Mardi Gras 2017

This may be the strangest place at which I've written a post for this blog.  It's just past 10 p.m. and I'm sitting upstairs in the corner, by myself, at Igor's, a 24-hour bar on St. Charles Avenue.  I'm not sure anyone knows I'm here, because my table is cloistered against the wall behind me, the railing to my left and the stairway to my right.  It's a secluded spot in a bar that's growing progressively louder as Mardi Gras revelers straggle in from a day of parade watching.

I'm drinking a Lagunitas IPA and listening to an eclectic mix of songs played on the jukebox.  Hip hop songs with Bush and Ozzy Osbourne mixed in for good measure.

Jude and I arrive in New Orleans with the boys last night.  She decided, and I agreed, it was time for them to experience Mardi Gras, up close and personal.  We're staying at Hotel Indigo, in the heart of the parade route down St. Charles Avenue (one of my favorite streets in New Orleans).  As an added bonus, Igor's is 2 doors down from Hotel Indigo.  Perfect for me.

We saw the tail end of a parade last night as we checked into the hotel.  This morning, I got a 3 mile run in, showered, then met Jude, the boys, her parents and her aunt, Peggy, at our spot across from the hotel.  There, we watched float after float (and what seemed like and endless parade of high school marching bands) in Iris, then Tuck, and waved our hands in the air begging for beads, stuffed animals, footballs and all sorts of trinkets to be thrown our way.

The highlight, or lowlight, for me was when I was hit in the side of the face and head with a large set of silver beads.  The force of the blow almost knocked me out my chair.  The beads broke and a couple of guys behind me leaned down to see if I was okay.  That, my friends, is Mardi Gras.  A little dangerous but fun, surrounded by strangers who are just friends you haven't met yet.

It's been a while since we've been to New Orleans.  Too long, really.  As I sipped a Lagunitas IPA mid-morning at the bar while while waiting of the bartender to make Jude's Bloody Mary (from Igor's, of course), I was reminded how much I love New Orleans.  It was a beautiful - perfect - day outside as I watched floats rumbling by the front window of Igor's, on the other side of the street.  With my family securely ensconced on the corner, I paused for a few minutes to take a breath and appreciate how lucky I am - how lucky we all are - in many ways.

New Orleans always seems to make me feel that way - happy to be alive and happy to be in New Orleans.

Joe at 5

It's 9:21 p.m. on a Thursday and I'm sitting on the front porch at Bongo Java - the center of my universe - drinking a late night Mood Elevator and marveling over the idea that Joe, my baby, turned 5 years old this week.

Per his request, we had his birthday party at Bounce U.  It's just so easy to host birthday parties there, as they literally do everything for you.  All we had to do was show up at 10:15 a.m. and write the check when it was over a couple of hours later.  And the kids bounce, slide, chase each other, play dodge ball or basketball while they'r bouncing.  They love it.  Sheer genius and just so damn easy.

I've been seeing a lot of ghosts lately.

Like today, for example, I stopped by the Apple Store at Cool Springs Galleria.  As I was walking through the mall and passed the play area, a wave of nostalgia almost knocked me to the floor.  I saw a few mothers and fathers sitting on the benches and watching their toddlers climbing up, over and around the objects inside the play area.  In my mind's eye, I saw J.P. at 3 or 4, bumping into other toddlers as he climbed up the small plastic slide then slid down to the carpeted floor.

For a while, Jude and I occasionally took the boys to the Galleria on Friday nights, after they got haircuts at Divas and Dudes in Cool Springs.  As I ate a Subway sandwich there today, I remembered our Friday night meals in the food court.  I also remembered a version of me 3-4 years younger, sitting in the food court on a Friday night in my suit after work, wondering how in the hell I got there.

One morning last week, Joe and I stopped by Bongo Java before school for him and work for me.  Our usual table up front was occupied, so we walked to the back and sat at the table where J.P. and I always sat.  It's my favorite spot in the whole place.  Hell, it may be my favorite spot in the entire world.  As we set up the board to play "Sorry," I smiled to myself, seemingly transported back in time  to one of many mornings I spent at that table, at Bongo Java, with J.P.

Joe at 5 is, in a way, the ghost of J.P. at 5.  The same, but different in many ways, too.

Joe's such a happy, sweet kid.  And, man, does he love his big brother.  A week or so ago, when Box (the newest member of the Bongo Java family) opened on 10th Avenue, I suggested to Joe that we stop by one morning to check it out.  "Let's wait and go another day," he said.  "J.P.'s feelings might be hurt if we go without him."  That's love.

Joe is love.

The effect he has had on our nanny and friend, Uncle Carley, as she's battled a serious illness, is transformative.  Carley and Joe have such a unique and special relationship.  She seems to light up, from the inside out, when she sees him.  So much of Carley is in Joe (and J.P., too).  The love Joe has for Carley is plain to see and joy to behold.  When Carley and her husband, Jon, come over to the house, Joe is beyond excited to see them, show them his latest toy and to play with them.

