Slowing Down in a Winter Wonderland

A little more than a month ago, on a Monday evening, the city of Nashville and, really, all of middle Tennessee, was paralyzed by an ice storm.  

As middle Tennesseans, dating all the way back to childhood days of Bill Hall on Channel 4, Snow Bird and even earlier, Tom Siler ("the weather wizard") on Channel 2, we've grown skeptical over the years whenever snow and ice are predicted for Nashville.  Far more times than not, the white stuff bypasses us and lands "on the plateau," between Cookeville and Knoxville, and the children are disappointed again.  We never seem to get any real snowstorms or ice storms, for that matter, in middle Tennessee.

Perhaps that's why when we do get a winter storm, it's special.

Monday night (February 15, 2021), as the sleet and freezing rain arrived, things got quickly got hairy.  I was smart enough to move Jude's gracefully aging Honda Pilot from the front of our house - someone hit it and drove off a few years ago, during the last significant winter storm.  Sure enough, after dark, four different vehicles slid down 15th Street in front of our house, tried to turn right, lost control, and jumped the curb into our neighbor's yard or slammed into the car already there.

The first car ran over a crepe myrtle tree, scraped a fire hydrant, and ended up in our neighbor's yard, 10 or 15 feet from their front door.  The next car jumped the curb rear ended the first car.  A third car did the same thing, after the second car was moved.  Finally, about 10 p.m., another car jumped the curb and blew out a tire.  

About 10:30 p.m. Monday night, J.P. and I spontaneously decided to go outside and check the streets to see how bad they were.  Our primary motivation, though, was to get in some late night sledding on 15th Street above and below our house.  First, we helped the driver of "car #4" change his tire, although I'm not sure if the assistance I provided qualifies as helping.  While I did show the driver how to get the spare tire out of his trunk, I also tried to jack the car up with the jack upside down, if that tells you anything.

J.P. and I had a blast sledding.  We were, of course, the only ones out that late at night.  First we sledded on 15th Street below our house, from Linden Avenue (our street) down to the turnabout at 15th Street and Elmwood Avenue.  Our sleds are turquoise blue and yellow plastic toboggins that we've had since the boys were little and over the years, they've gotten a lot of use every time after ice storms, on roads near our house or, on a rare occasion, in Sevier Park when we have had a heavy snow.

Spending that hour or so with J.P., late at night, was memorable.  A snapshot moment.  It was sleeting, the sky was a light gray and promising more sleet and know to come overnight, and the roads were covered with ice and a little snow.  There was a hazy glow, almost a halogen halo, around the street lights.  Time almost seemed to stand still as slid down the hill on 15th Street on our backs, on the toboggins, using our feet to steer then sliding into the curb on Elmwood Avenue at the end of our run.  

We smiled, laughed, and talked quietly as we trudged back up 15th Street for another run.  As is so often the case, what was left unspoken between us was the really important part.  Together, we knew the night was special, I think, and that each of us would hold the memory in our hearts forever.  There was an innocence about it, a feeling that we were carefree, a timelessness to the moments we spent together. 

Later that week, it became a thing of hours, J.P and me.  Sneaking out, so to speak, for some sledding time in the snow after Joe went to bed.  The boys were out of school on Tuesday, then in remote school for the rest of our week, so their schedule was off.  Jude tolerated out nightly excursions.  Still, J.P. and I felt like we were getting away with something as we eased out the door each night at 9:30 p.m. or so.  

On night - Thursday or Friday, I think - Jude came back from a walk, after dinner, and told me it was snowing, at last, huge flakes.  I bundled up and stepped out the front door for a walk.  Damn, she was right!  Big, big snowflakes falling from the sky, covering the ice already on the ground and in the streets.  I put it my air pods and listened to one of my favorite playlists - The Haunting - as I walked down to 12South and marveled at the beauty all around me.  

It's so rare to see 12South quiet and rarer still to see it blanketed with newly fallen snow that I impulsively began taking pictures with my cell phone of some of my favorite places.  Frothy Monkey, the vegetable/flower/pumpkin/Christmas tree lot, Mafiozza's, Portland Brew.  I walked down the middle of 12th Avenue South, moving out of the road when the occasional car carefully made it's way through the deserted commercial district of our neighborhood.  I don't think I'll ever forget that night for how singularly beautiful it was.

Time slowed down that week - the week of the ice and snow - for sure.  J.P. and Joe and, of course, Jude, had a ball sledding down 15th Street in front of out house, every day.  J.P. and Joe figured out how to sled down the hill, through a break and up a ramp in the sidewalk, right into our front yard.  If they hit it just right, they were able to sled right up to our front door.  It was awesome and they loved every minute of it, as I did.

