Intruders

About a week before Halloween, the year after our encounter with the bat, I was awakened from a deep and peaceful sleep by a loud noise from within our home. Sitting straight up in the bed, I looked at the clock and saw that it was just past one a.m. Connie had heard it too and grabbed my arm. “What was that,” she said, in a frightened whisper.

“Shhhh...” I hissed, and listened carefully to the silence we were now drowning in. It was one of those ridiculous moments when you want to hear the noise again, to confirm that it really happened, but also didn’t want to hear it, because that would prove that something was making the noise.

I swung my legs off the bed and set my feet quietly on the floor. The noise replayed in my head over and over and I tried to make my best guess as to where it had come from. When my mind cleared from its sleepy fog, I reasoned that the sound must have originated downstairs. It was not the sound of breaking glass, but could have been something knocked over as an intruder stumbled around in the dark.

I slowly made my way out of the bedroom and into the hallway; my hands reaching out along the way for something to use as a weapon but finding only a hairbrush and some jewelry on top of the dresser. I tried to remember where my baseball bat was and then recalled that it was in the storeroom downstairs, along with anything else I might conceivably use to protect myself and my family.

I cautiously opened the door to the basement a few inches and listened. At first I couldn’t hear anything, but then I could make out a strange break in the silence. It didn’t register as a recognizable sound, but more like a soft change in the tone of nothingness.

I slipped my hand through the doorway and flipped on the switch for the light on the steps. I half expected to hear footsteps and the hurried rush of our intruder to escape, but there was nothing. I knew that this could be either very good or very bad news.

At this point I had the option of calling 911 or investigating for myself. With no weapon and having little or no skills at martial arts or hand to hand combat, the logical thing would have been to close and lock the basement door and call the professionals. I, however, in an extremely rare moment of perceived masculinity, decided to live free and die hard. My name is Bruce W. after all.

I moved carefully down the first few stairs, cringing with each alarmingly loud creak of the wood beneath my feet. There were six stairs down to a landing and three more stairs after turning a blind corner before reaching the basement. If someone was waiting on those lower steps, I would have little time to rush back up the stairs to lock the door.

I listened again and the odd, broken noise was louder. If I could describe it, I would say it sounded like someone with asthma taking a long, wheezy breath. I froze. The sound was almost identical to the breathing noise that Jason Voorhees made behind his mask in the Friday the 13th movies. My mind tortured me with the words that followed his intense respiration on film…”kill, kill, kill.”

Then my nostrils flared at a sudden, pungent smell that I didn’t expect. It was a hot smell, not like wood burning or fire, but like burning hair. It was strong and getting even stronger.

I slid down the wall and peeked around the corner, not sure what I might encounter, but very relieved to see the sliding glass doors that led outside were closed and locked, glass still intact. The breathing sound continued to grow louder and the stench was beginning to smell like burning rubber. My heart beat furiously in my chest and my own breathing was becoming somewhat panicked.

I moved onto the landing and stepped down, but stopped short of the last step. The light switch for the basement family room was just around the corner and I twisted my arm around blindly to find it. I half expected someone or something to grab my hand in the dark, which would have surely caused me to drop dead of a heart failure or at the very least awaken everyone within a five block radius with my high-pitched siren scream.

I found the switch and with a deep breath flipped it upward, bathing the area in the warm glow of soft white bulbs. The noise and smell did not alter or stop; and whatever was causing it apparently had no fear of me or any weapon I might be bringing with me down the stairs. I considered yelling out some manly threat like, “I’ve got a gun,” or “the police are on the way,” but I was pretty sure that the fear in my voice would come out sounding like Barney Fife or a six year old girl, so I stayed stoically silent.

Gathering all my nerves, I peered around the corner to see what horror awaited me. My eyes scanned the room for shadowy figures or grotesque monsters and finally settled upon two furry lumps lying calmly on the green felt of our pool table.

The grey tabby looked at me like I had just woken her from a peaceful slumber. The black cat was more alert, but taunted me with a “what are you doing here?” look on his face. If not for the loud, hissing breathing sound still emanating from somewhere in the room and the stench burning my eyes and nose, it could not have been more peaceful.

Let me stop here and explain a little bit about the cats. It’s no secret that I am not a pet person. This is not to say that I don’t like animals. That is not true. I enjoy visiting zoos and love a good horse movie. I think aquariums full of fish are really swell and I was a big fan of the Lassie shows as a kid. I like animals just fine. I just don’t particularly want to have a pet.

I’m can’t remember how we got those two particular cats, but I know that I had nothing to do with it. Like most of our horrible experiences with pets I’m sure it started off with someone’s best intentions. You know the kind. They always say things like, “Every child needs a pet, blah, blah, blah,” and “those allergies are all in your head.”

As usual, I went along for the ride (mostly in the backseat, and sometimes in the trunk).

Anyway, the cats were not guests in our house for a very long period, and their untimely demises (which I assure you were not of my doing) are now the stuff of neighborhood legend, but in their brief stay we seemed to have had a mutual agreement to stay out of each other’s way. Most of the time, it worked out just fine.

I stepped down and walked over the table, relatively sure at this point that no one was lurking in a corner to get me, but still completely perplexed over the continuing noise and the overpowering smell. The cats watched me with their wide, glassy eyes and I asked them, “Okay, what did you do?”

And then I saw it.

Behind the pool table, lying on the floor, was our ironing board…and beside it, hissing loudly and burning its way through our carpet and the foam pad beneath, was our iron.

I grabbed the hot iron and pulled it from the sticky, melted mess of the carpet and pad. Thank goodness for the cheap material of the low cost floor covering because a good shag rug would have probably burst into flame rather than melt into black goo. We were very lucky.

One thing I know is that Connie is very vigilant about turning off the iron when she uses it. Most of the time she unplugs it, but she always turns it off. Anyone who’s seen my wrinkled shirts knows that I rarely iron, so that left me with one explanation. Obviously one of the cats had jumped on the ironing board and toppled it over. When the iron hit the floor the switch had somehow turned on.

After unplugging and safely putting away the ruined iron, I gave the cats one last disappointed look (which they totally ignored) and made my way back to bed. Connie looked relieved when I walked back into the room and asked what had happened. It was too late and I was too tired to go into detail, so I just said “stupid cats…” before collapsing into bed and pulling the blanket over my head. She knew me well enough to let it wait until morning for the rest of the story.

Going Batty

It was a dark and stormy night…

Actually, no…it was dark, but the sky was clear and the air was crisp and cool. It was a beautiful October evening; the night before Halloween 1996. I swear upon the grave of Daniel Webster that the story I am about to share is true.

