I hate to kick a man when he’s down, but when someone wears a “kick me” sign on their back and then asks “did you seen the sign?” it’s kind of hard not to give it a try. Besides, it’s the American way to toil on bad news. Whether tragic or sordid, we love to talk about other people’s misfortune. We usually disguise it with a sincere worried tone, but sometimes it’s just fun to say “what were they thinking?”
So….Governor Mark Sanford of South Carolina, “what were you thinking?”
Sadly, I think we know. We’ve all seen it before, played out by celebrities in the media or amongst friends or even family. It happens. People stray. After my ramble on marriage yesterday, it was interesting to watch the news detail Sanford’s spectacular self-immolation. Over the last week his “disappearance” was at first a cause for concern, then a mystery, and finally a circus of media, awkward statements and misdirection.
When I started paying attention to the story, his staff had just announced that he was hiking the Appalachian Trail. This sparked my interest because I’ve been reading a lot of books about hiking the AT. I read the books not because I am interested in hiking the trail (and if you think I am, you really don’t know me at all), but because I’m fascinated by the people who do. To even consider it is brave, but to complete it inspires awe. It’s a daunting, amazing feat of perseverance, and I love to learn the various reasons why people do it.
All I knew about Mark Sanford at that time was that he was a governor who had planned to refuse the offer of Stimulus funds for his state. Now, I don’t have a problem with people who don’t eat meat because they have a moral issue with the slaughter of animals. I won’t personally give up burgers, but I can respect their opinion. What I’m trying to say, and probably not very well, is that they are standing on their principles, but it doesn’t really affect me, so more power to them. Sanford’s refusal of the Stimulus money might be a sincere personal statement against the Stimulus program and our expanding Federal debt, or it might be a grandstanding effort to draw attention to himself as the conservative alternative in the Presidential election of 2012. Either way, his choice would have affected a lot of people in South Carolina, basically punishing them because of his own personal stand or political agenda.
In what would normally be the biggest humiliation of most politicians year, Sanford was over-ruled this month by the South Carolina Supreme Court, effectively demanding that the he accept the Stimulus money and distribute it as suggested. Sanford released a statement that he would abide by the ruling, but called it a “bad day for South Carolina and the country.”
His disappearance last week at first seemed connected to the spanking the court had handed him, slinking away with his tail between his legs to pout and lick his wounds. Like a child who didn’t get his way, it seemed to be a hands in the air, “I don’t care anymore” statement.
His staff, floundering under questions about his whereabouts, struggled for answers. Most of us can disappear and no one but our immediate family and maybe our boss will care. The governor of a state cannot just walk away without saying where they are going. I would assume he has things to do. People will notice.
Meanwhile, his wife was no help either. She told reporters that she didn’t know where her husband was, and had not heard from him. Excuse me? I can’t go to the bathroom without someone in my house knocking on the door within 2 minutes to find out what I’m doing. Even when I travel, I talk to my wife at least twice a day and usually more. When I heard Sanford’s wife calmly saying “I don’t know,” all I could see was a red flag.
Bits and pieces of information added up to something entirely different going on. His registered South Carolina state vehicle…can you say “moron”…was found at the Atlanta Hartsfield Airport. That kind of destroyed the Appalachian Trail story. There are no direct flights to Springer Mountain or Mount Katahdin. I checked.
As you probably now know, because there’s no news like juicy, cheating news, Sanford was in Argentina with his “friend,” apparently named “Maria” (based on some emails released yesterday by a state newspaper). Their affair has been going on for some time, since the emails declaring their love for each other are dated July of last year. His wife learned of the situation in December and is now saying that she asked him to move out two weeks ago. It truly is a tangled web.
I can usually feel some empathy for people in humiliating situations, and I certainly do for Sanford’s wife and children. They didn’t ask for this attention, and I hope the glare of the spotlight stays squarely focused on him, leaving them to mourn the destruction of their family in private.
Sanford, however, deserves to be the piñata at this week’s media party. He gave up a certain degree of his right to privacy when he accepted public office, but then he stepped forward as a bastion of moral conscience, a title which requires a rigor and discipline that he obviously did not have.
Along with Newt Gingrich (who had his own admitted affairs), Sanford led the charge to impeach Bill Clinton for lying to a federal judge about Monica Lewinsky. When questioned about this by Fox News on June 4 of THIS YEAR (that’s three weeks ago folks), he had this to say about the Clinton scandal and his impeachment crusade:
QUESTION: But what-- what was your sense that I have to do this, or were you getting political pressure from groups at home to vote for it?
SANFORD: I would say it was-- something that people were excited about back home. People were talking about it. Again, the people you hear from at times, they-- they can be a vocal minority. But people were incensed. I mean, I think that there were enough sordid details to get people genuinely ticked off at-- the irreverence for the office.
Hmmm…I’ll bet he wishes he hadn’t used that phrase “irreverence for the office.” Pot meet Kettle.
Of course, liberals are being smug and giddy about another “holier than thou” character collapse (“Gov. Sanford, please take a seat at the Larry Craig table”), and conservatives are angry, and maybe embarrassed by another disappointing personal failing. But to say that moral failure is owned by one side or the other is ridiculous. Sanford, Clinton, Craig, John Edwards, Eliot Spitzer, Bob Barr, Strom Thurmond, Mark Foley…even John Kennedy, Warren Harding, and Thomas Jefferson all fell victim to human weakness. Shame is universal.
It’s natural, in our politically divided world to point fingers and enjoy an opponent’s downfall. If anything, however, this situation proves that the title of “liberal” or “conservative” really doesn’t strip away the most common bond of being “human.” This may be the greatest slap of all to those who wear their political label like a medal of honor. They talk about those with opposing viewpoints as if they are inanimate objects, representative of only one thing and holding no other value. It is no wonder the world has been repeatedly divided and damaged by wars when within our own country we cannot get along.
In a few weeks, Mark Sanford will be become a footnote in political history. Another promising political career tripped up by a roaming eye, weak knees and a clumsy character. He’ll have his own euphemism too, joining the cultural slang of Clinton’s “Lewinsky” and Kennedy’s “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” As scandals go, it could be worse. Henceforth, sneaking off for an illicit affair shall be known as “hiking the AT.” Just make sure you watch your step.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Handle With Care
Like a big zit on the nose of the person you’re talking to, it’s been hard to ignore the news coverage in the last few weeks regarding Jon and Kate Gosselin, a couple whose celebrity is not based on any sort of talent or skill, but the mere fact that they misread the label on their fertility pills. This week they announced that they are filing for divorce, which will no doubt be chronicled on both their television series “Jon and Kate Plus 8” and also every tabloid cover on the checkout stands at our local grocery. Our culturally morbid fascination with other people’s self-destruction is never appeased.
Although many have already questioned how good it has been for their eight kids to be placed under the microscope of reality television, you also have to wonder if the additional stress of being recorded day to day affected their marriage. Would they still be together, poor but happy, if they hadn’t signed on for the show? Or did the show only amplify and speed up problems that were always there? Problems which would have led to years of misery if they did not have access to piles of showbiz money.
