Democrats second. I hope people remember that in the coming days.
Tuesday, November 1, 2016
Saturday morning brought to a close the Dodgers' fall baseball season for J.P. and his teammates. I've enjoyed the respite that Tuesday evening practices provided me from my daily life, especially the ever present worries about my mom. Having an opportunity to get out not he field with the boys and several of their fathers - my friends - was the highlight of each of my weeks this fall.
There were times, during a stolen moment or two during practice, when I took a minute to glance around and take it all in. Several of the moms, sitting in camping chairs by the parking lot on the first base side of the field, talking and laughing while the younger siblings played in front of them. My assistant coaches leaning against the fence, holding their baseball gloves, talking amiably. The boys, always the boys, playing catch in left field and chasing missed balls. I knew then and I know now that those are the good times, the times I will miss desperately when the boys are older and have begun to scatter. I love coaching baseball.
As predicted, for the boys it was a fall season of struggling, failing a lot, succeeding occasionally and, most importantly, learning. It was the boys' first season of kid pitch baseball, which meant learning to hit a pitched ball from another boy and learning to pitch a baseball to a boys trying to hit it. I'm not sure which was more of a struggle for them. What I wanted them to learn, though, and what I think they did learn, was to stay in the batters box and not step out when the pitch was coming. I also wanted every boy to pitch in a game if he wanted to and we accomplished that goal, as well. Throwing strikes was s little more difficult, though, but time and again I saw boys fight through control problems to get out of an inning.
Most of all, I saw boys learning and improving, literally from pitch to pitch in the same at bat, which was amazing and rewarding. By the end of the season, the boys had learned to run the bases with proficiency, for the most part, and to steal second or third base on their own when their was a passed ball. Their wasn't as much fielding as in machine pitch baseball because there were so many strikeouts and walks, but that will come with time.
J.P. played well. He slumped late in the fall season, once striking out looking three times in one game and two times the next game. But he battled through it and in the second to last game of the season in the last inning with two outs, he laced a double to right center field. As he rounded first and headed for second base, my heart stopped as it looked like he would be thrown out easily. The baseball gods were smiling at him, though, and as he slid hard into second base, the shortstop dropped the throw. J.P. stood up and brushed the dirt off his pants with huge grin on his face. I looked at Jude and her dad and gave them a thumbs up sign. Damn, J.P. needed that hit in the worst way and he got it.
We worked in a couple of coaches' meetings at Eldey's in 12South, always a highlight for me. One of the moms recently mentioned to me that she loved her "baseball family." You know what? I do, too.
Aidan, J.P., Benton, Wes, Braden, Jonathan, Hank, Ellis, Benjy, Porter, Dylan and Cooper made up one of my favorite groups of boys to coach.
There were times, during a stolen moment or two during practice, when I took a minute to glance around and take it all in. Several of the moms, sitting in camping chairs by the parking lot on the first base side of the field, talking and laughing while the younger siblings played in front of them. My assistant coaches leaning against the fence, holding their baseball gloves, talking amiably. The boys, always the boys, playing catch in left field and chasing missed balls. I knew then and I know now that those are the good times, the times I will miss desperately when the boys are older and have begun to scatter. I love coaching baseball.
As predicted, for the boys it was a fall season of struggling, failing a lot, succeeding occasionally and, most importantly, learning. It was the boys' first season of kid pitch baseball, which meant learning to hit a pitched ball from another boy and learning to pitch a baseball to a boys trying to hit it. I'm not sure which was more of a struggle for them. What I wanted them to learn, though, and what I think they did learn, was to stay in the batters box and not step out when the pitch was coming. I also wanted every boy to pitch in a game if he wanted to and we accomplished that goal, as well. Throwing strikes was s little more difficult, though, but time and again I saw boys fight through control problems to get out of an inning.
Most of all, I saw boys learning and improving, literally from pitch to pitch in the same at bat, which was amazing and rewarding. By the end of the season, the boys had learned to run the bases with proficiency, for the most part, and to steal second or third base on their own when their was a passed ball. Their wasn't as much fielding as in machine pitch baseball because there were so many strikeouts and walks, but that will come with time.
J.P. played well. He slumped late in the fall season, once striking out looking three times in one game and two times the next game. But he battled through it and in the second to last game of the season in the last inning with two outs, he laced a double to right center field. As he rounded first and headed for second base, my heart stopped as it looked like he would be thrown out easily. The baseball gods were smiling at him, though, and as he slid hard into second base, the shortstop dropped the throw. J.P. stood up and brushed the dirt off his pants with huge grin on his face. I looked at Jude and her dad and gave them a thumbs up sign. Damn, J.P. needed that hit in the worst way and he got it.
We worked in a couple of coaches' meetings at Eldey's in 12South, always a highlight for me. One of the moms recently mentioned to me that she loved her "baseball family." You know what? I do, too.
Aidan, J.P., Benton, Wes, Braden, Jonathan, Hank, Ellis, Benjy, Porter, Dylan and Cooper made up one of my favorite groups of boys to coach.
Sunday, October 30, 2016
The Perfect Sports Storm
I'm sitting outside Frothy Monkey on 12th Avenue on Sunday morning, watching the neighborhood wake up. It's a breathtakingly beautiful fall morning and the kids at the Monkey are playing classical, piano music this morning, which somehow fits my mood.
Yesterday was a nice distraction to everything going on with my mom, as we were on the go all day then last night toggled in between the Vols (lost to USC), the Cubs (lost to the Indians) and the Predators (lost to San Jose). Not a good night for sports fandom for me.
Earlier, J.P. had battled through the perfect storm of sporting activities, as he played his last fall baseball game for the Dodgers at 9 a.m., an 8-6 in. We rushed over to Shelby Park at 11:30 a.m. and the Green Lanterns played a team of 5th and 6th graders to a 3-3 draw in a spirited contest. Then, it was back home for a couple hours of rest and recuperation. To cap the day off, we drove to David Lipscomb and washed J.P.'s basketball team win their first game of the fall season. A full lid.
That's not a normal Saturday, thankfully. The soccer season was extended by a couple of weeks because the league asked J.P.'s team to play a "home and home" against an East Nashville team. Fall baseball was winding down and fall basketball was just beginning. It was the perfect sports storm.
At work, Mark laughs at me when I describe how busy our weekends are with games and practices for the boys. "That's a you problem," he says, which is what I used to tell him when he would spend entire Saturdays at Oak View basketball as commissioner of the basketball league. Times change, don't they?