On Thursday afternoon, I think, I ventured out for my first run of the week.  I ran in the middle of the road when I could, to stay out of the slushy ice and snow on the sides of the road.  It was slow going, very slow going, but it was great to get five miles in after being inside all week.  The next day, Friday afternoon, I noticed it was snowing, so I got my gear on and slipped outside for a run in the falling snow.  Perfection.

By Sunday and, for sure, Monday, the boys were ready for the ice and snow to be gone, so they could get outside and play again, and get back to school.  

The great ice storm of 2021 was a nice interlude in our busy lives.  Time slowed down, a bit, and as a family, we slowed down a bit, too. 

When I look outside, now, it's hard to be believe that a month or so ago, the entire city of Nashville was shut down.  Now, the grass is growing and flowers are blooming.  Yesterday, strangely enough, was the first day of spring, bringing with it hope and optimism that the pandemic is nearing at end.  That, of course, remains to be seen.       

Montgomery Bell

Spring break.  

Because I am still uncomfortable traveling outside the state, I vetoed the idea of going to the beach.  I think it was the right move because Jude hasn't been vaccinated yet and in spite of what some people believe, the pandemic has not ended.  

We thought about going to Sewanee again, which would have been great.  But, in the end, Jude wanted to rent a cabin at Montgomery Bell State Park in Dickson, Tennessee.  She has staying at a state park on her radar for a while, in part because she gets a state employee's discount.  I've laughed and thought, gratefully and more than once, that someone wives insist their husbands take them to the Caribbean.  My wife insists we stay in a cabin at a state park.  

We rented a cabin Monday - Thursday of this week, which felt about right.  I have a hearing Thursday morning and we can enjoy the weekend at home.  I've tried to disconnect from work and (almost) succeeded, though not completely.  I've worked on a couple of things and made a few telephone calls.  I guess that's not really being disconnected from the office after all.  Oh, well.  Someday.

It's been nice to get away.  The boys are at such a great age, I think.  They enjoy each other's company tremendously.  Jude and I are still cool enough - barely - that the boys are okay hanging out with us.  They like it, in fact.   

J.P. is cruising through 6th grade.  School will get serious and much more difficult next year.  No more recess and football playing with his buddies.  A lot more studying.  It's been a good year for him.

Joe is Joe.  Nothing at school or otherwise seems to faze him.  We had a bit of a hiccup a week or so ago when we learned, during a parent-teacher conference, that sometimes Joe keeps reading in class while the teacher is transitioning the class to math.  He also go frustrated one day, apparently, and threw an eraser on the floor when he couldn't think of anything to write about during class for a writing assignment.  

Jude and I talked with him and I made the decision to take away all of his electronics (iPad and Xbox), not that he is on them very often.  More importantly, I took away all wrestling viewing on television.  No more WWE.  That hit him where it hurts, for sure.  We had him apologize to his teacher at school - a substitute, as his regular teacher is out on maternity leave - which I think surprised her, because in the conference she had gone on an on about what a great student and classmate Joe was.  Still, we wanted to stay on top of things, and we did.

A client of mine, Ronnie Young, once said "It's easy to be a bad parent.  It's much, much harder to be a good parent."  So true.

Our cabin in the park is on Acorn Lake.  It's a short walk to the conference center and restaurant along the Wildcat Trail.  We're avoiding the restaurant, of course, just to be safe.  We've cooked at the cabin for the most part.  

Yesterday was a full day.  We played tennis in the morning on a couple of older, leaf-filled tennis courts adjacent to the hotel and conference center.  After lunch, Jude and the boys played golf while I went for a 4 mile trail run.  Before dinner, we rented a paddle boat and a 2-man kayak and paddled around the lake for an hour.  Last night, we walked around downtown Dickson and ordered takeout from Back Alley BBQ.  A full lid, as they say.

While I was skeptical on the front end, I must admit we've had an enjoyable time thus far.  It occurs to me that "State Fair people," like us, probably should be "State Park people," as well.

    

Miracle in Marshall County

I woke up this morning with a sore left shoulder and the shortest haircut of my life.  And that's a beautiful thing.

I got a haircut last March, right as the pandemic was arriving, knowing that it might be a while before I go another one.  Even as things began to open up in the early summer, I was still too nervous to get may haircut.  Then, it became a thing.  I decided - and was very vocal about it - that I wasn't going to cut my hair for one full year or until I got a Covid-19 vaccine.  