Connie and I have joked before that we are stuck with each other because neither one can afford a divorce, but logically speaking, it is true. With three kids I could not afford to live and pay child support. Also, I think Connie has grown quite accustomed to the “lavish” lifestyle our cohabitation has brought us. Dividing what little we have would make for a very meager half. It just doesn’t make sense for either of us.
Of course, loving and respecting each other kind of takes the divorce idea out of the equation too. Connie doesn’t boss me around and I don’t ignore her. I try to help around the house and she knows there are limits to my skills and abilities. We balance out pretty well.
I heard a comedian explain that after a few years of his own marriage he was talking to a woman who had been married for over fifty years. He asked her how she did it and if she had ever thought of divorce. She said, “No, not once in all those years did I consider divorce. Thought about murder a few times…”
In the midst of all this “Jon and Kate” mess, I recently learned that a couple that I have known for a very long time has split up. Like a lot of people we “know,” I don’t see them often. In fact, it might go a few years between casual conversations, but the two of them together…married…was always one of those absolutes in my mind. From all outer appearances they seemed made for each other, the yin for the other’s yang. Their marriage…the unity of two becoming one…took on its own identity. The ending of that marriage is essentially a death, one I will have to mourn.
Sadder still, I have been told that he did not see the end coming. He came home from work one day to find her clothes and personal items gone. No note, no explanation. A nervous cell phone call later, she told him that she was on the road, driving across the country to a new job and a new life. Twenty five years together, summed up in a five minute conversation.
I don’t know many details, and I don’t know what their marriage was like behind closed doors. All outward appearances of happiness and unity might have been a carefully staged show, a duet of a sad country song that ends in heartbreak and a bottle. If that is so, then they are both spectacular actors.
Their kids have moved on to college, and it’s possible that the house became too empty, the single face across the table too wide, too old, too plain, and too much a reminder of time gone by. I can’t help but wonder how long she had planned to leave him? Had she been biding her time since the kids were toddlers? Holding off on her dreams of freedom to fulfill her role of mother and dutiful wife? Or is it some mid-life revelation that she will soon regret but be unable to repair? Maybe there is someone else, whispering soft promises of passion and that exciting opportunity of newness.
Maybe there were signs he should have seen. Something he could have done. Was he oblivious to her needs and her feelings? Did he help to douse the spark in her eyes and her soul by dampening her spirit and holding her back? Is one guiltier than the other, or are both at fault for simply not trying hard enough?
The death of this marriage is haunting me. It could have been terminal from the day of their vows, slogging through the years to an inevitable end, or it might have been a sudden crime of passion, a murder committed by one upon the other in a moment of brazen adventure. I have no idea what the real cause might be, and I’ll likely never know. I’m not sure they fully understand themselves.
Despite what the vows say or tradition dictates, and no matter how I view some couples as one mutated being, a marriage is made up of two totally different individuals. Each has their own hopes, dreams and personalities. In a successful marriage, these things merge or complement each other.
Still, you’re living on faith. Faith that the other person is as invested in your marriage as you are. Faith that they are not hiding something in a dark basement of their mind, waiting for the day when they will open that door and shatter the fragile foundation of your life together. While so much emphasis is put on partners being “faithful” to each other, there is not so much placed on the importance of” having faith” in each other. This is the tougher thing.
I’ve heard people say that it’s not easy to have faith in a God that you cannot see, but I think it’s actually much harder to have complete faith in someone you look at every day. This has less to say about them than ourselves. Self-doubt, wavering self-esteem, and personal disappointment can make us wonder how anyone could truly love us. We look in the mirror and don’t like what we see, so we can’t imagine how anyone else could. Our defense mechanism is to pull away, which only damages the relationship further.
If I’m sounding particularly despondent about the institution of marriage, I’m not meaning to be. I love being married. I love who I’m married to. I honestly can’t imagine life without her. That may be why the news of this recent break-up is so disheartening to me. Marriage can be scary. You put your heart in the hands of another human being and hope they take care of it. You hope that after ten or twenty or twenty five years that they don’t get tired of lugging that same old heart around, trying to protect it but knowing that most of the initial bubbles of infatuation in the bubble wrap might have long ago been popped.
Although there is much more to it, this is a reminder to me that a good marriage is two people protecting each other from heartbreak. That you are responsible for the pain you cause the other person. It reminds me that I am holding Connie’s heart in my hands, and since I can’t control what she does with mine, I’m going to do my best to be extra careful with hers.
Although many have already questioned how good it has been for their eight kids to be placed under the microscope of reality television, you also have to wonder if the additional stress of being recorded day to day affected their marriage. Would they still be together, poor but happy, if they hadn’t signed on for the show? Or did the show only amplify and speed up problems that were always there? Problems which would have led to years of misery if they did not have access to piles of showbiz money.
Connie and I have joked before that we are stuck with each other because neither one can afford a divorce, but logically speaking, it is true. With three kids I could not afford to live and pay child support. Also, I think Connie has grown quite accustomed to the “lavish” lifestyle our cohabitation has brought us. Dividing what little we have would make for a very meager half. It just doesn’t make sense for either of us.
Of course, loving and respecting each other kind of takes the divorce idea out of the equation too. Connie doesn’t boss me around and I don’t ignore her. I try to help around the house and she knows there are limits to my skills and abilities. We balance out pretty well.
I heard a comedian explain that after a few years of his own marriage he was talking to a woman who had been married for over fifty years. He asked her how she did it and if she had ever thought of divorce. She said, “No, not once in all those years did I consider divorce. Thought about murder a few times…”
In the midst of all this “Jon and Kate” mess, I recently learned that a couple that I have known for a very long time has split up. Like a lot of people we “know,” I don’t see them often. In fact, it might go a few years between casual conversations, but the two of them together…married…was always one of those absolutes in my mind. From all outer appearances they seemed made for each other, the yin for the other’s yang. Their marriage…the unity of two becoming one…took on its own identity. The ending of that marriage is essentially a death, one I will have to mourn.
Sadder still, I have been told that he did not see the end coming. He came home from work one day to find her clothes and personal items gone. No note, no explanation. A nervous cell phone call later, she told him that she was on the road, driving across the country to a new job and a new life. Twenty five years together, summed up in a five minute conversation.
I don’t know many details, and I don’t know what their marriage was like behind closed doors. All outward appearances of happiness and unity might have been a carefully staged show, a duet of a sad country song that ends in heartbreak and a bottle. If that is so, then they are both spectacular actors.
Their kids have moved on to college, and it’s possible that the house became too empty, the single face across the table too wide, too old, too plain, and too much a reminder of time gone by. I can’t help but wonder how long she had planned to leave him? Had she been biding her time since the kids were toddlers? Holding off on her dreams of freedom to fulfill her role of mother and dutiful wife? Or is it some mid-life revelation that she will soon regret but be unable to repair? Maybe there is someone else, whispering soft promises of passion and that exciting opportunity of newness.