As much as I'd like to sit here in this peace and quiet for another half hour, it's time to head home and began our Sunday in earnest. First Communion class for J.P., hangout time for me with Joe (which is the best), swim lessons for Joe this afternoon and hangout time with J.P. (also the best).
Yesterday was a nice distraction to everything going on with my mom, as we were on the go all day then last night toggled in between the Vols (lost to USC), the Cubs (lost to the Indians) and the Predators (lost to San Jose). Not a good night for sports fandom for me.
Earlier, J.P. had battled through the perfect storm of sporting activities, as he played his last fall baseball game for the Dodgers at 9 a.m., an 8-6 in. We rushed over to Shelby Park at 11:30 a.m. and the Green Lanterns played a team of 5th and 6th graders to a 3-3 draw in a spirited contest. Then, it was back home for a couple hours of rest and recuperation. To cap the day off, we drove to David Lipscomb and washed J.P.'s basketball team win their first game of the fall season. A full lid.
That's not a normal Saturday, thankfully. The soccer season was extended by a couple of weeks because the league asked J.P.'s team to play a "home and home" against an East Nashville team. Fall baseball was winding down and fall basketball was just beginning. It was the perfect sports storm.
At work, Mark laughs at me when I describe how busy our weekends are with games and practices for the boys. "That's a you problem," he says, which is what I used to tell him when he would spend entire Saturdays at Oak View basketball as commissioner of the basketball league. Times change, don't they?
As much as I'd like to sit here in this peace and quiet for another half hour, it's time to head home and began our Sunday in earnest. First Communion class for J.P., hangout time for me with Joe (which is the best), swim lessons for Joe this afternoon and hangout time with J.P. (also the best).
Monday, October 10, 2016
The Best Friend I've Ever Had
This is really, really hard to write. So hard, that I've started, stopped and started writing it again multiple time over the past month.
When I first started this blog more almost nine years ago, I did so in part because Jude and I had so many friends and family who seemed interested in her pregnancy, doctor's appointments and our preparations to become parents. It was easier to provide an update once, in a blog post, as opposed to having innumerable telephone or in person conversations with those we love.
Having lost my father at an early age and subsequently spending a lifetime chasing his ghost, I wanted our son, J.P., then later Joe, too, to have a record of our lives when they were babies and toddlers. I wanted them to know a little bit about me, how I felt and how much they meant to me at a time when they were too young to have a lot of memories. In truth, I never planned to keep this blog alive as long as I have, nine years later.
Shortly after I started the blog, it took on a life of its own for me, in part because my mom took so much pleasure in reading every word of every post. In those days, she devoured every bit of news and every note on the blog about J.P.'s life as a baby and toddler and our lives together as a family. After reading a post, she never failed to complement me on my writing and tell me that if I wanted to, I could be a writer. Of course, this pleased me to no end. I even arranged to have the first year of the blog bound - complete with photographs - so she would have a copy to show her friends. She displayed it proudly on the coffee table in her den, where it still sits to this day.
If I hadn't posted in a few days, my mom invariably asked me why. I feel a little guilty admitting this now, but there were times when I felt annoyed if work or some other series of life events had kept me from updating the blog for a few days and she asked when she could expect a new post. As I reflect back, though, one of the things that kept me going and that kept the blog alive was knowing that my mom was reading and enjoying each and every post. And, too, that she was proud of me and my efforts to be a good father. That was a huge part of it, actually.
I realize, now, that I was blogging for her, too. I think, on some level, my mom treasured getting a chance to see, in me, at least a partial view of what my father would have been like with Tracy and me had he lived past the age of thirty. I also think that when she read my most intimate thoughts and feelings on what being a father meant to me, it brought her closer to my father or to her memory of him and what might have been. I don't know that, of course, but it's what I think.
I should have known something was wrong, two or three years ago, when after posting on the blog I didn't receive an immediate response from my mom. More and more, I found I had to remind her to check the blog to see what I had posted. Roles had reversed, as I began to nag her about reading my latest post. Still, I was too self-absorbed to give it much thought. Also, I think I was afraid to give any serious thought to why my mom wasn't keeping up with the blog anymore. My head was buried in the sand. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. Other time, ignorance is an expression of fear and an avoidance of reality.
Slowly, over time, I realized my mom wasn't reading the blog at all anymore. When I asked why, she always made an excuse. Her computer wasn't working (we bought her an new one), her computer had a virus, she had been too busy, etc. What I know now, of course, is that my mom had stopped using her computer at all. This vibrant, social creature, for whom e-mail and the internet had been a an exciting portal to her friends and the world, had lost the desire or ability to operate her computer.
And it broke my heart.
My mom is struggling, and has been struggling, with daily life activities that she could perform without a second thought two or three years ago. It's all happened so fast, or maybe it hasn't. I don't know for sure. I do know that I want to cry and, in fact, when I see my mom limping around her house with her cane simply trying to get from one place to the other, I almost do. Or, as so often happens now, when my mom repeats the same question to me two or three times in a brief telephone conversation, after I hang up at the end of the call, I want to yell at the top of my lungs at the injustice of it all.
More than once in the last month or two, I have walked the streets of my neighborhood after the boys and Jude are in bed, in tears, trying to make sense of why this is happening to my mom. What kind of a world is this when a woman who has given her heart and soul to others her entire adult life is faced with back and hip pain that prevent her from walking normally and a mind that seemingly fails her a little bit more with each passing day.
I am ashamed to admit this, but for the first time in my life, I am questioning my faith in God.
I just do not understand how after all my mom has been through - losing her husband at such a young age and raising Tracy, Alice and me as a single parent; losing both of her sisters; losing her father; caring for her mother for years and later, her mother's sister (Aunt Sara Dickson); working nights at Baptist Hospital for 17 years; being the rock upon which our family has been built - that the life she is left with is the one she has now, in pain and unsteady when she walks and cursed with an ever fading memory.
Nothing I have been through or learned in my life has prepared me for the maelstrom of emotions swirling in my head and in my heart. I am so conflicted. I feel terribly guilty when I haven't seen my mom in a few days. Then, when I pick her up and take to our house for dinner or stop by her house to spend some time with her, I feel so depressed afterwards because I cannot help her. I feel so fucking helpless, so fucking useless at a time when my mom needs me to be so much more than I am, as a son and as a man.
For as long as I can remember, my mom has been my best friend. Over the years, we laughed and cried together. We argued and fought with each other, at times, too. But she was the constant in my life, the one person I talked to on the telephone almost every day of my adult life.
On countless occasions, I called her late at night when she was working at Baptist Hospital. I called her on my way to work or on my way home from work. She reveled in calling me in the afternoon at work when a story broke in the sports world. We talked about sports, politics, family and so often, she steered the conversation back to my life, to what I was doing at work, to my exploits on the softball field or, later, to my boys.