It was a little after 9pm. We had just tucked our Shelby and Ashlyn into bed and Connie and I had settled onto the couch to watch a little television. I can’t remember what we had planned to view because within minutes of sitting down, the phone started ringing. I stepped into the kitchen to answer the phone and barely started the conversation when I heard Connie scream.

Our kitchen at the time had a door on one end that opened into the hallway that led out of our living room to our bedrooms. The other end was open to a small dining nook and back into our living room. Essentially, you could make a circle through our kitchen into our living room and back.

As I looked up in reaction to the frightened yell of my usually calm and rational wife, I heard the strange flap of wings and came face to fangy face with a large bat. It swooped past my head and flew through our kitchen, making a wide turn through our living room and back past my face again.

This was not one of those little bats that you see flying out of chimneys and caves at twilight. I’ve seen those before. I don’t like them, but I’m not completely freaked out by them. This was what I call a “movie” bat. The wingspan was over a foot wide and its head looked to be the size of a tennis ball. It looked like the thing that Gilligan turned into in that weird vampire episode I watched growing up.

I know what you are thinking. I am obviously exaggerating the size of what was simply a regular bat. Or maybe it was even a bird that I mistook for a bat. In the hysteria of the moment, I could have only thought it was a bat. That is logical, and if I were alone when it happened, I would tend to agree. However, as I said, my very logical and clear headed wife can confirm my story. It was a bat. It was big. And it was in our house.

I hung up the phone (after politely saying I would have to call them back) and told Connie to run back and close the kid’s bedroom door. Crawling quickly through the flight zone, she did just that, and locked herself in with the girls.
I dodged the next pass of the bat and ran to the front door, unsure of what to do except hold the door open and hope that it would fly out on its own. From behind the glass of the storm door I watched as it circled, again and again, and wondered how long I could wait. Looking once again at the wingspan and the pointy ears on its massive head, I decided I could wait a good, long while. It was a beautiful night and I decided that the fresh air would do me good.

After twenty minutes of watching and carrying on an anxious conversation with Connie through the window of the bedroom where she was trapped, I saw the monster bat finally fly through the opening and disappear into the night sky. I hurried inside, closing and locking the door.

We checked all the windows and access points (upstairs, downstairs, attic, and basement) and could find no obvious point of entry for the creature. We never found a sign of its existence. No scratch marks on the walls, no little bat droppings. We had no idea how long it had been in the house before it made its presence known. It could have been hiding under our bed or in one of our closets for days or even weeks. It was more than a little un-nerving.

The mystery has never been solved.

It won't happen to me...

A recent study claims that despite new laws banning the act of texting while driving, the percentage of accidents due to texting might actually be increasing. The study suggests that now that drivers can be stopped, ticketed and fined when they are seen texting by police officers, they have not discontinued their behavior, but are doing so in a more discreet manner. Instead of holding the phone at windshield level (where their actions can be viewed), they are holding their phones lower; therefore taking their eyes and concentration even further from the road.

How stupid are we?

I won’t go into the numbers. The statistics are overwhelming regarding the percentages of drivers who text and the number of deaths caused by distracted drivers. Do a Google search: “Texting while driving.” Pages and pages of the same data will be available to you, but do you really need it?   Does it take a genius to know that this is an incredibly dumb and dangerous thing to do?

In today’s world, texting is becoming the default communication. It’s the way teens (and a lot of adults) talk. Many feel that not responding to a text immediately is the same as ignoring someone who asks you a question face to face. Even while driving, they consider it “rude” not to answer.

Amazingly stupid.

Like all idiotic things people do on the road (speeding, aggressive driving, driving while under the influence), it wouldn’t be so bad if they had the road completely to themselves. We have all heard the expression “they think they own the road.” Apparently, many people actually do.

When I heard of a single car accident in Knoxville a few months back where the driver was killed while racing down a busy street at speeds in excess of 120mph, I felt bad for the family (and no matter how an accident happens, there will be pain and loss experienced by someone), but I was also glad that this person was no longer on the road. I drive that road with my family. My wife drives that road. My daughters drive that road.

People get behind the wheel of their car and forget the awesome responsibility that they are taking on. The crushing weight, speed and power of the vehicles we drive can change from a beneficial mode of transportation into a violently brutal weapon of destruction in a matter of seconds. Unlike the little Matchbox cars I pushed around my bedroom floor as a child, they are not toys.

We are spoiled and selfish. We want what we want. We get aggravated when someone is driving in the passing lane and going too slow (I’m as guilty of this as anyone). We fuss and fume when people do not race through a yellow light so that we can follow. We honk our horns if they do not floor it as soon as the light turns green.

We are not only the most important person on the road at all times; we are the only person who has the right to actually be there.  I have places to go and things to do! Why don’t these people get out of my way? Why don’t they know where I am going? Where did they learn to drive?

Our excuses and justifications are endless:

I am an excellent driver.


I’ve never had an accident.


I’ve never had a speeding ticket.


I only had a couple of drinks.


I don’t text often…


It won’t happen to me…

I get angry about this kind of thing because it’s personal. It’s not just personal to me; it should be personal to all of us. My worst fear is that dreaded phone call or knock on the door, when someone’s moment of stupid might forever change my family’s future.

Part of me wants to grab my wife and kids and go hide somewhere deep in the Canadian woods (this is also my fall-back plan if Sarah Palin is ever elected President), but I’m not sure the kids could handle the lack of cell phone reception.

Yes…my kid’s text. So does my wife. Occasionally I even get my own chubby fingers to bang out a message. Like many things taken on their own, texting is not evil. It’s just the way that we opt to use it.

My kids know my rules. They know that if I ever find out that they are texting and driving they lose the phone (and a good bit of their driving privileges). They know that if they need to answer or make a phone call while driving, they need to pull over. They know these things. I pray they do these things, because I can’t be with them all the time (and I think they know that despite what I have told them in the past, I do not actually have a video camera hidden in the car).

I hope that if I have taught my children anything about responsibility, it is that they are not just responsible for themselves, but also those around them. As I’ve told my daughters many times, the only thing worse that causing an accident that gets yourself killed, is causing an accident that kills someone else and having to live with that the rest of your life.

Springs Eternal

It could be a long, rough, angry life if we didn’t have the ability to laugh at ourselves. If I’ve learned one thing about myself, it’s that I am a walking amusement park of stumbles and gaffes, so if I didn’t laugh I’d have a long row to hoe. As it is, I would rather giggle than fume, so I try to look at things with a reasonable perspective. As long as I haven’t hurt anyone else, I try to shrug off my goofs with a smile.