Maybe there were signs he should have seen. Something he could have done. Was he oblivious to her needs and her feelings? Did he help to douse the spark in her eyes and her soul by dampening her spirit and holding her back? Is one guiltier than the other, or are both at fault for simply not trying hard enough?
The death of this marriage is haunting me. It could have been terminal from the day of their vows, slogging through the years to an inevitable end, or it might have been a sudden crime of passion, a murder committed by one upon the other in a moment of brazen adventure. I have no idea what the real cause might be, and I’ll likely never know. I’m not sure they fully understand themselves.
Despite what the vows say or tradition dictates, and no matter how I view some couples as one mutated being, a marriage is made up of two totally different individuals. Each has their own hopes, dreams and personalities. In a successful marriage, these things merge or complement each other.
Still, you’re living on faith. Faith that the other person is as invested in your marriage as you are. Faith that they are not hiding something in a dark basement of their mind, waiting for the day when they will open that door and shatter the fragile foundation of your life together. While so much emphasis is put on partners being “faithful” to each other, there is not so much placed on the importance of” having faith” in each other. This is the tougher thing.
I’ve heard people say that it’s not easy to have faith in a God that you cannot see, but I think it’s actually much harder to have complete faith in someone you look at every day. This has less to say about them than ourselves. Self-doubt, wavering self-esteem, and personal disappointment can make us wonder how anyone could truly love us. We look in the mirror and don’t like what we see, so we can’t imagine how anyone else could. Our defense mechanism is to pull away, which only damages the relationship further.
If I’m sounding particularly despondent about the institution of marriage, I’m not meaning to be. I love being married. I love who I’m married to. I honestly can’t imagine life without her. That may be why the news of this recent break-up is so disheartening to me. Marriage can be scary. You put your heart in the hands of another human being and hope they take care of it. You hope that after ten or twenty or twenty five years that they don’t get tired of lugging that same old heart around, trying to protect it but knowing that most of the initial bubbles of infatuation in the bubble wrap might have long ago been popped.
Although there is much more to it, this is a reminder to me that a good marriage is two people protecting each other from heartbreak. That you are responsible for the pain you cause the other person. It reminds me that I am holding Connie’s heart in my hands, and since I can’t control what she does with mine, I’m going to do my best to be extra careful with hers.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Dad
I did not appreciate all that my father did for me growing up until I became a father myself. Even then, the awareness of how his life, his choices, and his sacrifices affected me came only in small pieces, fitting together into a puzzle that would one day be complete. Things I took for granted I now realize were costly to him. Did he lay awake at night, as I have, paying bills in his mind and counting the leftovers to see if there was enough to buy those new Converse sneakers I wanted for school? How did he have extra cash set aside to pay the doctor or hospital after one of my many random, clumsy accidents? I never thought about these things when I was a kid. I got what I needed, and I never questioned where it came from or how it was paid for. I was allowed to be a kid, which is just about the greatest gift a parent can give a child.
He didn’t have it so easy. When his father became ill, Dad dropped out of high school to work for the County Road Department. At ages 16, while I sat in air-conditioned classrooms, whining about a particular lesson or boring reading assignment, Dad had been digging ditches and shoveling gravel. If I earned a few dollars mowing a neighbor’s lawn or moving wallpaper boxes at Brazen’s department store, the money was mine. I could buy an album or go to a movie. I could do what I wanted. Dad’s earnings bought food for his siblings and paid rent for their home.
It’s hard for me to relate to the long days of hard labor Dad experienced. My one week of real labor occurred in a concrete block making plant…standing at the end of a conveyor belt, catching 42 pound blocks and stacking them on a pallet. By lunch time of the first day, I had already decided that if I survived, I would stop at the end of the week. There was some pride though, as I returned home each evening to my new wife, covered in grit and dirt, hands calloused and arms weak and sore.
Proud I may have been, but my taste of hard labor did not whet my appetite for more. That’s when I moved to Tennessee and eventually found employment with the government. Problem solved.
After a few years with the road department, Dad became a truck driver, hauling concrete block and silo staves for Long Bros Block and Supply. In those early days, before the Interstates were built, a trip from the block plant in Shelbyville, KY to Knoxville, TN could take eight hours or longer. I always loved hearing about the long trips over those two lane roads like Hwy 27 and US 60, through farmland undisturbed by suburbia, stopping at diners that flourished in the small towns and roadsides along the way. It was in one of these diners in Lawrenceburg, KY that Dad met Mom.
Mom and Dad married in 1954 and my brother Wayne was born in 1956. David was born in 1959, me in 1964, and Tracy came along in 1968. They bought the big house on Third Street in 1960, renting out half until it was paid for. By the early seventies, when my memories grow clearer, we had the place to ourselves.
Dad would be gone a lot, and I think I justify my own excessive travel schedule by the fact that I did not feel deprived of a father because he was on the road. He was home every weekend, but his presence was there every day. There was always the awareness that at some point, the activities of the week would be relayed to him, whether by Mom or a tattling sibling. We were all eager to be presented in a way that would make him proud, and definitely tried to avoid being known as a cause of trouble for Mom, which would not make him happy at all.
As a boy, I wanted to be like Dad. I wanted to drive a truck, which held the modern day exotic lure of a cowboy, riding into the sunset on his trusty horse. Each summer, in a highlight that held more thrill to me than a vacation at the beach or amusement park, I got to accompany Dad on a short trip. Climbing into the cab of the truck, hearing that diesel engine start up and the lurching feel of the clutch grabbing and gears changing, I was grinning from ear to ear, inside and out.
Watching my Dad drive, turning and backing the truck and 40 odd foot of trailer with ease, I was sure of what I was going to do. Sometime later, and much to my disappointment, I realized I had neither the driving ability, nor the patience to do what my father could do so effortlessly.
There were a number of other skills that Dad maintained in his mental toolbox (electrician, carpenter, mechanic, gardener, etc.). Being able to do a variety of useful things came naturally to him. My brothers laid claim to most of these skills before I came along, leaving me with the general aptitude to “go get” stuff. I was quite handy at retrieving a Phillips head screw driver or a monkey wrench, usually with enthusiasm and impressive speed. As long as I was not expected to hammer a nail straight or change the carburetor on the car, my embarrassment was minimal.
When the silo business Dad had worked for closed, after employing him for over 30 years, Dad became the local distributor for Silo-Matic farm equipment. Suddenly self-employed, dealing with inventories and balancing ledgers, Dad never let his lack of a high school diploma slow him down. He was always good with numbers, and unlike the ridiculously complicated math lessons taught today, he had learned the essentials of arithmatic and geometry and could do high number division and multiplication in his head faster than my kids can punch them into a calculator.
On Sundays, Dad would put on a suit, a tie and a dash of Old Spice; then take us all to church. This was not an empty gesture. He didn’t do it because it was expected of him. He did it because he believed it was the right thing to do. He was a Christian and not ashamed to show or tell it. He wanted the same for his children.