This is what is ripping my heart out, when you get down to it. I am losing the best friend I've ever had - she's slipping away from me a little bit more each day - and I can't do a damn this about it. And it's absolutely killing me.
When I first started this blog more almost nine years ago, I did so in part because Jude and I had so many friends and family who seemed interested in her pregnancy, doctor's appointments and our preparations to become parents. It was easier to provide an update once, in a blog post, as opposed to having innumerable telephone or in person conversations with those we love.
Having lost my father at an early age and subsequently spending a lifetime chasing his ghost, I wanted our son, J.P., then later Joe, too, to have a record of our lives when they were babies and toddlers. I wanted them to know a little bit about me, how I felt and how much they meant to me at a time when they were too young to have a lot of memories. In truth, I never planned to keep this blog alive as long as I have, nine years later.
Shortly after I started the blog, it took on a life of its own for me, in part because my mom took so much pleasure in reading every word of every post. In those days, she devoured every bit of news and every note on the blog about J.P.'s life as a baby and toddler and our lives together as a family. After reading a post, she never failed to complement me on my writing and tell me that if I wanted to, I could be a writer. Of course, this pleased me to no end. I even arranged to have the first year of the blog bound - complete with photographs - so she would have a copy to show her friends. She displayed it proudly on the coffee table in her den, where it still sits to this day.
If I hadn't posted in a few days, my mom invariably asked me why. I feel a little guilty admitting this now, but there were times when I felt annoyed if work or some other series of life events had kept me from updating the blog for a few days and she asked when she could expect a new post. As I reflect back, though, one of the things that kept me going and that kept the blog alive was knowing that my mom was reading and enjoying each and every post. And, too, that she was proud of me and my efforts to be a good father. That was a huge part of it, actually.
I realize, now, that I was blogging for her, too. I think, on some level, my mom treasured getting a chance to see, in me, at least a partial view of what my father would have been like with Tracy and me had he lived past the age of thirty. I also think that when she read my most intimate thoughts and feelings on what being a father meant to me, it brought her closer to my father or to her memory of him and what might have been. I don't know that, of course, but it's what I think.
I should have known something was wrong, two or three years ago, when after posting on the blog I didn't receive an immediate response from my mom. More and more, I found I had to remind her to check the blog to see what I had posted. Roles had reversed, as I began to nag her about reading my latest post. Still, I was too self-absorbed to give it much thought. Also, I think I was afraid to give any serious thought to why my mom wasn't keeping up with the blog anymore. My head was buried in the sand. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. Other time, ignorance is an expression of fear and an avoidance of reality.
Slowly, over time, I realized my mom wasn't reading the blog at all anymore. When I asked why, she always made an excuse. Her computer wasn't working (we bought her an new one), her computer had a virus, she had been too busy, etc. What I know now, of course, is that my mom had stopped using her computer at all. This vibrant, social creature, for whom e-mail and the internet had been a an exciting portal to her friends and the world, had lost the desire or ability to operate her computer.
And it broke my heart.
My mom is struggling, and has been struggling, with daily life activities that she could perform without a second thought two or three years ago. It's all happened so fast, or maybe it hasn't. I don't know for sure. I do know that I want to cry and, in fact, when I see my mom limping around her house with her cane simply trying to get from one place to the other, I almost do. Or, as so often happens now, when my mom repeats the same question to me two or three times in a brief telephone conversation, after I hang up at the end of the call, I want to yell at the top of my lungs at the injustice of it all.
More than once in the last month or two, I have walked the streets of my neighborhood after the boys and Jude are in bed, in tears, trying to make sense of why this is happening to my mom. What kind of a world is this when a woman who has given her heart and soul to others her entire adult life is faced with back and hip pain that prevent her from walking normally and a mind that seemingly fails her a little bit more with each passing day.
I am ashamed to admit this, but for the first time in my life, I am questioning my faith in God.
I just do not understand how after all my mom has been through - losing her husband at such a young age and raising Tracy, Alice and me as a single parent; losing both of her sisters; losing her father; caring for her mother for years and later, her mother's sister (Aunt Sara Dickson); working nights at Baptist Hospital for 17 years; being the rock upon which our family has been built - that the life she is left with is the one she has now, in pain and unsteady when she walks and cursed with an ever fading memory.
Nothing I have been through or learned in my life has prepared me for the maelstrom of emotions swirling in my head and in my heart. I am so conflicted. I feel terribly guilty when I haven't seen my mom in a few days. Then, when I pick her up and take to our house for dinner or stop by her house to spend some time with her, I feel so depressed afterwards because I cannot help her. I feel so fucking helpless, so fucking useless at a time when my mom needs me to be so much more than I am, as a son and as a man.
For as long as I can remember, my mom has been my best friend. Over the years, we laughed and cried together. We argued and fought with each other, at times, too. But she was the constant in my life, the one person I talked to on the telephone almost every day of my adult life.
On countless occasions, I called her late at night when she was working at Baptist Hospital. I called her on my way to work or on my way home from work. She reveled in calling me in the afternoon at work when a story broke in the sports world. We talked about sports, politics, family and so often, she steered the conversation back to my life, to what I was doing at work, to my exploits on the softball field or, later, to my boys.
This is what is ripping my heart out, when you get down to it. I am losing the best friend I've ever had - she's slipping away from me a little bit more each day - and I can't do a damn this about it. And it's absolutely killing me.
Saturday, September 10, 2016
Voices
Weekend mornings are the best. The pace of the morning is so much slower, as we're not in an all out sprint to get up, shower, make breakfast for the boys, get them to school and get ourselves to work.
One of my favorite things to do is listen to the boys talk to each other, as they wake up on a Saturday or Sunday morning, before they come downstairs and get into our bed to read and play on JP's iPad. We still have the baby monitor set up in Joe's room, so as it turns out we can hear pretty much everything going on in both rooms. Handy.
At bedtime, Jude always tells the boys what time they can get up the next morning. Occasionally, there's some negotiation involved but most of the time, they're fine with what she says. Like clockwork, they start talking 10 or 15 minutes before 7 a.m. (today's time) or whatever other time they're supposed to get up. Usually, Joe starts talking to JP first, JP answers and away they go.
On mornings like this morning, their conversations are hilarious. Sometimes, Jude and I just lay in bed and laugh. I wish I could record their conversations and listen to them 10 years from now.