Joe has inherited my love of music.  On our morning drives to Children's House, he plays DJ and picks out the songs we listen to - one 1 or 2 because it's such a short ride.  Even now, when I hear the first chords of the guitar in Escondido's "Cold October," I instantly hear Joe yelling out "get some, baby!!"  I don't know why he started that but it makes me laugh every single time.

Last week, before he turned 5, Jude asked Joe what his favorite thing that he did when he was 4.  "Playing baseball for Dad," he answered.  That made me feel loved, for sure.  I love coaching the boys' baseball teams - the Dodgers and the Jr. Dodgers - and I love even more that the boys enjoy it.

Other kids seem to gravitate to Joe.  Lately, I've been taking him to occupational therapy on Wednesday mornings to work on his fine motor skills.  When I take him to Children's House and we walk into Classroom B, late, 3 or 4 kids immediately walk up to him and ask him where he's been or show him a Predators' shirt or jersey he or she is wearing.  That's pretty cool to see.

So, Joe is 5, I am 50 and the world keeps spinning.  Hopefully, it won't stop anytime soon because I can't wait to see Joe at 6.

Living Outside the "Box"

This morning, I'm having a latte and muffin at Box, Bob Bernstein's (of Bongo Java fame) bakery and coffee shop on 10th Avenue that opened today.  There's a nice mix of sixties music playing (California Dreaming)

For years, I joked about living in the 'hood.  And when Jude and I bought our house on Elliott Avenue  in 2002, in many ways it was the 'hood.  Waverly-Belmont (where we lived) and 12South was on the sketchy side.  The houses were older with many in need of repair.

There was nothing on 10th Avenue except and old school building that had closed in the eighties and was being used as  teacher resource center for Metro Nashville teachers.  There was a smallish, older, decrepit cinder block building - on the site where I sit right now - that for a time housed a hat store, of all things.  Mostly, the building sat vacant.  I ran up and down 10th Avenue hundreds of times as it part of almost every route I had to and from our house on Elliott Avenue.  I strolled J.P., later Joe, on 10th Avenue on many a Saturday or Sunday afternoon as they napped in the City Elite.

Once, more than a decade ago, as I was running down 10th Avenue (bandanna on my head) I saw a man mowing his grass with my lawnmower!  It was taken apart and unchained from the back porch of my house and stolen while we were having a privacy fence installed.  And there it was a few days later.  I though better of stopping and trying to reclaim it, instead chalking the theft up to living in the 'hood.  It made for a good story, of course, one I told often.

12th Avenue wasn't much better.  The only real restaurant was "Mirror," run by Michael and Colleen, whom we met through our friends, Hal and Kim.  Mafiozza's finally opened, as did Frothy Monkey (coffee) and Rumor's Wine Bar.  Suddenly, it was off to the races.

When J.P. and I headed out to stroll the neighborhood - as we so often did after he was born - we rarely ran into any other parents strolling their child.  Truly, we had the neighborhoods almost to ourselves - Waverley-Belmont, 12South and Belmont.  And, as you know if you've read this blog for any length of time, we strolled through every square inch of the neighborhood.  We were urban pioneers in a sense.

Fast forward 14-15 years and I find myself living in the hottest part of town, whatever that means.   We've moved from Elliott Avenue to Linden Avenue.  12South is replete with restaurants, boutiques and coffee shops.  There are condominium developments springing up like patches of weeds, seemingly overnight, on 10th Avenue, 12th Avenue and Belmont Boulevard.  From our house, we can walk to more than 25 restaurants - good ones, too.  I also can (and often do) walk to the Belcourt Cinema which, of course, has been renovated.

Everywhere I look, there are houses being demolished with new, larger ones rebuilt in their place.  Renovation projects are taking place on every corner.  Sadly, developers are cramming two houses, sometimes duplexes, on a single lot.  Tall skinny houses, like shoeboxes set on their end.  Ugly.

Waverly-Belmont Elementary School reopened - after extensive renovations and additions - in the same place it was located on 10th Avenue.  And now, "Box" is open right next door.  Retail has come to 10th Avenue.  Crazy and completely unexpectedly.  Who would have thought it would happen 15 years ago, when we moved into the 'hood?

I miss some of "the old" - my house and neighbors on Elliott Avenue, for sure.  Mirror and, especially, the patio at Rumor's Wine Bar.  I miss the slower pace and less traffic.  Truthfully, I miss the feeling of being in on something early, of being on the cutting edge of a new idea.  I miss being different, being unique, in terms of where we have chosen to live and raise out boys.  I even miss the excitement tinged with the element of danger that comes with living in a developing area, as opposed to an area that's been developed.

Above all, I think, I miss living outside the box.