Dad sang in our small church choir, and sometimes sang a solo. I learned to sing and love music in that small chapel. Simple gospel songs that still play in my head when I am sad or happy or needing a friend. One of my strongest memories as a child was sitting next to my Dad in church. When he put his arm around me, I would lean against him and fall asleep to the gentle, lulling tone of the pastor’s sermon. It was the safest feeling I have ever known, and I hope I’ve provided that at some point to my girls.
I’m not sure he’s ever forgiven me and Connie for keeping three of his grandkids in Tennessee, but he should never doubt that they love their Papaw Warford. They love when he sings them silly songs or takes them for walks at Shelby Lake. He had already won their hearts, but he sealed their everlasting devotion by taking them to Dairy Queen for Ice Cream whenever he got the chance. I should have taken them “home” more often.
It’s been nearly ten years since Dad was diagnosed with Lung Cancer. Thanks to a lot of prayers and his strong will, he survived and has been in good health since. It was the moment though…one that we all face at some point…when we see our superhero, the strongest person we know, fall weak. My kids have seen my human frailties many times in their young life, but I had to wait until I was a father myself to see my Dad that way. Hard as it was, it gave me a new appreciation for my Dad and the time we have left. I’ve been blessed with ten more years, and I’m grateful every day.
We try so hard today to do the right thing for our kids. We read books and listen to therapists bestow their lofty advice on television. Everyone has an opinion on what it means to be a good parent. My father taught his kids by example.
Have faith, be honest, work hard, take responsibility for your actions, respect your fellow man, help others whenever you can.
These are lessons I have tried to pass on to my own children. His legacy is my legacy.
Happy Fathers Day Dad...
I Love you!
He didn’t have it so easy. When his father became ill, Dad dropped out of high school to work for the County Road Department. At ages 16, while I sat in air-conditioned classrooms, whining about a particular lesson or boring reading assignment, Dad had been digging ditches and shoveling gravel. If I earned a few dollars mowing a neighbor’s lawn or moving wallpaper boxes at Brazen’s department store, the money was mine. I could buy an album or go to a movie. I could do what I wanted. Dad’s earnings bought food for his siblings and paid rent for their home.
It’s hard for me to relate to the long days of hard labor Dad experienced. My one week of real labor occurred in a concrete block making plant…standing at the end of a conveyor belt, catching 42 pound blocks and stacking them on a pallet. By lunch time of the first day, I had already decided that if I survived, I would stop at the end of the week. There was some pride though, as I returned home each evening to my new wife, covered in grit and dirt, hands calloused and arms weak and sore.
Proud I may have been, but my taste of hard labor did not whet my appetite for more. That’s when I moved to Tennessee and eventually found employment with the government. Problem solved.
After a few years with the road department, Dad became a truck driver, hauling concrete block and silo staves for Long Bros Block and Supply. In those early days, before the Interstates were built, a trip from the block plant in Shelbyville, KY to Knoxville, TN could take eight hours or longer. I always loved hearing about the long trips over those two lane roads like Hwy 27 and US 60, through farmland undisturbed by suburbia, stopping at diners that flourished in the small towns and roadsides along the way. It was in one of these diners in Lawrenceburg, KY that Dad met Mom.
Mom and Dad married in 1954 and my brother Wayne was born in 1956. David was born in 1959, me in 1964, and Tracy came along in 1968. They bought the big house on Third Street in 1960, renting out half until it was paid for. By the early seventies, when my memories grow clearer, we had the place to ourselves.
Dad would be gone a lot, and I think I justify my own excessive travel schedule by the fact that I did not feel deprived of a father because he was on the road. He was home every weekend, but his presence was there every day. There was always the awareness that at some point, the activities of the week would be relayed to him, whether by Mom or a tattling sibling. We were all eager to be presented in a way that would make him proud, and definitely tried to avoid being known as a cause of trouble for Mom, which would not make him happy at all.
As a boy, I wanted to be like Dad. I wanted to drive a truck, which held the modern day exotic lure of a cowboy, riding into the sunset on his trusty horse. Each summer, in a highlight that held more thrill to me than a vacation at the beach or amusement park, I got to accompany Dad on a short trip. Climbing into the cab of the truck, hearing that diesel engine start up and the lurching feel of the clutch grabbing and gears changing, I was grinning from ear to ear, inside and out.
Watching my Dad drive, turning and backing the truck and 40 odd foot of trailer with ease, I was sure of what I was going to do. Sometime later, and much to my disappointment, I realized I had neither the driving ability, nor the patience to do what my father could do so effortlessly.
There were a number of other skills that Dad maintained in his mental toolbox (electrician, carpenter, mechanic, gardener, etc.). Being able to do a variety of useful things came naturally to him. My brothers laid claim to most of these skills before I came along, leaving me with the general aptitude to “go get” stuff. I was quite handy at retrieving a Phillips head screw driver or a monkey wrench, usually with enthusiasm and impressive speed. As long as I was not expected to hammer a nail straight or change the carburetor on the car, my embarrassment was minimal.
When the silo business Dad had worked for closed, after employing him for over 30 years, Dad became the local distributor for Silo-Matic farm equipment. Suddenly self-employed, dealing with inventories and balancing ledgers, Dad never let his lack of a high school diploma slow him down. He was always good with numbers, and unlike the ridiculously complicated math lessons taught today, he had learned the essentials of arithmatic and geometry and could do high number division and multiplication in his head faster than my kids can punch them into a calculator.
On Sundays, Dad would put on a suit, a tie and a dash of Old Spice; then take us all to church. This was not an empty gesture. He didn’t do it because it was expected of him. He did it because he believed it was the right thing to do. He was a Christian and not ashamed to show or tell it. He wanted the same for his children.
Dad sang in our small church choir, and sometimes sang a solo. I learned to sing and love music in that small chapel. Simple gospel songs that still play in my head when I am sad or happy or needing a friend. One of my strongest memories as a child was sitting next to my Dad in church. When he put his arm around me, I would lean against him and fall asleep to the gentle, lulling tone of the pastor’s sermon. It was the safest feeling I have ever known, and I hope I’ve provided that at some point to my girls.
I’m not sure he’s ever forgiven me and Connie for keeping three of his grandkids in Tennessee, but he should never doubt that they love their Papaw Warford. They love when he sings them silly songs or takes them for walks at Shelby Lake. He had already won their hearts, but he sealed their everlasting devotion by taking them to Dairy Queen for Ice Cream whenever he got the chance. I should have taken them “home” more often.
It’s been nearly ten years since Dad was diagnosed with Lung Cancer. Thanks to a lot of prayers and his strong will, he survived and has been in good health since. It was the moment though…one that we all face at some point…when we see our superhero, the strongest person we know, fall weak. My kids have seen my human frailties many times in their young life, but I had to wait until I was a father myself to see my Dad that way. Hard as it was, it gave me a new appreciation for my Dad and the time we have left. I’ve been blessed with ten more years, and I’m grateful every day.