I was a clumsy kid; and apparently it was a very rare thing for me not to have some type of bandage, stitches, a plaster cast or a large, purple bruise somewhere on my body. If there was a tree root snaking through the grass, I would trip over it. If there was a slick spot on the hardwood floor, I would slip on it.

By the time I was twelve years old I had fallen face first into a galvanized bucket (8 stitches), rode my bike into a barbed wire fence (10 stitches) , crashed into a coffee table (5 stitches) and broken both arms. Trust me when I say that these are just a few highlights from a long list of injuries (and I have the scars to prove it), but I think you get the picture.

One of my greatest humiliations, and therefore the one that brings my children the greatest joy whenever they hear the story, was an incident that occurred in my freshman year of high school. At that time it was required that all ninth graders take Physical Education (or as I liked to call it: one miserable hour of unrelenting HELL in an otherwise stressful day).

When you are blessed with neither the slightest shred of gracefulness nor an ounce of athletic ability, the daily torture of attempting to perform a variety of seemingly impossible tasks while wearing a snug white t-shirt and ill-fitting white shorts gave new meaning to the term “awkward.” Like most kids who were teasingly called “pudgy” (at least on a good day), white was not my color. It was an incredible boost to my self-esteem.  (sarcasm)

Of course, I was well aware of my own limits. When it was time to climb the big rope (which hung from the roof of the gymnasium some 40 or 400 feet above), I told my parents that I would probably fail the class. Not only was I completely positive that I did not have the physical ability to climb to the top of the rope, I was absolutely certain that when I inevitably lost my grip and slid downward with ever increasing speed, I would severely burn my hands and inner thighs in the attempt to stop. Between that foregone conclusion and a fairly strong aversion to the big knot at the bottom, I knew that my climb would not end well.
Through a careful balance of luck, skilled avoidance and faking sick, I was able to skip out on the joys of “rope-climbing” days.

The story that haunts me, however, even today, did not involve the rope. It was one of those winter days when we couldn’t go outside and run. Rather than play Volleyball, which was one of the few things I actually enjoyed, Coach Kuhl decided to teach us the intricacies of the trampoline.

For safety, he had us all gather around the outer edges of the trampoline. We were instructed to be careful of flying feet and elbows, but also that it was our responsibility to stop any of our fellow students who bounced wrong and became human projectiles. We braced ourselves to save lives.

I can still remember, very clearly, his detailed instructions on the proper mounting of the trampoline. From the narrow end of the stand, we were to grasp the frame firmly with both hands and jump straight up, dropping our head and pushing up with our arms so that we could tuck and roll smoothly on to the top. It looked very easy. He called on one of my more athletically inclined classmates to show us how it was done, and they did so with the grace of an Olympic gymnast.

In my deluded mind, I could see and feel myself doing the same. Jump, push, lift, tuck, roll…I could do this.

Although the class was not officially co-ed, there were certain activities in which the girls having class during that period joined the boys. Trampoline day was one of those days. In hindsight, I’m not sure it was a spectacularly great idea to have teenage boys and teenage girls watch each other jump up and down on a trampoline in tight white t-shirts and shorts, but I personally have no memory of it being a problem or a distraction. I was completely focused on the task at hand.

As each student took their turn, we slowly rotated around the trampoline frame. When I finally reached the end of the line, I was ready. I grasped the frame like I was supposed to, then waited for the Coach to give me the nod to go ahead. I closed my eyes and talked myself through the mounting steps.

I jumped…and felt myself rising. I dropped my head…chin to chest, just as I had been told. My arms tightened and lifted my body even further….then I felt myself tuck and start to roll forward. I could feel the watchful stare of forty pair of eyes upon me. I was almost there…

…and then my forward momentum stopped.

It took a moment to realize where I was and what I had done. I was not lying on the black mat of the trampoline like I should have been. I was still gripping the padded frame with both hands and my feet were flailing wildly above my body. Somehow (and I find this particularly amazing considering the size of my noggin), as I tucked and rolled, my head slipped between two of the heavy springs which provide the bounce in the trampoline and got stuck.

I’m not sure what this must have looked like to my classmates. I’ve tried to visualize it in a way that looked somewhat natural or even cool, but after years of trying I have accepted that it is impossible. I was stuck upside down, legs flopping wildly in all directions, head missing in the underworld of the trampoline.

My kids would rob a bank to buy a video of this.

I don’t know how long I stayed there like that. It seemed like hours. I don’t recall hearing laughter, although with my ears pinned so tightly in the grip of those springs, I don’t think I could have heard anything anyway. Eventually, Coach Kuhl got over his shock and came to my rescue. He grabbed the springs and spread them apart enough for my head to pop free. Fortunately, my legs were flopping in the direction of the trampoline, so I collapsed into a motionless heap…surrounded by a large group of my peers.

It took a while to get my body to move again, and I wasn’t up to bouncing or doing flips at that point, so I just rolled to the edge and slithered off the side. Although my legs were shaking I was able to stand and walk. Coach Kuhl said I could hit the showers early and it wasn’t until I was looking in the mirror in the locker room that I saw the striped red whelps that had burned into both sides of my neck and face. Small patches of hair were missing and later found still trapped between the tight coils of the trampoline springs.

I’m eternally grateful that this little experience took place in the days before cell phones and viral videos. I would not enjoy being a YouTube laughingstock.

Still, I can look back on it now and laugh. Not as hard as my kids do whenever they think of my head stuck in the springs of that trampoline. Not nearly as hard as my friend Thaddeus, who asks to hear the story again like it’s a child’s favorite bedtime story. Probably not as hard as any of my classmates whom I have foolishly hoped wiped it from their memory.

The only one who doesn’t laugh quite as hard is my sweet, loving wife Connie. She looks on with a balanced mix of compassion, good humor and concern. I’m pretty sure that the concern is not for me, though. I know that she is thinking, “Why did I marry this guy?”

Road Trips

I enjoy the concept of a road trip. The dream of the open highway and the beauty of the American countryside flowing by is a glorious thing. If not for time and scheduling, I’d rather drive than fly. There’s something freeing about being behind the wheel and in control of your own destiny.

Like a lot of things, however, these trips can get idealized in our minds before we ever open the car door. The open road is not really so open. There are other cars, pickups, motorcycles and massive trucks which get in our way, block our view and endanger our existence. There’s road construction and speed traps and potholes; you have to take the good with the bad.