Tie Ballgame

Joe always has seemed to gravitate to Jude, as opposed to me.  J.P. is the opposite, of course.  It's to unusual for Joe to announce "Mom is my favorite grownup."  Without fail, J.P. immediately responds
"Dad is my favorite grownup."  We're all winners.

Well, not really.  Maybe it's a slight insecurity on my part or maybe my memory of J.P. at 4 and 5 has faded with time, but at times I've felt like I hadn't bonded with Joe the same way I did with J.P.  I recall that as soon as J.P. started playing sports - and I started coaching him - that the worm turned and I became "the man."  I coached Joe's baseball team last spring and helped coach the soccer team last fall, but I didn't notice any difference in our relationship.

Now, part of the issue I'm sure is that Joe is the second child, the youngest, and necessarily has to share time with J.P. when it comes to me.  Also, J.P. gets a lot of one-on-one time when we play catch or I hit him grounders, shoot basketball or throw the football.  Joe joins in from time to time and he's not excluded by any means, but it's rarely just the two of us.

Lately, thought, things are looking up.  Over the weekend, Joe and I were returning from running an errand or two.  He suggested I park in the driveway, a spot he normally wants to be reserved for mommy.  Wow, I thought.  I'm moving up!

Then, on Sunday before church, he and I were hanging out together while Jude took J.P. to Sunday school.  "Dad," he said unprompted and with conviction.  "You're tied with mommy and Carley as my favorite grownup."  I smiled.

I'm still smiling.

Once a Runner

I've been a serious runner for almost 25 years.  During that time, running has centered me in the same way prayer or meditation centers others.  Running, for me, has been a form of meditation.  Running has been a release for me in times of stress and a comfort for me in times of sadness.  Running also has been a way for me to celebrate life.

Running has been my everyday companion.  Running has been something I could always count on, like an old friend.  Running was in my life before I became a lawyer, before Jude, before J.P. and Joe and before bits and pieces of my mom's memory began to steal away like regulars quietly leaving a bar, one by one, before closing time.

Often time, I planned my schedule around running.  Go to bed early, so I can get up at 5:30 a.m. and go for a run.  Eat light at dinner, get the kids to bed so I can go for a run.  Take my running clothes to St. Patrick on Sunday morning, so I can run home.  Get the boys down for a nap on Saturday afternoon, so I get a run in.  Run early on the morning of my birthday, then meet Jude and the boys for breakfast at Bongo Java (one of my favorite birthday memories).

The desire to run or, more accurately, the need to run has been as constant as my heartbeat.  Ever present.  

Running has been something I'm good at, if that makes sense.  After putting in the weekly mileage for more than two decades - admittedly less so since Joe was born almost five years ago - going out and running three or four miles at an brisk pace has been like a walk in the park for me.  Effortless.  Miles and miles, stacked up like bricks until I had built my personal Great Wall of Miles.

Now, it seems, the Wall is in danger of crumbling.  When I broke my left big toe two months ago, the doctors told me to take four to six weeks off.  To be safe and to avoid reinjuring my toe or placing my  future running ability in jeopardy, I took the full six weeks off.  I thought that was the best thing to do.

I ran last night for, I guess, the third or fourth time since I was injured.  It's the first time I ran three miles.  The good news is my toe felt fine.  No soreness, no lingering problems.  Range of motion isn't what it was and I don't know if that will come back, but still, I can run.  The bad news is running three miles was hard.  Harder than it's been in 20 + years.  I wan't running particularly fast, either, probably an 8:45 pace.  Easy in the old days but a struggle for sure now.

When I broke my toe and got the news that I couldn't run for four to six weeks, I thought I would take the time off to let my body heal.  Not just my toe, but my entire body.  I also thought I had built up enough of a base of mileage over the years - my Great Wall of Miles - that picking up where I left off and running three, four or five miles would be easy.  What I didn't anticipate is that for the first time in, well, forever, running would hard and would require effort.

What I really didn't anticipate is that I would have to start all over again.  My Great Wall of Miles, it seems, has crumbled and fallen into a state of disrepair.  It occurs to me that over the years the Wall, such as it were, has been a bulwark against feelings of anxiety, stress, sadness and depression.  As I've written in this space before, I've run through tears caused by a failed marriage, the death of a close friend's teenage daughter and my mom's deteriorating mental and physical.  I've composed wedding toasts and eulogies during runs.  Most of all, I've run to clear my mind, to give me some "head space," so to speak.

What scares me the most, I think, is that my desire to run seems to have ebbed.  The rational side of my brain realizes that knowing a routine run is going to be harder leaves me discouraged and more inclined to stop by Edley's and have a beer or two after work or after the boys are in bed, as opposed to clearing the deck for night run.  I've got to fight through that, though, and start rebuilding the Wall again - my Wall - because I need it in my life.

I will do it.  I have to.

  

A runner, in happier times.