We try so hard today to do the right thing for our kids. We read books and listen to therapists bestow their lofty advice on television. Everyone has an opinion on what it means to be a good parent. My father taught his kids by example.
Have faith, be honest, work hard, take responsibility for your actions, respect your fellow man, help others whenever you can.
These are lessons I have tried to pass on to my own children. His legacy is my legacy.
Happy Fathers Day Dad...
I Love you!
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Kidding Around
We are one week into summer break, and Connie and I have already heard the evil word “bored” several times. It is uttered with a tone of frustration and the expectation that it is somehow our responsibility as parents to provide our children with a near constant flow of either entertainment or a constructive activity that can in no way be interpreted as a chore.
I’m sure there are books, written by people who don’t have children, which say we should do just that; spend every waking moment making sure all of their time is happy, fulfilled and busy. Since they don’t have children, those people have more energy than we do. They also write books for a living, so it’s easy for them to imagine that they can take breaks whenever they want to escort little Jimmy or Susan to the park or the movies or the art gallery. (I am well aware the most kids would not enjoy a trip to the art gallery, but people who don’t have kids but write books about children think they do).
I don’t remember ever telling my parents I was “bored.” I can just imagine the look on my father’s face if I had ever uttered that in his presence. He would have found plenty for me to do. In fact, we always had chores to do around the house, and it was not only expected for us to do them, we pretty much did them without complaint. I never felt the need to call Children’s Services to lodge an abuse claim because I had to take out the garbage. I never rolled my eyes at my mother when she told me to clean my room. If I had been stupid enough to roll my eyes or talk back to my mother in my father’s presence, I’m pretty sure I would still be walking with a permanent limp.
Don’t get me wrong, I did not live in fear of my father. He did not beat his children. The difference is that his children knew that there were lines not to cross. We knew better than to disrespect our parents. We did not talk back to our parents. We did not barrage them with selfish requests. We did not try to guilt them into giving in to our demands. We were kids, and we knew our place. If I make it sound like we lived in a “speak unless you are spoken to” existence…that’s not what I mean at all, but we understood that we were just kids. Back then, there wasn’t anything wrong with that. In fact, it was a pretty good thing.
In some ways I feel bad for kids today. They don’t have the simplicity available to them that we did. We didn’t have 200 television channels to choose from. We had 4 (five if you count PBS, which I didn’t at the time). We didn’t have Playstations or Wii’s, portable DVD players or Ipods. Our Ipods were the size of small Volkswagons and played 8 track tapes. You could throw your back out carrying one of those things around.
We got up in the morning and after a quick breakfast (which was whatever Mom put in front of us, not the ala carte choices expected today), we went outside. Outside was the place to be. I don’t remember it being so hot that we couldn’t stand it. Getting sweaty was as natural as breathing. A slight breeze on a damp shirt felt like a massage from Mother Nature. It sent a chill up our spine which was about as much pleasure as a kid could handle.
I don’t remember preferring to lie on the couch in a mindless, grouchy stupor to the smell of fresh cut grass and honeysuckle. We transformed our yard into battlefields and old west forts. Trees were mountains that we could climb and conquer, and bicycles became police cars or horses, screaming along with the staccato hum of cards flapping against our wheel spokes. Our imagination was only interrupted by the call from Mom that lunch was ready, but once we had eaten our sandwiches (usually bologna or peanut butter), we were back outside for the rest of the afternoon. Boredom was never an issue, even when we were simply laying on our stomachs in the cool grass, looking for four-leaf clovers.
Occasionally these days, I’ll see my girls race outside to catch firelies, and for the briefest of moments, I think they might be experiencing some of the innocent fun that I did. I sincerely hope so. I hope that my generation’s desperate need to give our children “better than we had it” has not robbed them of the wonderful treasures that can be found while just being a kid. Adulthood and the responsibilities that come with will be here soon enough.
I’m sure there are books, written by people who don’t have children, which say we should do just that; spend every waking moment making sure all of their time is happy, fulfilled and busy. Since they don’t have children, those people have more energy than we do. They also write books for a living, so it’s easy for them to imagine that they can take breaks whenever they want to escort little Jimmy or Susan to the park or the movies or the art gallery. (I am well aware the most kids would not enjoy a trip to the art gallery, but people who don’t have kids but write books about children think they do).
I don’t remember ever telling my parents I was “bored.” I can just imagine the look on my father’s face if I had ever uttered that in his presence. He would have found plenty for me to do. In fact, we always had chores to do around the house, and it was not only expected for us to do them, we pretty much did them without complaint. I never felt the need to call Children’s Services to lodge an abuse claim because I had to take out the garbage. I never rolled my eyes at my mother when she told me to clean my room. If I had been stupid enough to roll my eyes or talk back to my mother in my father’s presence, I’m pretty sure I would still be walking with a permanent limp.
Don’t get me wrong, I did not live in fear of my father. He did not beat his children. The difference is that his children knew that there were lines not to cross. We knew better than to disrespect our parents. We did not talk back to our parents. We did not barrage them with selfish requests. We did not try to guilt them into giving in to our demands. We were kids, and we knew our place. If I make it sound like we lived in a “speak unless you are spoken to” existence…that’s not what I mean at all, but we understood that we were just kids. Back then, there wasn’t anything wrong with that. In fact, it was a pretty good thing.
In some ways I feel bad for kids today. They don’t have the simplicity available to them that we did. We didn’t have 200 television channels to choose from. We had 4 (five if you count PBS, which I didn’t at the time). We didn’t have Playstations or Wii’s, portable DVD players or Ipods. Our Ipods were the size of small Volkswagons and played 8 track tapes. You could throw your back out carrying one of those things around.
We got up in the morning and after a quick breakfast (which was whatever Mom put in front of us, not the ala carte choices expected today), we went outside. Outside was the place to be. I don’t remember it being so hot that we couldn’t stand it. Getting sweaty was as natural as breathing. A slight breeze on a damp shirt felt like a massage from Mother Nature. It sent a chill up our spine which was about as much pleasure as a kid could handle.
I don’t remember preferring to lie on the couch in a mindless, grouchy stupor to the smell of fresh cut grass and honeysuckle. We transformed our yard into battlefields and old west forts. Trees were mountains that we could climb and conquer, and bicycles became police cars or horses, screaming along with the staccato hum of cards flapping against our wheel spokes. Our imagination was only interrupted by the call from Mom that lunch was ready, but once we had eaten our sandwiches (usually bologna or peanut butter), we were back outside for the rest of the afternoon. Boredom was never an issue, even when we were simply laying on our stomachs in the cool grass, looking for four-leaf clovers.
Occasionally these days, I’ll see my girls race outside to catch firelies, and for the briefest of moments, I think they might be experiencing some of the innocent fun that I did. I sincerely hope so. I hope that my generation’s desperate need to give our children “better than we had it” has not robbed them of the wonderful treasures that can be found while just being a kid. Adulthood and the responsibilities that come with will be here soon enough.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Taylor
Taylor is eleven years old today, and it’s a celebration for many reasons, but mainly because we’ve all survived and have relatively few scars. Connie and I have joked before that if Taylor had been born first, she would be an only child, but I am never sure if it is her strong personality or our relative exhaustion by the time she came along that created the intense tug of war and contest of wills that has been our life this last decade.