Last Saturday we left home at 8am to drive the two hundred and eleven miles to my parent’s house to surprise my Mom for her birthday. Shelby and Ashlyn couldn’t get off of work, so it was just Connie, Taylor and I. It was the first time we’ve only had one child in the car for a trip since before Ashlyn was born. Instead of the constant chatter of three voices in the back seat, we only had the constant chatter of one. That evening as we drove back home, I was reminded of some of the best and worst things about our family road trips.

Best

The excitement of leaving.  There’s something about getting out of the house early in the morning and getting settled into the car that gives you a little thrill. This is best if you know you are actually heading off to a real vacation, but it’s still fun just to know you’re going somewhere.

Worst

The frustration of leaving.  Those last minute arguments and searches for shoes, IPods, cameras and car keys. The check and double check of lights, stove, locks and windows. The battle over who sits where in the car and why it’s not fair because someone ALWAYS has to sit in the middle. Of course, after everyone is settled and you think that you are ready to go, someone remembers something they absolutely must take and you have turn off the car, get out, unlock the house and start all over again.

Best

Road music! Certain songs seem made for cruising down the highway. My personal playlist would include almost anything by the Eagles, Jackson Browne, Lynard Skynard, Boston, Kansas and REM. Certain songs seem to merge with the speed and rhythm of the road, but you have to be careful. When I was commuting back and forth to college I wore out the cassette tape of The Police performing the song “Synchronicity II.” That song started out fast and built in tempo as if the drums, guitar and lyrics were racing each other to see who could reach the end of the song first. My foot seemed to want to keep the beat as well, and I often found myself edging past 90 mph on Interstate 64 on my way home. I soon learned I was better off listening to the Eagles singing “Take it Easy.”

Worst

Road Music! I have learned the hard way that my experience with road music is only great if I am in complete control of the music and I am the only person in the vehicle. Connie and I both love the “70’s on 7” channel on satellite radio, but when a disco song comes on, I want to change it and she goes into foggy eyed memory mode. I do not “boogie.” Never have, never will.

It’s even worse when the girls are in the car. No matter how well I hide the audio cable that plugs their IPods into the car sound system, they always seem to find it. They have also learned how to make their own mix cd’s. These are often painful and contain no central theme or pattern, other than the songs they like at the moment.

While I argue that they need to bring headphones to listen to the music that they like, they insist that we should all HAVE to listen. They are like parent’s trying to get kids to eat brussel sprouts: “If you try it you will like it…and if you don’t like it at first, or it makes you feel nauseous, just keep going, it will get tolerable and eventually you’ll love it.”

On a good day, there might be one song in twenty that we all equally like. Depending upon the general tolerance level of the moment (and let’s face it, there’s not a lot of tolerance amongst my three girls as they sit in the backseat of a car), they can either listen to a song they don’t like with mild disdain or decide that they won’t have to hear much of it if they simply grumble their way through it.

Best

Road food! One of the joys of driving for a long distance is the promise of stopping along the way to eat. My general preference is to try something new, not the same old thing I can get in my home area. With the family, however, stability and familiarity is important, so we’ve learned we can’t go wrong with Cracker Barrel or McDonald’s. Both for variety or price, these give us the options we need and the speed to get us back out on the road quickly. It’s a rare road trip that we don’t stop at one (or both) of these establishments.

Worst
Road food! Although I should know better, I have many weak moments where I tend to forget who I am dealing with and make the mistake of asking, “Where would everyone like to eat?” The battle that follows is bloodless but verbally brutal. No one likes the same thing, and their individual likes and dislikes seem to change from hour to hour. If they liked Arby’s yesterday, they simply “aren’t in the mood for it today.” (This is usually in response to someone else saying “I would really like some Arby’s!”).

I’ve made lots of mistakes, but I’m learning. I’ve learned that a Wendy’s Frosty is not a satisfactory replacement for a Dairy Queen Blizzard.

I’ve learned that no matter how sincere a person seems when they say “I’m not picky…you know what I like, “ that I should just hand them cash and INSIST that they order for themselves.

Most importantly, I’ve learned that no matter how much they beg, I should never stop for Mexican food or let them order chili.

Best

Time together! At its best, a road trip can remind you how much fun your family can be. For some strange reason, I am much funnier in our car than I am at any other time. Even Connie, who generally stopped finding me amusing quite some time ago, will laugh at my quips in the car. Maybe it’s the hypnotically lulling sounds of the tires. It reduces her resistance.

When the girls aren’t arguing over music or food or whose elbow is in whose side, they can be adorably sweet in the car. They will break into song and harmonize together. They will play silly games. They laugh.

When it’s quiet, I’ll move the rearview mirror just so I can watch them sleep.

Worst

The smells! If boys are grosser than girls, I’m glad we didn’t have any sons. I’m fairly positive that some of their tennis shoes and sandals were made with possum hides, because when they take them off in the car, it smells like week old August road kill. Other odors flow forward as well, and they can’t be blamed on the shoes. As mine and Connie’s windows roll down and we gasp for breath, the giggles follow. Apparently, there is no shame amongst family.


As we crossed the state line on our way back into Tennessee Saturday night, darkness had fallen and Taylor was sleeping quietly in the back seat. She didn’t have to sit in the middle on this trip. She had the entire seat to herself and was stretched out across it.

I couldn’t help but wonder if she was more comfortable sleeping that way, or squeezed in between her sisters with her head on Shelby’s shoulder? Our trips are changing. Fewer and fewer trips will find us all together. Sooner than I am prepared for it will be just Connie and I, driving in relative peace, listening to the music we want to listen to.

I’m sure that as I think back on our family road trips, even the “worst” things about them will be cherished memories.

Swiss Cheese Mind

Since I was never very good at sports, or much of anything else, one of the rare qualities I could take some small measure of personal pride in was my ability to remember random, frequently useless bits of lore, legend or unimportant fact. In particular, I was good at movie and television trivia.

Throughout high school and college, I devoured books and magazines about films and film-makers. I don’t know whether it was due to my youth or just a keen interest, but my brain was able to retain that information like a fat sponge. For years it was a useful party trick, and I think that often people thought I was much smarter than I was because I didn’t just know the year a film was released, but also who wrote it, directed it and whether the lead actor had an affair with the lead actress during filming.

Fortunately, they didn’t ask me any questions that would require Algebra.

Before we all had access to the World Wide Web, friends and family members would call me for the sole purpose of asking, “Who was that guy in that show? You know…the one with the girl?” I’m not sure what was scarier…that they would ask such a vague question…or that I would usually know exactly what guy and what show they were talking about.