As I got dressed this morning after taking a shower, listening to the boys jabber back and forth, I was struck by how different JP's life would be - and ours, too - if we hadn't have had Joe. When Jude and I talked about having another child after JP was born, we always came back around to the thought that we wanted JP to have a sibling. I thought, in our world, this was even more important because we were older parents. I was worried about JP having to deal with Jude and me as senior citizens without any help or, more importantly, without anyone to talk to as he watched us grow older.
JP's life (and our, of course) has been enriched in so many ways by Joe. Being a big brother is a role that JP assumes naturally. He's good at it, almost all of the time. Joe's inquisitive nature requires JP to answer an endless stream of questions, which he does with patience. Somehow, Joe seems to complement and enhance all of the best things about JP's personality. I also think Joe fills in gaps for JP, engaging him in conversation and discussion when he (JP) might tend to be more quiet and contemplative.
It's hard to imagine JP without Joe, getting up in the morning in solitude and quietly walking downstairs to our bedroom. That would be so strange. They're like peanut butter and jelly. They just go together, a perfect match for our family.
One of my favorite things to do is listen to the boys talk to each other, as they wake up on a Saturday or Sunday morning, before they come downstairs and get into our bed to read and play on JP's iPad. We still have the baby monitor set up in Joe's room, so as it turns out we can hear pretty much everything going on in both rooms. Handy.
At bedtime, Jude always tells the boys what time they can get up the next morning. Occasionally, there's some negotiation involved but most of the time, they're fine with what she says. Like clockwork, they start talking 10 or 15 minutes before 7 a.m. (today's time) or whatever other time they're supposed to get up. Usually, Joe starts talking to JP first, JP answers and away they go.
On mornings like this morning, their conversations are hilarious. Sometimes, Jude and I just lay in bed and laugh. I wish I could record their conversations and listen to them 10 years from now.
As I got dressed this morning after taking a shower, listening to the boys jabber back and forth, I was struck by how different JP's life would be - and ours, too - if we hadn't have had Joe. When Jude and I talked about having another child after JP was born, we always came back around to the thought that we wanted JP to have a sibling. I thought, in our world, this was even more important because we were older parents. I was worried about JP having to deal with Jude and me as senior citizens without any help or, more importantly, without anyone to talk to as he watched us grow older.
JP's life (and our, of course) has been enriched in so many ways by Joe. Being a big brother is a role that JP assumes naturally. He's good at it, almost all of the time. Joe's inquisitive nature requires JP to answer an endless stream of questions, which he does with patience. Somehow, Joe seems to complement and enhance all of the best things about JP's personality. I also think Joe fills in gaps for JP, engaging him in conversation and discussion when he (JP) might tend to be more quiet and contemplative.
It's hard to imagine JP without Joe, getting up in the morning in solitude and quietly walking downstairs to our bedroom. That would be so strange. They're like peanut butter and jelly. They just go together, a perfect match for our family.
Friday, August 12, 2016
Santa Rosa Beach
J.P., the proud owner a new sand dollar.
Joe on the beach.
Jed and the boys at Blue Mountain Creamery.
Santa Rosa Beach 2016
Our annual week's vacation in Santa Rosa ends tonight and we'll be on the road home to Nashville tomorrow morning. As always, there were many highlights (and a lowlight or two) from our stay in Old Florida Village, our home away from home.
- Rain, rain and more rain. We had thunderstorms Saturday and Sunday nights, then real rain on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. The lifeguards "double red-flagged the beach" on those days, which meant no one could get in the ocean. Finally, about noon today, the second red flag came down and the boys were able to spend an hour in the ocean, playing and looking for shells. Bummer and a definite lowlight.
- Lots and lots of board games, mostly "Thomas Pop Up" (aka "Trouble), Sorry and Connect Four. As usual, Joe dominated the "Thomas Pop Up" games. He laughs when I call him "the Assassin," even though he doesn't know what it means, as he lands on our men and sends them back to their "home." It kind of pisses J.P. off that Joe wins most of the time. Of course, it's quite funny that on the rare occasion when Joe loses, he cries, screams and raises completely hell about it.
- Lots and lots of the Summer Olympics. The boys, as well as Jude and I, have loved watching the Summer Olympics this week. Favorite events, in no particular order - Fencing (a big hit), table tennis, volleyball (traditional and beach), swimming and diving and many more. Michael Phelps is a hero to the boys, for sure. What a performance by him!
- I haven't had the best week of running, which is a bit depressing for me. Normally, I kill it down here, running every day. On Sunday morning, I left the house excited about on the Longleaf Trail a half mile or so away from Old Florida Village. When I arrived at the trailhead, I ignored a sign saying the trail was closed. What I saw on the trail (and the apparent reason of the closure) devastated me, as there were pine trees torn down and underbrush plowed up everywhere. It looked like someone is developing property on the trail, which would be a tragedy. Another lowlight.
- Pool time was a definite highlight, as always. The boys love playing in the pool. Just as J.P. was at 4 years of age, Joe is a bit dangerous, because he doesn't really comprehend the danger of getting in water over his head. Jude and I had to watch him carefully at every minute and still, at one point on Thursday when I was with the boys in the pool, he fell off a step into water over his head. It's scary and I'll be glad when he become a stronger swimmer.
- Thursday at the pool, J.P., Joe and I swam in the rain and had the pool to ourselves. J.P. pretended to be in a "Dude Perfect" video, running and jumping into the pool and trying to catch a ball I threw to him. Joe laughed as he watched. Later, Jude arrived, it started raining harder, and J.P. and jumped back into the pool. We took turns jumping off the side, doing "cannonballs" and "can openers" in an effort to make the biggest splash. I managed to slightly bruise my tailbone the bottom of the pool on one of my more boisterous attempts. One of the highlights of the week on the fun scale.
- Friday, J.P. and I invented a game at the beach. We started out chest to chest, tossing a ball back and forth. Each time one of us caught the ball, he took a step back. We tried to see how far we could get apart from each other, tossing the ball. When one of us dropped it, we had to start over. Each time we started a new round, we did a "high five" routine - right hand high five (slap the thighs), left hand high five (slap the thighs), both hand high five/low five (slap the thighs). Silly? Yes. But good spontaneous and competitive fun, as all of our on the spot made up games tend to be.
- Friday evening, J.P. and I walked down to the swimming pool. Joe, still tired from his afternoon nap, didn't want to swim for some reason. The rain was gone and it wasn't quite as overcast as it had been. The temperature had dropped into the high 70's and, really, it was a beautiful earl evening. We ended up swimming and playing, throwing the Waboba back and forth across the pool, which we had to ourselves. J.P. repeatedly jumped into the pool in the deep (5') end and tried to catch the Waboba as he hit the water. We just hung out together in the pool for close to two hours. I don't get that kind of relaxed time with him, so it was special, just me and him. I didn't want the idyllic interlude to end.