Although we didn’t have a plan, our general consensus was to have two children and stop at that. Four seemed like a nice round number and it fit well at most restaurant tables. By fall 1997 we had dealt with two years of “hyper-Ashlyn” who did not so much learn to walk, but swing from the rafters and run through the house at the speed of a manic monkey. We were tired, and as we sat helplessly on the couch night after night while a tiny blonde whirlwind ripped through our home, we began to discuss the need to hinder further childbearing.
The obvious choice was for me to have a “procedure” done, since it is much less intrusive than what Connie would have gone through. Still, I was not convinced. Connie made excellent points, winning every discussion with logic and accredited medical data. I agreed, but cowered, and eventually delayed long enough that the decision was rendered pointless. In early October, around the time we were celebrating our 11th anniversary and Shelby’s 7th birthday, we learned that we were expecting again.
We were stunned at first, but the phases from denial to blame to acceptance and then excitement passed quickly, and soon Connie had that beautiful pregnant glow again, and we began planning for the changes a fifth member of our family would bring. We had no idea.
Sometime in the second trimester one of the blood tests came back bad, and there was a long week’s wait until we could get into the Neonatal Unit at Fort Sanders Hospital to have a complete work up and intensive ultrasound. Suddenly the unexpected pregnancy took on a whole new meaning as we realized how desperately we wanted this baby, and prayed for her to be healthy. As we waited for the doctor to bring us the results, minutes seemed like days, and that brightly lit, sterile waiting room became a courtroom which would hand down a verdict affecting the rest of our lives.
The verdict was good, and we were shown images of a healthy baby, with normal fetal movements and features. The blood test had been a “false-positive,” but it was really a reminder to us that we should not take this third pregnancy for granted. Since we were fairly positive that this would be our last child, we tried to enjoy the pregnancy and birth experience as much as we had with our first.
Taylor was born Tuesday, June 9, 1998, three days before Connie’s birthday. The birth was the smoothest of the three, which is easy for me to say, since all I had to do was stand by the bed and chant once in a while. Connie was radiant and felt great soon after the birth, laughing, talking, and showing off the newborn to visitors. It was all good until the next morning when they took Connie down to have her tubes tied.
My logic at the time, which must have been how Custer felt right before the Little Big Horn, was that since she was already in the hospital, she should just get it done. She agreed to that, mainly because she knew I was probably too big a coward to ever do anything on my own, but I also think she knew she could hold it over me for the rest of our lives. And she has.
I don’t blame her one bit though. The glowing, beautiful, happy mother who had just given birth the day before returned to the room a sore, weakened, slightly bitter woman. While she had been able to lovingly cradle Taylor in her arms the night before, now she could hardly move and nothing could rest against her tender stomach. It took weeks for her to fully recover, but there seems to be no expiration date on the shame I feel for putting her through that. I have been stupid many times in my life, but rarely have I been so thoughtless.
At home, Taylor was entertained and fawned over by two big sisters who loved a captive audience. Once she developed the ability to smile and laugh, it was SHOWTIME at the Warford home. Each older girl tried to outperform the other; singing, dancing, making silly faces, even pratfalls. Bruises were common, but fortunately there were no broken bones in the frantic attempts to amuse the baby.
Learning from and improving on the vaudevillian skills of her siblings, Taylor started showing off as soon as she could waddle around the house and utter a few syllables of song. Wearing just a diaper and a variety of comedic and dramatic expressions, she would leave us all in tears from laughing at her antics. Like her sisters, her face was angelic and her smile could melt your heart.
She enjoyed being center of attention, and that has continued as she has gotten older. She may have been youngest, but her personality left her better suited in battles for home supremacy than her sisters. Shelby, calmer and less interested in such things, usually sidestepped these battles completely, having better things to do. Ashlyn, who had so recently been youngest and also center of attention, was completely blindsided by this unexpected turn of events. Her natural sweetness was no match for Taylor’s single-minded thirst for power, and they soon became our own version of the Hatfield and McCoy’s.
I hear that this kind of thing is common; sibling rivalry and the bitter push-pull of “she said-she said.” Connie nor I did not and still do not know how to deal with it. Shelby and Ashlyn rarely butted heads and when they did, there was definitely not blood or concussions. The battles waged between Ashlyn and Taylor have been epic and ongoing, alternating between tragic and sometimes comic. The ridiculousness of some of their arguments verge on the psychotic.
Yet, there is never a question that there is a substantial amount of love between them. I have no doubt that Ashlyn would step in front of a speeding bus to save Taylor’s life, nor that Taylor would do the same for her, but only after a brief moment of analytical dissection of the situation.
The problem that we have (and I used to say it was “Taylor’s problem,” but I now realize that that is not true) is that Taylor is smarter than the rest of us. She has my questioning mind and desperate need to find logic, but it has been magnified by 1000. She needs to know why things are the way they are, and she refuses to accept “it is the way it is” as an answer. She gets easily frustrated when we can’t (or in her mind “won’t”) explain something to her, but she has yet to figure out that it’s not because we are trying to keep her in the dark, it’s because we simply don’t know ourselves. I’m hoping she reaches that stage soon, like Shelby did a few years back and Ashlyn has recently, that I’m not as bright as I look and that still waters don’t necessarily run that deep. She’ll be disappointed for a while, but she has the ability to reason it out and come to terms with it. That’s what she does.
I’m glad that God saw fit to have Connie and I procrastinate during that summer of 1997. He knew we needed a third child even when we did not. He knew we needed Taylor to challenge us, and knew that we would love her despite those challenges. She is a beautiful, talented and often brilliant girl; quick to give a hug or hold your hand. As a Dad who’s seeing his oldest graduate and prepare to leave home, and whose middle daughter is venturing out with friends and activities that don’t require a father’s assistance, it’s so wonderful to still have a “baby” at home. She may be eleven years old, but she’ll always be Daddy’s little girl.
Happy Birthday Taylor! I love you…
Although we didn’t have a plan, our general consensus was to have two children and stop at that. Four seemed like a nice round number and it fit well at most restaurant tables. By fall 1997 we had dealt with two years of “hyper-Ashlyn” who did not so much learn to walk, but swing from the rafters and run through the house at the speed of a manic monkey. We were tired, and as we sat helplessly on the couch night after night while a tiny blonde whirlwind ripped through our home, we began to discuss the need to hinder further childbearing.
The obvious choice was for me to have a “procedure” done, since it is much less intrusive than what Connie would have gone through. Still, I was not convinced. Connie made excellent points, winning every discussion with logic and accredited medical data. I agreed, but cowered, and eventually delayed long enough that the decision was rendered pointless. In early October, around the time we were celebrating our 11th anniversary and Shelby’s 7th birthday, we learned that we were expecting again.