So, I had a reputation. In retrospect, it was kind of sad and pointless reputation, but it was basically all I had, so I shined it up and placed it on my mantel. Did you need to know the chronological filmography of Spielberg, Scorcese, DePalma or Hitchcock? I was your guy. Curious about the color template of cinematographer Gordon Willis, or the editing style of Verna Fields? I could regal you for hours. It was a hobby that was more interesting to me than any job I ever had.

With the advent of the Internet, I found new avenues of information. Websites devoted to the kind of details I loved; operated by kindred spirits. I learned the term “film geek” and recognized immediately that I had always been one…I just didn’t know the name.

My lovely wife Connie, who…like most women…had dreamed of marrying a tall, dark, rugged and handsome Sean Connery or Sam Elliott type had to adjust her expectations a wee bit to accommodate my average height, pale skin, and injury prone clumsiness. I was lucky that throughout our months of dating, I often had a cold, which fortunately lowered the timbre of my voice by at least an octave. By the time my sinuses cleared and she heard my natural speaking tone, with its occasional higher pitched falsetto exclamations, we were already married. Occasionally I will attempt to treat her to a Connery style Scottish brogue, usually failing miserably, but even after a week of strep throat I don’t try to imitate the gravelly baritone manliness of Sam Elliott. I don’t think that her heart could take the laughter.

Connie was not aware that she had married a “film geek.” She thought that I was a smart guy with a lot of potential. Little did she know that my knowledge was primarily focused in areas that allowed for minimal income producing possibilities. Still, I was somewhat useful to have around.

If we were at a movie or watching a television show and someone came on screen that looked familiar, all she basically had to do was glance my way and I’d give her a brief rundown of that persons film credits. Eventually I would say the name of the film or show that she remembered so she would nod and say “that’s it.” I may not have been Sean Connery, but it was my own little Bond moment.

Recently, however, I’ve noticed that I’m not quite up to my game. Connie will give me that questioning glance during a movie and I’ll hesitate, finally telling her, “You know…he was on that show we liked. The one about the doctors.”

I know that it’s age. Like the rest of my body, my brain is slowing down. I’m just not as sharp as I once was. It feels like I’m half asleep all the time.

My short term memory is pretty well shot as well. I’ll go to the grocery store for bread and milk…that’s all…two things (!)…and as I’m driving home later with four bags of groceries that I hadn’t planned to buy, I’ll realize that I didn’t get one (or both) of the two things I went there to get in the first place.

I have recently found myself watching a television show for 30 or 45 minutes, then when a commercial comes on I’ll channel surf (I am a guy, after all) and after a few minutes of perusing what else is on, I’ll completely forget what I was originally watching. I could say that part of that is based on the fact that television shows today are relatively forgettable, but it’s still pretty sad.

I can still remember the days when people, including my wife, said that I had a mind like a “steel trap.” Now I sometimes feel that drudging up memories is like trying to catch water with a fish net. I need to clear the cobwebs and spray some mental WD40 on my rusty hinges. It’s time to wake up.

Malaise

I’d love to say that it’s been an interesting summer, but the truth (at least for me), is that it’s been a fairly miserable summer. Before I sound like I’m going to throw a pity party for myself, I will fully admit that no great ill has befallen me. No natural disaster has rerouted the course of my life. In fact, the worst thing that I can say has happened to me is that “absolutely nothing” has happened.

Compared with those folks out in the real world who have been dealing with floods, tornadoes, oil spills, unemployment, wars and numerous other tragedies, my sad-sack whining is beyond pathetic. The realization of just how ridiculous it is to be burdened by nothing more than the microscopic weight of my own malaise is not just humbling, but more than a little bit humiliating.

I was tired coming into the summer. My travel schedule was heavier this year than ever, and there were added levels of stress related to that. I have always tried to follow a “work to live, not live to work” philosophy, but sometimes necessity becomes priority and your personal life doesn’t just get kicked into the back seat, but is wrapped in a tarp and thrown in the trunk.

Still, in these difficult economic times, I’m not going to complain about having a good job that just happens to keep me away from home more than I like. I understand that it’s not really the job but the way I handle things that cause me the most trouble. I am my own worst enemy.

For the last couple of years, one of the things that kept me busy and out of trouble was my relatively consistent scribbling in my blog. It didn’t really accomplish anything other than give me something to do and a way to vent, but that release valve was a crucial fulcrum in helping me balance the various stresses and weights I faced. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until I stopped writing a few months ago.

I’m not really sure why I stopped. My excuse was that my brain was fried from too much travel, and that was partially true. I was exhausted and mentally spent from one trip after another; smiling and pretending to care about whatever new, almost always pointless way that someone had come up with to spend our tax dollars. I had dreams where I grabbed some of them by the collar and screamed “No one cares about what you’re doing! Go get a real job!” Of course, they could have just as easily done the same thing to me and I would have had no justifiable response. We were both just cogs in the machinery.

I did attempt to write…sitting in my hotel room with the television muted and the cold air blowing full force to try and fight off the oppressive summer heat...but the words were disjointed and randomly bitter. I couldn’t find a through-line to hang my intentions on.

As summer draws to a close, I’m hoping that the falling leaves of autumn will give me a new spark. Maybe it was just the incessant rays of the sun that baked away my energy and castrated all signs of creativity. Or maybe I had one too many eggs and my mind is roiling from salmonella. It’s difficult to say.

Either way, I’m going to force myself to write until it spills out easily again. It might not be pretty, and I don’t count on anyone reading it, but that’s okay. This is much cheaper than therapy.

Family

Summer is not my favorite time of year. When you’re overweight, out of shape, and work in an office with air-conditioning for most of your day, it’s not easy to step out into the thick muck of heat that has settled over us. It is only the beginning of July and we’ve already had more ninety degree days this year than all of last year; so to say that my mood has not been pleasant is an understatement.

I’m a fall person…or better yet…a winter person. I’d much rather put on more clothes than take anything off (and after taking a brief survey of both family and friends, they too agree that they would rather I put on more clothes than take anything off. It’s a rare moment of total agreement; although some of the survey comments were a bit more hurtful than I felt was necessary).

Last weekend Connie and I traveled to Kentucky for a family reunion of my father’s side of the gene pool. Shelby and Ashlyn had to work Friday night and Saturday morning, so they could not go, and Taylor was away at a church camp until Sunday, so it was a rare, but pleasant road trip for my lovely bride and me. We listened to the music we wanted to listen to, and we got to talk without constant interuption. Unlike most of the trips from our door in Oak Ridge to Mom and Dad’s door in Shelbyville, it seemed to pass by too quickly. I am sure I did not drive any faster than usual, but the 211 miles sped by in a blur.