- Coffee at Ama Vida in Seaside, FL. It's the only real coffee shop I've been able to locate down here, at least since Grayton Beach Coffeehouse went out of business a year or two ago. Ama Vida is a member of the same coffee cooperative as Bongo Java and, strangely enough, one of their former baristas - Rachel - moved to Nashville and works at Bongo Java now. Anyway, Ama Vida has a nice atmosphere a really good coffee. It's a small place, tucked away on the beach side of 30A in the middle of Seaside.
- An afternoon half carafe of wine at Wine World, watching the Olympics. Somehow, I missed having beers at the Great Southern in Seaside, though. Since this was the first trip I've not brought the City Elite stroller with us, my afternoon down time was limited, as Joe napped in his bed at the house. That's a metaphorical changing of the guard I'm not too excited about, to tell you the truth.
- Dinner at the Pickle Factory, another regular stop for us. The thinnest of thin crust pizza is always a hit. The owner - something of a curmudgeon - literally groaned, sat down at the bar and put his head in his hands when I ordered a second pizza. Strange but typical for the Pickle Factory. My buddy, David Hanchrow, stopped by on his way back from Destin.
- Jude and I finished reading "Beautiful Ruins," by Jess Walter. What a fantastic novel! Pasquale Tursi and Dee Moray are characters that will stay with me for a long time. I want to stay at The Hotel Adequate View on the coast, in Italy.
- I'm well into "Voyager," by Russell Banks. It's travel memoir he wrote and recently published, with collections of some of his older pieces as well as some new pieces. I'd forgotten how much I enjoy his writing.
- The Growler Garage, which had just opened up when we visited Santa Rosa Beach last year.
- Jed, always Jed, at Blue Mountain Creamery. The boys talk all year long about seeing Jed when we get to Santa Rosa Beach. We first met him 6 years ago, I think, when J.P. was 2 and his family had just opened Blue Mountain Creamery. Business was spotty then but boy have things changed as the years have passed. Jed is in his early 20's now - all grown up - and Blue Mountain Creamery is killing it. The boys love the ice cream but they really, really love Jed. We brought him some Nashville swag - t-shirts from Edley's BBQ and the Filling Station and a hat from Martin's BBQ.
- I made lunch for the boys every day and we had dinner, mostly takeout, from La Playa (twice), Goatfeathers, Louis Louis (a new place we went to, although it was "meh"), Local Catch, Pizza By the Sea and the Pickle Factory. We're creatures of habit, for sure.
- I listend to a fascinating WTF (Marc Maron) podcast with James L. Brooks, during one of my runs past the golf course and nearby lake, a route a hadn't run in a few years. Good stuff.
That's about it, really. On the whole, it seemed like a little less eventful of a trip than in years past, perhaps because it rained so much and there was so much of the Olympics to watching on television.
It's late, we're partially packed and I'm already well into reentry mode. I'm going to get crushed at work the rest of August and in September, so it's time to get back home and get back to work.
Monday, August 8, 2016
Beach Boys
It's Monday afternoon, two days into our annual vacation to Santa Rosa Beach, Florida. Jude and the boys are napping and I'm sitting at the bar at Wine World in Watercolor on 30A, watching it rain outside. This is a regular haunt for me on beach afternoons, as I normally stop in at least once for an afternoon glass of wine during the week we're at the beach. It's not crowded and the Summer Olympics (Rio) is showing on a pair of flatscreen televisions above the bar. It's quiet and cool, with my man, Tom Petty (and the Heartbreakers) playing in the background ("The Waiting").
We left Nashville on Saturday a few minutes before 8 a.m., an early start for us and less than an hour after our planned departure time of 7 a.m. That was an aspirational goal, for sure, and I was tickled to get on the road before 8 a.m. Amazingly, we stopped only once, just on the other side of Montgomery, AL, when we exited I65(S) to begin the rural portion of our drive through Alabama to Florida. And even more amazing, J.P. did not get sick on the drive down. He slept most of the way - Dramamine is a miracle drug - hilariously so, while wearing a black sleeping mask. We made it in 7 1/2 hours, a record for us. The trip down was marred only by the fact that using my cell phone - I plotted our corse to Goatfeathers East, in Sea Grove, and not to the Goatfeathers in Santa Rosa Beach, across from our beach house in Old Florida Village.
Sunday morning and this morning, after Jude's walk on the beach and my run, we took the boys to the beach. Like there dad, they can't get enough of the beach. I've always attributed my love of the beach to the fact that I was born and spent my early years in California, going to the beach at the Pacific Ocean on a fairly regular basis. I could easily, I mean easily, live at the beach. Any beach, really. I used to love going to Litchfield Beach, South Carolina, in December a lifetime ago, when it was too cold to get in the ocean. There always has been something rejuvenating to me about being near the ocean, seeing it, hearing it and smelling it. The ocean has restorative powers, or so it seems to me.
Joe loves the beach and the ocean, delighting in standing in shallow water and letting the waves break on the shore over his legs and feet. It's a joy to watch him laugh and squeal as he tries to jump over wave after wave, many times falling down in the process. Joe's adventurous nature is prominent at the beach, and Jude and I have to keep a close eye on him at all times to prevent him form walking too far out into the ocean or getting knocked down and rolled over by the waves. At 4, I think J.P. was more cautious and less inclined to recklessly wade straight into the ocean.
J.P. loves the ocean, too. He and I already have spent a great deal of time throwing the football in the waves or skipping a ball across the water to each other. This morning, we threw the ball back and forth for almost an hour while Jude and Joe played a version of "paddleball baseball" on the beach.
Yesterday, late in the afternoon, while Jude went to the beach and ran a couple of errands, the boys and I went to the pool. We invented a baseball game where J.P. was an outfielder, I was the shortstop and Joe was the third baseman or catcher. When I threw the ball into the air (simulating a hit), J.P. caught it or picked it up if he didn't catch it and threw it to em I relayed it to Joe. We made double plays or, if J.P. or Joe dropped the ball, error. Like all of our made up sports games, it was spontaneous and perfect, just me hanging out with my boys, laughing and playing, wishing I could stop time for a bit.