We were stunned at first, but the phases from denial to blame to acceptance and then excitement passed quickly, and soon Connie had that beautiful pregnant glow again, and we began planning for the changes a fifth member of our family would bring. We had no idea.
Sometime in the second trimester one of the blood tests came back bad, and there was a long week’s wait until we could get into the Neonatal Unit at Fort Sanders Hospital to have a complete work up and intensive ultrasound. Suddenly the unexpected pregnancy took on a whole new meaning as we realized how desperately we wanted this baby, and prayed for her to be healthy. As we waited for the doctor to bring us the results, minutes seemed like days, and that brightly lit, sterile waiting room became a courtroom which would hand down a verdict affecting the rest of our lives.
The verdict was good, and we were shown images of a healthy baby, with normal fetal movements and features. The blood test had been a “false-positive,” but it was really a reminder to us that we should not take this third pregnancy for granted. Since we were fairly positive that this would be our last child, we tried to enjoy the pregnancy and birth experience as much as we had with our first.
Taylor was born Tuesday, June 9, 1998, three days before Connie’s birthday. The birth was the smoothest of the three, which is easy for me to say, since all I had to do was stand by the bed and chant once in a while. Connie was radiant and felt great soon after the birth, laughing, talking, and showing off the newborn to visitors. It was all good until the next morning when they took Connie down to have her tubes tied.
My logic at the time, which must have been how Custer felt right before the Little Big Horn, was that since she was already in the hospital, she should just get it done. She agreed to that, mainly because she knew I was probably too big a coward to ever do anything on my own, but I also think she knew she could hold it over me for the rest of our lives. And she has.
I don’t blame her one bit though. The glowing, beautiful, happy mother who had just given birth the day before returned to the room a sore, weakened, slightly bitter woman. While she had been able to lovingly cradle Taylor in her arms the night before, now she could hardly move and nothing could rest against her tender stomach. It took weeks for her to fully recover, but there seems to be no expiration date on the shame I feel for putting her through that. I have been stupid many times in my life, but rarely have I been so thoughtless.
At home, Taylor was entertained and fawned over by two big sisters who loved a captive audience. Once she developed the ability to smile and laugh, it was SHOWTIME at the Warford home. Each older girl tried to outperform the other; singing, dancing, making silly faces, even pratfalls. Bruises were common, but fortunately there were no broken bones in the frantic attempts to amuse the baby.
Learning from and improving on the vaudevillian skills of her siblings, Taylor started showing off as soon as she could waddle around the house and utter a few syllables of song. Wearing just a diaper and a variety of comedic and dramatic expressions, she would leave us all in tears from laughing at her antics. Like her sisters, her face was angelic and her smile could melt your heart.
She enjoyed being center of attention, and that has continued as she has gotten older. She may have been youngest, but her personality left her better suited in battles for home supremacy than her sisters. Shelby, calmer and less interested in such things, usually sidestepped these battles completely, having better things to do. Ashlyn, who had so recently been youngest and also center of attention, was completely blindsided by this unexpected turn of events. Her natural sweetness was no match for Taylor’s single-minded thirst for power, and they soon became our own version of the Hatfield and McCoy’s.
I hear that this kind of thing is common; sibling rivalry and the bitter push-pull of “she said-she said.” Connie nor I did not and still do not know how to deal with it. Shelby and Ashlyn rarely butted heads and when they did, there was definitely not blood or concussions. The battles waged between Ashlyn and Taylor have been epic and ongoing, alternating between tragic and sometimes comic. The ridiculousness of some of their arguments verge on the psychotic.
Yet, there is never a question that there is a substantial amount of love between them. I have no doubt that Ashlyn would step in front of a speeding bus to save Taylor’s life, nor that Taylor would do the same for her, but only after a brief moment of analytical dissection of the situation.
The problem that we have (and I used to say it was “Taylor’s problem,” but I now realize that that is not true) is that Taylor is smarter than the rest of us. She has my questioning mind and desperate need to find logic, but it has been magnified by 1000. She needs to know why things are the way they are, and she refuses to accept “it is the way it is” as an answer. She gets easily frustrated when we can’t (or in her mind “won’t”) explain something to her, but she has yet to figure out that it’s not because we are trying to keep her in the dark, it’s because we simply don’t know ourselves. I’m hoping she reaches that stage soon, like Shelby did a few years back and Ashlyn has recently, that I’m not as bright as I look and that still waters don’t necessarily run that deep. She’ll be disappointed for a while, but she has the ability to reason it out and come to terms with it. That’s what she does.
I’m glad that God saw fit to have Connie and I procrastinate during that summer of 1997. He knew we needed a third child even when we did not. He knew we needed Taylor to challenge us, and knew that we would love her despite those challenges. She is a beautiful, talented and often brilliant girl; quick to give a hug or hold your hand. As a Dad who’s seeing his oldest graduate and prepare to leave home, and whose middle daughter is venturing out with friends and activities that don’t require a father’s assistance, it’s so wonderful to still have a “baby” at home. She may be eleven years old, but she’ll always be Daddy’s little girl.
Happy Birthday Taylor! I love you…
Friday, June 5, 2009
Krystal Why Fi?
So I’m driving through town yesterday and I pass the sign for Krystal restaurant and notice that they’ve added a banner with the words “Free Wi-Fi.” If you aren’t familiar with Krystal, it’s the slightly greasier cousin of the more famous White Castle. Same little burger and little rounded buns, same tiny onions, same gastronomical devastation.
What struck me as funny about “Free Wi-Fi” at the Krystal is the notion that anyone would spend long enough inside to fire up their laptop and check even one email. I’m sure the manager or powers that be thought it was a great marketing tool, and I wish them the best in that regard, but seriously…do they expect the smell of greasy onions and cheese fries to be conducive to work or general web browsing? I’ve stepped inside a Krystal once in my life and I had to take a hot shower soon after to remove the sheen of rendered animal fat that hung thick in the air and attached to my skin and clothes like Vaseline.
I imagine the keyboard on my laptop growing slick and then sticky in the oily atmosphere. The screen will become gauzy and then drip with goo. Warranties will be voided due to ignoring Chapter 9, sub-section D of the fine print, which deals with reckless exposure to toxic environments. I have to wonder, is the combination of a cheese Krystal and a Twitter update so irresistible?
Don’t get me wrong, I love little greasy burgers. I visited White Castles often throughout college, and never seemed to learn that gobbling down a half dozen at 2am was not a good tonic for a restful night’s sleep. When I moved to Tennessee, Connie introduced me to Krystals, and just as I eventually became a fan of the Vols and a lover of the Smoky Mountains, I became a fan of the little Krystal cheeseburger as well.
As I have grown older and become a father, my tastes have changed somewhat and the siren call of Krystal is usually drowned out by my responsibility to my children, my health and my community. It’s just not a good thing to eat something that is so cheap and small enough that you can order them by the sack-full and swallow without the necessity of chewing. Frankly, I’m a bit surprised that the Surgeon General has not required a label on the package stating that they might be hazardous to your health.