When we arrived, Dad was out on the front porch, which is the throne from which he overlooks his little kingdom. Dad is an outdoor person and is as resistant to Air Conditioning as I am to heat. He has worked outside all of his life, from farm work as a child to hard, manual labor on the County Road Crews in his teens. Through his years as a truck driver, he drove with the windows down and his left arm lay across the edge to receive a dark, permanent tan.

Mom likes to give Dad a hard time about sitting on the porch, and I’m not sure why. I think she sees it as a waste of time, but the way I see it, if you’ve worked hard all your life and you’ve finally retired, then you should be able to do what you want to do.

Dad enjoys sitting on the porch more than sitting in the house watching television. He enjoys the feel of the sun and sound of the occasional breeze in the leaves of the dogwood tree nearby. He enjoys watching the cars pass by on their way into or out of town. He recognizes a lot of the people and waves…and they wave back. He sometimes waves at those he doesn’t know too. Most of them return the friendly greeting.

As the sun was slowly setting Friday evening and the air got slightly more bearable, I sat on the front porch with Dad and we waved at those driving by together. I had to admit it was relaxing.

When it got a bit darker, we went inside, where Mom and Connie had been sharing stories about mine and Dad’s problems and how they intended to fix them. Although I had told Mom we would eat dinner on the way and not to fix any food, she couldn’t resist breaking out some home-made pound cake and ice cream. Far be it from me to hurt her feelings by refusing to partake of her generosity.

We talked into the evening about family and the kids. Again, the lack of interruption was nice, but there was a bit of sadness in the undertone of the conversation. My kids were growing up and their absence was like a vacuum. Not only had I grown up and moved away, but now my kids were growing up and moving on with their own lives. They would visit again, of course, but not nearly as often.

Saturday morning Mom was up before five, starting a kettle of green beans. Dad had hoped for a mess of fresh beans from his garden, but we were about a week early so Mom was using canned. Still, a piece of salt pork for seasoning and a long time to simmer and they would taste just fine.

I had made a Mississippi Mud Cake, since it travelled easily, and planned to buy fried chicken from Kroger’s. Mom made a big pan of baked macaroni and cheese and Dad made his world famous banana pudding. We were prepared to feed the multitudes.

The reunion was supposed to start at 11am, but since everyone had been told that we wouldn’t eat until noon, that’s when everyone showed up. There was more food than there were people, and we had to add tables for desserts and drinks. Everyone out-did themselves with their favorite recipes, and when I say “out-did” I also mean that some went too far. I didn’t recognize what everything was…although it mostly resembled food.

There are some excellent cooks in my family¸ evident by the numerous shirts stretched near the point of fabric failure, but there are a few experimenters as well. I don’t mind trying new things, or new recipes, but I generally try them at home, where smoke detectors and waste baskets are close by. My basic rule at pot-lucks and reunions is that I don’t partake of foods that I can’t easily identify or if the ingredients aren’t obvious to my naked and extremely well-trained eye…especially if I have be somewhere in the next twenty-four hours.

Fortunately, there were plenty of the basics. Fried Chicken in all varieties except home-made (I guess no one actually fries chicken at home anymore), several batches of Mac and Cheese (with varying levels of cheesiness), corn, beans, potatoes, and a variety of casseroles with cracker toppings. One odd thing that Connie and I both noticed (and discussed in some detail on the way home) was that no one had brought “deviled eggs.” In retrospect, I still find it rather shocking.

Connie also noted (on our quiet drive home that evening) that my family was obviously a “mac and cheese” family and her family was a “hash brown casserole” family. It took only a moment’s thought to realize that she was absolutely right. No Warford family gathering seemed complete without a dish of baked macaroni and cheese, while the Dunkel family could not seem to meet without the hash browns. There is probably an interesting social study in that nugget of information, but I don’t really care. Fortunately, I like them both.

I always look forward to the reunion to see family members that I do not see the rest of the year (unless it is at a funeral). After the loss of my uncle Lee last year, there are only three siblings left in Dad’s family, from the original thirteen. Dad is now the oldest, followed by his brother Bill and sister Eleanor.

There were many of my cousins at the reunion, and many more that did not make it. The greeting etiquette of family members who have essentially become “strangers” is an odd, but consistent one: for male cousins, there is a quick handshake and a chipper “Hey ______, how have you been?” This is answered by a simple “Good, and you?” The response to this question can vary between “fine” and “great,” but never more detailed than that.

Female cousins sometimes get a hug, followed by the same general dialog. Occasionally someone will ask me if I still live in Tennessee, and I’ll say “yes.” They might follow that up (if we haven’t been interrupted by another arriving cousin) with, “now that’s near Nashville, right?” And I’ll say, “No, near Knoxville.” Since I’m always afraid of asking a question that I should already know the answer to or might not want to know, I generally shuffle my feet awkwardly and say something about how unbearably hot it is.

The heat was miserable. We were under a shelter, but it had a tin roof that seemed to be conducting the sun’s rays into a microwave. Dad and my brother David had brought some fans to sit around and people were not so casually situating themselves in front of them. Those spots were prime real estate and provided the only breeze and relief while trying to eat.

Despite a strong suggestion that we sit with people that we normally don’t see, everyone mostly broke up into their immediate family groupings. Old habits die hard, and we all gravitate to our comfort zone. Nothing is more comfortable than family.

Barely an hour and a half after getting in line to eat, people were packing up to go. It was just too hot to sit around and try to make conversation. It was really a shame though; because I think the longer we had stayed, the more we would have been forced to catch up. I might have actually learned what a few of my cousins do for a living.

My cousin Kevin, however, was the hero of the day. When a discussion arose about next year’s reunion, he suggested that we find a place indoors (even offering his church’s fellowship hall). As sweat dripped off my forehead and down the tip of my nose, I think it mixed with tears of joy at the thought that we would be in air-conditioned comfort next year. I quickly added my support to the idea and so did most of the others. (I think Dad was a little disappointed, but he was the only one present who didn’t look like he had just stepped out of the lake. He was as cool as the glass of ice tea he was holding).

Soon we were back at Mom and Dad’s house unpacking leftovers. I lifted the lid and looked down at my carefully and lovingly prepared Mississippi Mud Cake. One solitary corner piece had been removed. The rest of the cake sat there in the pan like some unwanted ugly stepchild. Connie noticed the cakes sad plight as well and said “Didn’t you get a piece of that at the reunion?” Yes, I nodded. One piece had been eaten from my cake and it was I who ate it. Kind of sad.