Because of my age (54) and the relatively slow rollout of the vaccine, initially I thought it was unlikely I would get a vaccine until mid-summer.  Then, the last couple of weeks, friends of mine starting finding ways to get one.  A nurse brought home two leftover doses after a day of work in Tullahoma giving vaccines.  Supposedly, I could get on "a list" an Vanderbilt if I had been a former patient for any reason.  

A close friend - one who initially thought Covid-19 was a scam and is so conservative it makes his skin itch - got a call from Vanderbilt because he had been treated (for Covid-19!) - and he got a shot.  My law partners were able to get vaccines because one has hypertension (true) and the other is obese, with a body mass index over 30 (possibly true).  When my law partner's wife got a vaccine because she is obese (not true), that was the last straw.  If the plan is to get "shots in arms," I was going to get a shot in my arm. 

I remembered that probably 20 years ago, I was seen at Vanderbilt one spring when my allergies were driving me crazy and I was having difficult taking a deep breath.  I even had a breathing test at Vanderbilt and, in the end, the thought was that I might have exercise induced asthma.  So, with that memory in hand, I logged back on to the State of Tennessee website, completed the detailed health survey, again, and checked the box that said "asthma."  

And, miraculously, when I hit "send," a multitude of vaccine sites opened up for me in counties all over middle Tennessee.  

I set up an appointment for Friday at 3:00 p.m. and didn't tell a soul about it.  Next, I made an appointment to get my hair cut - for the first time in a full year - for 5:00 p.m. on Friday.  I figured that if all went well, I would have just enough time to drive from Lewisburg to Nashville on Friday afternoon.

A word or two about my hair.  Somewhere along the line, in what I laughingly called "a 1-man protest against the pandemic," I decided not to cut my hair for a full year or until I received a vaccine.  It was my way, I guess, of trying to make light of the situation, make others laugh, and to make fun of myself a little bit.  I think my crazy hair, which got really crazy the last six months, did all of those things.  One of our judges even signed a proclamation - backed up by a petition signed by several lawyers - that congratulated me on having the worst hair in the Williamson County Bar.  

Back to Friday.  I left the office about 1:45 p.m. without telling anyone where I was going.  I drove to Lewisburg in Marshall County to the city park where, coincidentally, I had coached J.P.'s Dodgers in the state tournament three summers ago.  I arrived, showed a National Guardswoman the bar code on my confirmation sheet, and she waved me forward.  There was not much of a crowd at all.

I drove forward and pulled under one of two tents, sitting side by side, across from the baseball field where one of the local high schools was having an intrasquad scrimmage.  With a light rain falling from an gray, overcast sky, I unbuttoned my shirt, pulled it down over my left arm, and an extremely nice, professional nurse injected the Pfizer vaccine into my left shoulder.  

Before she gave me the vaccine, I thanked her.  She thanked me for believing in the science.  In Lewisburg, Tennessee.  Then, she said, "you won't feel a thing.  I'm just that good at this."

And she was.  

Just like that, I had received my first round of the Covid-19 vaccination.  I pulled over to some parking spaces to wait the required 15 minutes to make sure I didn't have an adverse reaction to the vaccine. 

And I sat in my truck and cried.  

I cried for all of the people who had died in the past year and for their families.  I cried for people who have died in hospitals surrounded by strangers, with no family in sight.  I cried for the time my boys have lost with their grandparents by not being able to see them.  I cried for the year of their youth my boys lost.  I cried for having not sat in church listening to Father Hammond, at St. Patrick, on Sunday, for a year.  I cried for not having taken my family to a restaurant for a year, or to the beach.  I cried for the sleepovers my boys have missed with friends.  I cried for the children I know, and those I don't, who have been out of school and out of sports for a year.   

I cried in relief.  I want this to be over.  I want to hug the boys that I coach.  I want to see my in-laws and hug them.  I want to shake hands, and not fist bump, with people I meet and with people I know.  I want to hug my friends.  

I got out of my truck, stood in the light rain, and watched a bunch of high school boys playing baseball, the game I love above all others.  Then, I drove to Nashville, to the Moose - a men's "grooming lounge" on Music Row (whatever that means) - and got the shortest haircut of my life.  And if felt so good.

When I walked into the house, J.P. looked at me and yelled in delight, "Whoa!  Look at dad.  Joe, come here!  Quick."  Joe ran downstairs and joined J.P. in praising my haircut.  The boys, of course, had hated my long hair.  I climbed the stair to my office, sat down beside Jude, and surprised her with the whole story.

And, as I sit there Sunday morning, having coffee, I'm grateful that God has kept my family healthy.  I'm grateful that I've gotten the vaccine and I want everyone I know, and everyone I don't know, to get it, too.