We left Nashville on Saturday a few minutes before 8 a.m., an early start for us and less than an hour after our planned departure time of 7 a.m. That was an aspirational goal, for sure, and I was tickled to get on the road before 8 a.m. Amazingly, we stopped only once, just on the other side of Montgomery, AL, when we exited I65(S) to begin the rural portion of our drive through Alabama to Florida. And even more amazing, J.P. did not get sick on the drive down. He slept most of the way - Dramamine is a miracle drug - hilariously so, while wearing a black sleeping mask. We made it in 7 1/2 hours, a record for us. The trip down was marred only by the fact that using my cell phone - I plotted our corse to Goatfeathers East, in Sea Grove, and not to the Goatfeathers in Santa Rosa Beach, across from our beach house in Old Florida Village.
Sunday morning and this morning, after Jude's walk on the beach and my run, we took the boys to the beach. Like there dad, they can't get enough of the beach. I've always attributed my love of the beach to the fact that I was born and spent my early years in California, going to the beach at the Pacific Ocean on a fairly regular basis. I could easily, I mean easily, live at the beach. Any beach, really. I used to love going to Litchfield Beach, South Carolina, in December a lifetime ago, when it was too cold to get in the ocean. There always has been something rejuvenating to me about being near the ocean, seeing it, hearing it and smelling it. The ocean has restorative powers, or so it seems to me.
Joe loves the beach and the ocean, delighting in standing in shallow water and letting the waves break on the shore over his legs and feet. It's a joy to watch him laugh and squeal as he tries to jump over wave after wave, many times falling down in the process. Joe's adventurous nature is prominent at the beach, and Jude and I have to keep a close eye on him at all times to prevent him form walking too far out into the ocean or getting knocked down and rolled over by the waves. At 4, I think J.P. was more cautious and less inclined to recklessly wade straight into the ocean.
J.P. loves the ocean, too. He and I already have spent a great deal of time throwing the football in the waves or skipping a ball across the water to each other. This morning, we threw the ball back and forth for almost an hour while Jude and Joe played a version of "paddleball baseball" on the beach.
Yesterday, late in the afternoon, while Jude went to the beach and ran a couple of errands, the boys and I went to the pool. We invented a baseball game where J.P. was an outfielder, I was the shortstop and Joe was the third baseman or catcher. When I threw the ball into the air (simulating a hit), J.P. caught it or picked it up if he didn't catch it and threw it to em I relayed it to Joe. We made double plays or, if J.P. or Joe dropped the ball, error. Like all of our made up sports games, it was spontaneous and perfect, just me hanging out with my boys, laughing and playing, wishing I could stop time for a bit.
Thursday, August 4, 2016
Camp Daddy
It's August, which means the end of summer camps, which means Jude and I are scrambling to find daytime childcare for J.P. and Joe, which means our schedules are even crazier.
Monday, I took the day off and spent it with the boys. We called it "Camp Daddy." It was a good day, for sure.
After watching videos on J.P.'s iPad and playing Subway Surfer while I showered, the boys and I went to Bongo Java. There, over breakfast, we did some more "film study" which, as referenced before, consists of us taking turns picking sports videos to watch on Youtube. These days, Joe is particularly into Mike Trout highlights, though that will change when hockey season starts in a couple of months.
Next, we went home, changed into our bathing suits and headed across town to the East Nashville YMCA. We arrived just as the pool was opening. Although it was crowded with parents and children squeezing a last day or two at the pool before Metro Nashville Public Schools began, the boys and I had fun. With Joe in the shallow end of the pool and J.P. across the rope in the deeper end, I alternated throwing a "skip ball" (pop flies) to each of them. "Make me dive, Daddy!" J.P. said, over and over, as I tossed the ball skyward, over mothers and children splashing an playing. Joe belly flopped off the side of the pool, into the water, as J.P. and I laughed.
After we finished up at the pool, I took the boys to Five Points Pizza in East Nashville for lunch. Jude met us there and we enjoyed a rare weekday family lunch with the hipsters from across the river. Good pizza, too.
I put Joe down for a nap at home after lunch. J.P. wondered down after 30 minutes of "quiet time," only to find me napping on the bed, exhausted. He played on his iPad for an hour while I slept. Joe walked groggily downstairs a little after 4:00 p.m. and we watched part of "Back to the Future" together. (note to self: probably not an appropriate move for 8 and 4 year olds).
To top of our day, it was off to swimming lessons at Miss Sarah's pool in Green Hills.
I'm slammed at work and more behind now, but I treasured having the day to spend with my boys. Camp Daddy.
Friday, July 29, 2016
Joe Everything
Often times, when I go back and look at old posts, I feel a pang of guilt at not having written as much about Joe in the first four years of his life as I did about J.P.
Generally, I haven't found or made the time to post as often as I used to, instead posting photos and random thoughts on Twitter and Instagram. Also, my audience has changed, insofar as my mom doesn't use her computer anymore. Until that happened, I didn't realize how much of what I write on this blog was for her.
Here's the point, though, and it really hit home the last couple of mornings as Joe and I played "Thomas Pop Up" (aka Trouble) on the bed before I took him to summer camp at Children's House - Joe is everything to me. He's so like J.P. and yet, at the same time, he's so different from J.P.
Joe is perfectly content playing by himself, as he has had to be, I guess. Unlike J.P., who had Jude and me all to himself of almost four years, Joe has never had that luxury. From the day he was born, our attention has been divided - evenly, I hope - between Joe and J.P. Joe is more of a "mama's boy" that J.P. but not in a negative way. He loves his mother most of all, which is as it should be. It's truly one of the joys of my left to hear him walking downstairs each morning while I'm making J.P. breakfast, then watch him streak behind me at warp speed and jump delightedly into Jude's arms for a good morning hug.
Joe is a sweet kid, like J.P., but he's all boy, too. At this point, anyway, he doesn't seem to be too concerned about hurting other people's feelings by things he says or does. He has no problems pilling on J.P. when he (J.P.) says something or does something to get into trouble. He's more physical than J.P. ever was at four. If he's mad at me or if I'm bugging him about something, his first reaction is to try to punch me or kick me. It's hilarious, actually, because when he decides he wants to "fight" me, he crouches down and holds his fists - upside down - out in front of him, moving them slowly in a circular motion. Apparently, it's his best imitation of a Paul Gaustad hockey fight. "I'm going to fight you like Paul Gaustad," he says.
J.P. and I play a game where I'll grab J.P. in a bear hug or start throwing fake punches at him. Immediately, no matter what he is doing at the time, Joe runs over and attacks me. He revels in "saving" his big brother as he throws haymakers at me, punching my back and legs. Then, I'll grab Joe and he'll yell "save me!" after which J.P. jumps on m back. And on and on.