We visited a while longer, then hugged and kissed everyone before heading south toward home. I cranked up the air conditioning and set the cruise control. Another peaceful ride home, full of uninterrupted conversation and music of our choice. I couldn’t help but miss the kids.

Emergency!

I hate hospitals. It’s not an irrational hatred or a paralyzing fear reaction, and it’s certainly not a lack of respect for the fine individuals who provide such necessary and life-saving care, but like most people I simply would prefer never to step inside one again. Of course, I rarely get what I prefer.

Sunday night one of those things happened that you can’t predict or plan. Rather than a quiet evening of television and an early bedtime that we were expecting, Connie and I ended up in the emergency room of Oak Ridge’s Methodist Medical Center with our daughter Ashlyn. She had been complaining about her stomach hurting throughout the afternoon, but as dusk began to fall it became more obvious that it was not just “something she ate.”

Since my aim here is not to write a medical mystery or a draw out the concern for her well-being, let me say upfront that Ashlyn is okay. The final diagnosis was that she had a cyst that was causing the pain and after a few days it should go away.

To borrow from Connie’s favorite quote, however, this is about the “journey, not the destination.”

Hoping to avoid a trip to the Emergency Room, we called our family doctor for some advice on Ashlyn’s malady. Of course, being the weekend, we ended up talking to the phone service and then to an intermediary person whose primary job seemed to be keeping us from talking directly to a medical professional.

There were several calls back and forth, each with a new list of questions and answers, and finally we were asked to have Ashlyn jump up and down. Apparently, this is a standard tool for over-the-phone diagnosis, because when she admitted that “yes,” her abdomen did hurt more after jumping, we were instructed to go to the hospital.

The emergency room experience is unlike any other, except maybe for the green room of The Jerry Springer Show during an episode entitled “Cousins Who Marry.” I am actually tempted to spend some evenings there with my camera so I can start the next Internet sensation: PeopleOfTheEmergencyRoom.com.

The lady at the registration desk was very professional. I assume she has seen and heard a lot over the years, so she has removed any sign of emotion or compassion from her face or body language. She questioned me in more detail than my last home loan application and then took my insurance card and driver’s license to make a copy. I was not surprised by this, but was concerned when she said I would not get them back until Ashlyn was discharged. I wanted to ask her why, but I was a little concerned that she was related to the “Soup Nazi” of Seinfeld and might say “no Emergency Care for you!” For the good of my daughter, I kept my mouth shut.

We had barely taken our seats in the waiting area when Ashlyn’s name was called out from across the room. We excitedly stood and made our way toward the sound of the voice but could not find where it came from. There were about five doors on that side of the room and none of them were open. We stood there dumbly, wondering if all three of us had somehow imagined it together.

After a few awkward minutes of feet shuffling, one of middle doors cracked open and a man’s head poked out. “Ashlyn Warford!” As soon as he said it, his head disappeared and the door shut again. It was a little disconcerting. Were we supposed to go in there? Or was he just practicing name pronunciations?

I went to the door and knocked. The man quickly opened the door and said, “Warford?” We nodded yes and he let us in. Once inside, he did not seem so anti-social, and even joked some with Ashlyn, who was smiling and laughing despite her abdominal pain. His tag said he was an RN, and he took Ashlyn’s vitals and description of her problem. He agreed that the symptoms appeared to suggest Appendicitis, and then informed us that they had received several ambulances in the last hour and had no beds available. They would get to us as soon as they could.

We returned to our seats in the waiting area and spent the next three hours watching a parade of interesting, sort of scary, oddly dressed characters come and go. I was surprised at how many came in wearing their pajamas, and mentioned to Connie that I would have to bleeding profusely or passed out not to throw on some clothes before going out in public.

While we and a few others walked in with a dazed and confused look on our face, searching for signs to tell us where to go and what to do, most of the people who entered that evening looked like they were visiting their grandmother’s house. They seemed to know where everything was, and several even knew each other. I felt like we had stumbled onto a reunion of some sort.

To keep ourselves occupied as the hours passed, we tried to guess which person of each new group was the actual patient in need of Emergency care. It was more difficult than you would think.

A young woman came in carrying a sleeping baby and was followed by a heavyset, older woman pulling an oxygen tank. The woman with the tank moved slowly and wheezed with each unsteady step. To the untrained eye she was the obvious patient, but I was a quick learner that night and put my money on the infant. I was right.

After signing in, the three sat nearby and I was amazed that the baby could continue to sleep over the constant hacking cough and coarse, honking whistle that accompanied every labored breath the woman made. The only time there was some quiet from that side of the room was when the woman staggered her way back outside to smoke a cigarette.

There were an abundance of “coughers” in the waiting room that night, and I told Connie that if a person wasn’t sick when they got there, they would almost definitely have something before they left. One woman was there before we arrived and continued to wait; called back at the same time we were, minutes after midnight. We tried to guess her ailment, but except for an occasional cough (which she refused to cover with her hand), she seemed in good health. She spent most of her time on her cell phone, laughing and talking. We could not understand why anyone would sit for so long if they didn’t have an actual “emergency” concern. I think I could wait until morning to see someone about a cough, but that’s just me.

After a while, it became obvious that this was not necessarily an “emergency room” for many of the people there that night, but their only form of health care available. Without insurance they couldn’t afford to see a doctor. Here, they could show up for almost anything and receive treatment.

A man and a boy who looked to be around ten years old had been waiting since we arrived and Connie and I were both touched by the father’s attentiveness. The boy was definitely sick. Pale and weak, he lay down beside his father and slept most of the evening. The father would occasionally lay his hand on the boys shoulder or carefully touch his brow. At one point he gently shook him and said that he had to go the bathroom and was sorry to wake him but he didn’t want him to be scared if woke up and he was not there.

Later, after hours of waiting, the boy sat up and his father felt his forehead with the back of his hand. “I think your fever has broke,” I heard him say. The boy said that he felt better. They waited twenty more minutes and with a quiet look at each stood and walked silently to the door and into the night. I nudged Connie and said, “They either heal you here or make you wait long enough to get better on your own.”

When the clock struck midnight and my patience neared a breaking point, we got called back to a room. While we thought that we were at last making progress, we had merely switched tracks to another slow train to nowhere. The waiting with a different view had begun.

Pondering...

I am a fortunate man. I may not have great looks, wealth or fame (or many of the other attributes that people associate with men of good fortune), but when I take the time to stop and look around, I know that I am blessed beyond what I deserve.