So that is why, when I think of Krystal, I think of it as a Drive-Thru place, not a sit down and take my computer out place. When the overwhelming desire for a Krystal burger strikes, I’ll rent a car and put on a disguise, hoping that none of my daughter’s high school friends are working the window. Then I’ll find a dark, quiet hiding place to secretly devour my sack-full of gut-busters. History proves, however, that the tasty satisfied feeling will only last through the first three or four empty boxes, and is quickly followed by deep regret and a sour, greasy shame.
As for Wi-Fi, I’ll stick to Panera Bread or Starbucks. Give me a nice cup of coffee and a Banana-Nut muffin; hold the Onion Rings and greasy fingers.
What struck me as funny about “Free Wi-Fi” at the Krystal is the notion that anyone would spend long enough inside to fire up their laptop and check even one email. I’m sure the manager or powers that be thought it was a great marketing tool, and I wish them the best in that regard, but seriously…do they expect the smell of greasy onions and cheese fries to be conducive to work or general web browsing? I’ve stepped inside a Krystal once in my life and I had to take a hot shower soon after to remove the sheen of rendered animal fat that hung thick in the air and attached to my skin and clothes like Vaseline.
I imagine the keyboard on my laptop growing slick and then sticky in the oily atmosphere. The screen will become gauzy and then drip with goo. Warranties will be voided due to ignoring Chapter 9, sub-section D of the fine print, which deals with reckless exposure to toxic environments. I have to wonder, is the combination of a cheese Krystal and a Twitter update so irresistible?
Don’t get me wrong, I love little greasy burgers. I visited White Castles often throughout college, and never seemed to learn that gobbling down a half dozen at 2am was not a good tonic for a restful night’s sleep. When I moved to Tennessee, Connie introduced me to Krystals, and just as I eventually became a fan of the Vols and a lover of the Smoky Mountains, I became a fan of the little Krystal cheeseburger as well.
As I have grown older and become a father, my tastes have changed somewhat and the siren call of Krystal is usually drowned out by my responsibility to my children, my health and my community. It’s just not a good thing to eat something that is so cheap and small enough that you can order them by the sack-full and swallow without the necessity of chewing. Frankly, I’m a bit surprised that the Surgeon General has not required a label on the package stating that they might be hazardous to your health.
So that is why, when I think of Krystal, I think of it as a Drive-Thru place, not a sit down and take my computer out place. When the overwhelming desire for a Krystal burger strikes, I’ll rent a car and put on a disguise, hoping that none of my daughter’s high school friends are working the window. Then I’ll find a dark, quiet hiding place to secretly devour my sack-full of gut-busters. History proves, however, that the tasty satisfied feeling will only last through the first three or four empty boxes, and is quickly followed by deep regret and a sour, greasy shame.
As for Wi-Fi, I’ll stick to Panera Bread or Starbucks. Give me a nice cup of coffee and a Banana-Nut muffin; hold the Onion Rings and greasy fingers.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Shelby's Graduation (is Dr. Phil in the house?)
Some people handle major life events in stride, but considering my general aptitude for all things clumsy, I’m stumbling all over the place right now. I’m every lousy cliché of the forlorn dad, mopey and weeping as my little girl graduates and abandons me for a life that is out of my control. Change may be inevitable, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it or that I can’t fight against it with every ounce of my determination.
There are a lot of pieces to this emotional puzzle, and part of it is facing my own age. I still have moments when I feel like a high school student, so I don’t know how I can be the father of a graduate. My creaky bones and graying beard may attest to the fact that I am no longer young, but my mind still dares to question, and my heart can still skip a beat without being called arrhythmia. Accepting the fact that I have a child who is almost nineteen years old and ready for college forces me to acknowledge the fact that I am almost forty five years old and quite likely on the other side of that equator line called “middle age.”
Although I thought it was beyond my limits when they were born, the weight of parenthood is much heavier now. You reach a point when you realize that all of your cards are on the table and you can’t take them back or change your play. You aren’t sure that you always gave your best, and even if you did was your best good enough? You question every conversation you ever had, and every word you ever said. Was I a builder of self-esteem and a supporter of dreams, or a destroyer of hope and fulfillment?
It seems like just two weeks ago that Shelby was born. I had a lot of plans and a lot of goals. I had the best of intentions. There was a lot more I wanted to do as a parent and I hope she can live without those things easier than I can live with the fact that I didn’t do them. I carry regret like a kid carries a back pack to school. It’s heavy and full of stuff I probably don’t need, but if I forget to take it one day, someone will always bring it to me.
Of course, another regret I’ll have in years to come is that I’ve somehow made Shelby’s graduation more about me than about her. I’ll look back and read this and think “why didn’t I just relax and enjoy it more?” That’s easy for me to say. I’m not here, I’m there.
Despite all that, I know that none of this soul-searching, angst-filled, self-therapy means anything compared to the love and pride I have in my daughter right now. Shelby is a beautiful, mature, intelligent, talented young lady who can do whatever she dreams to do, and she doesn’t need my help or hindrance to do it. Still, I’ll offer the help, and with her Mom’s assistance, I’ll try to not be a hindrance. She may be stepping out on her own, but she will never, ever be alone.
There are a lot of pieces to this emotional puzzle, and part of it is facing my own age. I still have moments when I feel like a high school student, so I don’t know how I can be the father of a graduate. My creaky bones and graying beard may attest to the fact that I am no longer young, but my mind still dares to question, and my heart can still skip a beat without being called arrhythmia. Accepting the fact that I have a child who is almost nineteen years old and ready for college forces me to acknowledge the fact that I am almost forty five years old and quite likely on the other side of that equator line called “middle age.”
Although I thought it was beyond my limits when they were born, the weight of parenthood is much heavier now. You reach a point when you realize that all of your cards are on the table and you can’t take them back or change your play. You aren’t sure that you always gave your best, and even if you did was your best good enough? You question every conversation you ever had, and every word you ever said. Was I a builder of self-esteem and a supporter of dreams, or a destroyer of hope and fulfillment?
It seems like just two weeks ago that Shelby was born. I had a lot of plans and a lot of goals. I had the best of intentions. There was a lot more I wanted to do as a parent and I hope she can live without those things easier than I can live with the fact that I didn’t do them. I carry regret like a kid carries a back pack to school. It’s heavy and full of stuff I probably don’t need, but if I forget to take it one day, someone will always bring it to me.
Of course, another regret I’ll have in years to come is that I’ve somehow made Shelby’s graduation more about me than about her. I’ll look back and read this and think “why didn’t I just relax and enjoy it more?” That’s easy for me to say. I’m not here, I’m there.
Despite all that, I know that none of this soul-searching, angst-filled, self-therapy means anything compared to the love and pride I have in my daughter right now. Shelby is a beautiful, mature, intelligent, talented young lady who can do whatever she dreams to do, and she doesn’t need my help or hindrance to do it. Still, I’ll offer the help, and with her Mom’s assistance, I’ll try to not be a hindrance. She may be stepping out on her own, but she will never, ever be alone.
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