I like Joe's aggressiveness and I'm kind of excited to see if it carries over to the soccer field this fall with Joe's first foray into soccer. I also like the fact that he has the self-confidence to play by himself and to entertain himself and I hope it translates into his not being afraid to be his own man as he gets older. In other words, I'm hopeful he'll be a leader and not a follower.
Joe is extremely competitive, which I also love. Lately, we've been playing a lot of "Pop Up Thomas (the Train)" (aka "Trouble"). My mom and I used to play Trouble every morning before I walked across the street to go to kindergarten in California, so playing with Joe completes the circle for me. When J.P. plays with us and Joe's man gets bumped back home or, God forbid, he loses, Joe erupts like a small volcano, crying and pounding his feet and fists on the bed. J.P. and I call him "the Rage Monster." Last night, for example, when I won the game, J.P. and I dissolved in fits of uncontrollable laughter as Joe raised complete hell about losing. I love it because I've long believed you can dial back that kind of competitiveness but you can't put it in a kids who is not wired that way.
Joe has zero fine motor skills. As his teachers pointed out to us in the spring parent-teacher conference, he can't draw a straight line or write his letters. My response? That's fine, but have you seen him hit a baseball? His gross motor skills are at 12 on a scale of 1-10, because he has spent so much of his life going to J.P.'s practices or games in soccer, baseball or basketball. He's an animal.
And his laugh. Sometimes, like this morning, when he got tickled when I accidentally hit the Onstar button in my truck as I was dropping him off for camp at Children's House, he erupts in deep throated gales of laughter as he grins from ear to ear. When he laughs like he did this morning, for me it's like the clouds parting the sun shining brilliantly down, brightening everything in touches. I could live on Joe's laughter as it touches and fuels my soul and reminds me of why I am here on this earth.
Joe loves to watch sports. All sports. Whether it's major league baseball, Premier League soccer or women's college softball, Joe immediately picks a team and cheers for them - loudly - like it's the most important game in the world to him. And it is. On many occasions, we have been out to eat or waiting at a restaurant for takeout, watching a game on television, only to have Joe spontaneously scream with delight or disappointment at something that happens in a game he is watching. When that happens, people invariably turn to look at us and smile at his enthusiasm.
To loosely, very loosely quote John Prine, Joe is my everything.
Generally, I haven't found or made the time to post as often as I used to, instead posting photos and random thoughts on Twitter and Instagram. Also, my audience has changed, insofar as my mom doesn't use her computer anymore. Until that happened, I didn't realize how much of what I write on this blog was for her.
Here's the point, though, and it really hit home the last couple of mornings as Joe and I played "Thomas Pop Up" (aka Trouble) on the bed before I took him to summer camp at Children's House - Joe is everything to me. He's so like J.P. and yet, at the same time, he's so different from J.P.
Joe is perfectly content playing by himself, as he has had to be, I guess. Unlike J.P., who had Jude and me all to himself of almost four years, Joe has never had that luxury. From the day he was born, our attention has been divided - evenly, I hope - between Joe and J.P. Joe is more of a "mama's boy" that J.P. but not in a negative way. He loves his mother most of all, which is as it should be. It's truly one of the joys of my left to hear him walking downstairs each morning while I'm making J.P. breakfast, then watch him streak behind me at warp speed and jump delightedly into Jude's arms for a good morning hug.
Joe is a sweet kid, like J.P., but he's all boy, too. At this point, anyway, he doesn't seem to be too concerned about hurting other people's feelings by things he says or does. He has no problems pilling on J.P. when he (J.P.) says something or does something to get into trouble. He's more physical than J.P. ever was at four. If he's mad at me or if I'm bugging him about something, his first reaction is to try to punch me or kick me. It's hilarious, actually, because when he decides he wants to "fight" me, he crouches down and holds his fists - upside down - out in front of him, moving them slowly in a circular motion. Apparently, it's his best imitation of a Paul Gaustad hockey fight. "I'm going to fight you like Paul Gaustad," he says.
J.P. and I play a game where I'll grab J.P. in a bear hug or start throwing fake punches at him. Immediately, no matter what he is doing at the time, Joe runs over and attacks me. He revels in "saving" his big brother as he throws haymakers at me, punching my back and legs. Then, I'll grab Joe and he'll yell "save me!" after which J.P. jumps on m back. And on and on.
I like Joe's aggressiveness and I'm kind of excited to see if it carries over to the soccer field this fall with Joe's first foray into soccer. I also like the fact that he has the self-confidence to play by himself and to entertain himself and I hope it translates into his not being afraid to be his own man as he gets older. In other words, I'm hopeful he'll be a leader and not a follower.
Joe is extremely competitive, which I also love. Lately, we've been playing a lot of "Pop Up Thomas (the Train)" (aka "Trouble"). My mom and I used to play Trouble every morning before I walked across the street to go to kindergarten in California, so playing with Joe completes the circle for me. When J.P. plays with us and Joe's man gets bumped back home or, God forbid, he loses, Joe erupts like a small volcano, crying and pounding his feet and fists on the bed. J.P. and I call him "the Rage Monster." Last night, for example, when I won the game, J.P. and I dissolved in fits of uncontrollable laughter as Joe raised complete hell about losing. I love it because I've long believed you can dial back that kind of competitiveness but you can't put it in a kids who is not wired that way.
Joe has zero fine motor skills. As his teachers pointed out to us in the spring parent-teacher conference, he can't draw a straight line or write his letters. My response? That's fine, but have you seen him hit a baseball? His gross motor skills are at 12 on a scale of 1-10, because he has spent so much of his life going to J.P.'s practices or games in soccer, baseball or basketball. He's an animal.
And his laugh. Sometimes, like this morning, when he got tickled when I accidentally hit the Onstar button in my truck as I was dropping him off for camp at Children's House, he erupts in deep throated gales of laughter as he grins from ear to ear. When he laughs like he did this morning, for me it's like the clouds parting the sun shining brilliantly down, brightening everything in touches. I could live on Joe's laughter as it touches and fuels my soul and reminds me of why I am here on this earth.
Joe loves to watch sports. All sports. Whether it's major league baseball, Premier League soccer or women's college softball, Joe immediately picks a team and cheers for them - loudly - like it's the most important game in the world to him. And it is. On many occasions, we have been out to eat or waiting at a restaurant for takeout, watching a game on television, only to have Joe spontaneously scream with delight or disappointment at something that happens in a game he is watching. When that happens, people invariably turn to look at us and smile at his enthusiasm.
To loosely, very loosely quote John Prine, Joe is my everything.
Sunday, July 24, 2016
Shot At, Shot Up and Shot Down
Where to begin?
I'm so tired (and dehydrated), I can barely hold my eyes open. Today, in 95 degree weather with a heat index over 100 degrees, my softball team played 5 consecutive games. We started at noon and ended just under 8 hours later, about 7:45 p.m. Insane.
We did it to ourselves, of course, by getting stuck in the loser's bracket so early. It would have taken 8 wins over the weekend to win the title for the 3rd year in a row. We won 6 games, 2 yesterday and 4 today, the lost in the finals against Hardin Law.
In the noon game, we knocked out the DA's first, literally and figuratively. Their pitcher got tangled up with J.R. in a play at the plate, got upended and hit his head on the ground, knocking him unconscious. An ambulance was called and we learned later that he had a concussion and a separated shoulder. In the second game, we gonged N & H.
Next, it was my old law firm, MH(HS), where I started my career (in law and law league softball) in the mid-90's. They're great people but I do like to beat them, and we did. By that point, I was really dragging. Tired, dehydrated (although I drank water and gatorade all day) and just spent.
When it came time to play the young bucks from Bass, I was running on fumes. They nicked me for a few runs early, then we came roaring back. I was pissed in the first inning when one of their young guys whistled a ball past my right ear. That's always a sore spot with me, especially in the law league, as I've always felt there's no place for hitting a line drive at the pitcher's head. The kid that hit the shot didn't apologize, which made me a little madder. Between innings, I talked to our umpire, Leroy, and suggested that if it happened again, I was going to turn a couple of our hitters lose on their pitcher. He may have mentioned it to them, because it didn't happen again. We got on the gas, started hitting, and won the game.
That win gave us Hardin Law in the finals. Of course, we would have had to beat them twice, which wasn't likely to happen. They're loaded and our players were gassed. I was incensed to learn that a few of our guys were thinking we should forfeit rather than get run ruled. Needless to say, we took the field. Without going into great detail, we played them tough and in the end, lost 18-14 when Steve-O popped up with the bases loaded and 2 outs in the bottom of the 7th. He was the tying run and I was convinced he was going to hit a home run to tie the game. I also was terrified we might have to play another game.
I've never been as proud of my team, losing in the finals, as I was tonight. We gutted out 4 wins, 2 of which were against good softball teams. We're the oldest team in the league and we were dying out there but somehow, we found a way to stick together, keep grinding and win. It was an epic run. Damn, I love my teammates, every one of them - Tabitha, Laurie, Katy, V, Shawn, Big John, JR, Timbo, Ross, Richie Rich, Steve-0, Shelley and Huge. What a day and what an NBA Tournament.
We made the champs, who had only played one other game today, earn it. And I love that.
Big John deserves special mention for hitting home runs in his last 2 at bats with his feet so blistered he could barely make it around the bases. Amazing.
In the top of the 6th inning, with the game close, one of Hardin's studs popped the ball up near the first base line. The ball was spinning backwards as I stumbled off the pitcher's rubber toward it, thinking if it hit the ground it would roll foul and give the guy another chance for a base hit with runners in scoring position. I didn't think I had a chance to reach the ball. I lunged for it, dove with a loud grunt and somehow, caught the ball in a pile of dust right in front of our dugout out he first base side. Our team erupted in cheers as I rolled over and got up, skinned knees, elbows and all. Fuck being 50 years old, I thought, as I walked back toward second base to collect myself.
I got the next batter to fly out and as I walked back to the dugout, feeling pretty good about myself, J.P. opened the gate by the dugout and met me on the field to congratulate me. As I slapped his hand, he looked up at me and I could see the pride in his eyes. I mean, he was visibly proud of me and my heart soared to see that. It was a snapshot moment and one I won't forget.
Epic.
Saturday, July 23, 2016
Tournament Time
Other than Bonnaroo, this is my favorite weekend of the year. The weekend of the Nashville Bar Association softball tournament. It's always hot and this year is no exception. There's always a lot of softball. There's always a lot of beer. For me, there are few things better than spending the better part of a weekend at East Park on Woodland Street - playing and watching softball - with my friends and colleagues.
I've written, many times, about how much the softball league in general, and my team in particular, mean to me. The camaraderie, the laughing and joking, the trash talk, the emotion, the competition among people who are naturally competitive, the winning and losing, the friendships and the championships. Yep, I love all of that. I think I appreciate it more as I get older, too.
It's been a tough year for us, as we haven't really been able to get a full squad there consistently. Earlier this week, we lost our first game of the tournament (18-6), which I believe has only happened once in the past 25 years. The year it happened, we came out of the losers' bracket to win the title. That may not happen this year, but I would like to go on a run and play a few games.
This morning was a good start, as we run-ruled Waller 27-6. Although we were missing a couple of players, we had the best squad we have had all season and it showed. Everyone hit for a change, which was nice. My boy, Shawn, with whom I have played many, many softball games over the years, was back and made his presence known with a 2-run homer into the street, an opposite field shot on the unlighted field. It was majestic.
Jude and the boys arrived shortly after the start of the game. J.P. and Joe were stoked because the Blitzballs and bat I ordered arrived earlier this week and I had them at the park. We were able to get in a little Blitzball in left field after our game before the Independents' game began. I'm sure there will be a lot more Blitzball this afternoon and tomorrow.
As I walked into the dugout this morning, I was singing - loudly - "it's the most wonderful time of the year." And it is, for me, anyway.
I've written, many times, about how much the softball league in general, and my team in particular, mean to me. The camaraderie, the laughing and joking, the trash talk, the emotion, the competition among people who are naturally competitive, the winning and losing, the friendships and the championships. Yep, I love all of that. I think I appreciate it more as I get older, too.
It's been a tough year for us, as we haven't really been able to get a full squad there consistently. Earlier this week, we lost our first game of the tournament (18-6), which I believe has only happened once in the past 25 years. The year it happened, we came out of the losers' bracket to win the title. That may not happen this year, but I would like to go on a run and play a few games.
This morning was a good start, as we run-ruled Waller 27-6. Although we were missing a couple of players, we had the best squad we have had all season and it showed. Everyone hit for a change, which was nice. My boy, Shawn, with whom I have played many, many softball games over the years, was back and made his presence known with a 2-run homer into the street, an opposite field shot on the unlighted field. It was majestic.
Jude and the boys arrived shortly after the start of the game. J.P. and Joe were stoked because the Blitzballs and bat I ordered arrived earlier this week and I had them at the park. We were able to get in a little Blitzball in left field after our game before the Independents' game began. I'm sure there will be a lot more Blitzball this afternoon and tomorrow.
As I walked into the dugout this morning, I was singing - loudly - "it's the most wonderful time of the year." And it is, for me, anyway.
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