I consider myself fortunate for many reasons, such as the fact that not only are both my parents still alive, but they are still married and living together (in the very same house I grew up in). Although they bicker a bit and don’t seem to communicate with each other in a way that I fully understand, they go together like biscuit and gravy. It’s as if they always were…and always will be.

The relationship of child to parent is much different now than it was when I was growing up. My parents did not feel the need to entertain us or be our friend. I can’t remember ever being asked my opinion on where to go out to eat or where to go on vacation. Of course, I can count on two fingers the number of times we went out to eat as a family prior to my sixteenth birthday, and vacations usually consisted of visiting family in Indiana.

No, my parents didn’t read a book on how to raise a child. They didn’t get advice from Dr. Spock or a government study on child psychology. There weren’t people on the news every morning telling them what they were doing was wrong, and if there were, my parents would have been too busy to watch. They fed us, clothed us, took us to church and made sure we brushed our teeth. If we had homework, we were expected to do it, no excuses. We had chores. We didn’t get an allowance. We got clothes and a couple of toys from Santa Claus at Christmas and a new pair of jeans and a toy on our birthday. It was more than enough.

I never worried when I was a child…about anything…and that might have been my parent’s greatest gift. I lived under a dome of their protection. I somehow knew, despite it never being said or even thought about, that they would keep me safe and taken care of. I wasn’t smothered in hugs at home, nor told each day that I was loved, but there was never a doubt in my mind that either one of them would have died to keep me safe. I slept well in my parent’s house.

I don’t sleep as well anymore. Worry is strong caffeine. I have the weight of my own children’s well-being upon me. I worry that I can provide what they need and nurture their self-esteem. I worry about the choices they will make and what outside influences will affect those choices. I worry about the diminishing list of things I can control and the ever-expanding list of things I cannot.

I also worry for my parents. Age and health issues have gradually chipped away at them, as it will to all those fortunate enough to see time pass. Dad survived a bought with cancer ten years ago, and steps a little slower after the fight. Mom has suffered through heart surgery, poor vision, high blood pressure and back problems. They have their good days and their bad days.

I was able to spend most of Mother’s Day weekend with my parents in Kentucky. Each year I tell myself that I will make it a priority to go there more often, and each year I fail miserably. I had not been “home” since late December, hindered from returning sooner by many seemingly reasonable excuses. Like most things that keep us from doing what we should, each excuse made sense at the time.

Sunday morning, as Connie and the girls hurried to get dressed for church; I stood at the back door and watched my parents walk to the car on the way to Sunday school. Mom walked slowly…eyes down and watching the familiar sidewalk as she carefully took each step. She could not afford a fall. Her bones are too fragile now and her skin prone to tear. A broken hip could take her independence in a matter of seconds, and recovery would be difficult. I pray that her feet continue to land firmly and her balance stays true.

I worry too about my father driving. At 81 he’s still much sharper than I about many things, but when I see big SUV’s and trucks speeding through town and weaving through traffic, I worry about his reaction time. How much longer can he keep his focus on the road, and who will tell him to hand over his keys? Will I do the right thing when the time comes, and protect them like they have for so long protected me?

It’s very hard to live so far away from my Mom and Dad. It helps to know that my brothers are close by and willing to do anything necessary, but I feel guilt over that too. I want to do my share. Despite the fact that my parents have cared for me my entire life with no expectations and no interest charged, I owe them that.

I am fortunate that my children have gotten old enough to have good memories of my parents. They know the warmth of my parent’s home, and I know they feel comfortable there. They love their “Mamaw and Papaw,” and I know that they will carry that love and those memories for the rest of their lives.

I hope that for however long I am blessed to have my parents on this Earth, they know how much I love them and how much they mean to their family. I hope they can forgive me for the stupid things I’ve said and the stupid things I’ve done; those things were “in spite of” not “because of” anything they taught me. They’ve placed me in the frustrating position that when I do stumble, I don’t have the excuse of saying, “I didn’t know better.”

Because of their example, I have always known better.

And on the seventh day...

I don’t remember it myself, but I’ve been told that I was first taken to church when I was two weeks old. Since it was my mother telling the story, I tend to believe it. From then until I got married, I didn’t miss a lot of Sundays, and very few Wednesday nights. Church was as much a part of our life as eating or breathing. I never knew anything else.

Our church was small, averaging sixty or seventy in the congregation each Sunday morning, and if you weren’t related to them in some way or another, then you at least knew their business. Most were hard working, God fearing folk. The men wore suits, with blue ink pens and a pack of camels in the pocket of their crisply ironed white shirts. The ladies wore dresses and shoes with low, sensible heels. Their hair was always perfect, held in place with enough bobby pins to shield them from a nuclear blast. When I got older and realized that half of the older ladies were wearing wigs, it was almost like learning that there was no Easter Bunny.

As a child, I remember going to the front of the church for “Children’s Choir” after Sunday school. It was not really a “choir” since we never rehearsed ahead of time. I’m still not sure of the point of what we were doing other than to show off our miniature suits and ruffled dresses, but it was always fun to sing the songs; “This Little Light of Mine,” “Zacchaeus,” “The B-I-B-L-E,” and my personal favorite, “The Happy Day Express.”

If it was just a “dog and pony” show of “see how cute they are,” then we were extremely willing participants. Besides, I can attest that forty years later I remember the words to every single song.

As kids we were never allowed to wear jeans to morning service. It was just not done. We were also expected to behave. No talking, laughing or cutting up was allowed. It was rare, but I did see a few young boys taken by the hand and solemnly led outside by their Daddy, only to return some time later with splotchy, tear streaked faces and a much more subdued attitude. That usually only had to happen once.

We were a small, independent church…full of independent people. We were “interdenominational,” which means we were not affiliated with any specific religious organization. We weren’t Baptist, Presbyterian, Methodist, Catholic or Pentecostal. As I got older and more cynical, I sometimes joked that “interdenominational” meant that we didn’t know what we believed, but that was far from true.

In those days we used the King James Version of the Bible. Now most people say that it is too hard to understand, but even as a child, I didn’t have a problem grasping the central concepts. I think the fact that the language was different than the way we speak made us think about it more. It’s sort of like the way kids today are allowed use calculators in math class: if you make it too easy, people tend to miss the basics.

I always worry a little about some of the various translations of the Bible. I’m sure that they are all well intentioned, but how many different ways can you say the same thing without losing the original intent? Also (and here’s my cynical side coming out), what if a complete lunatic wrote a translation and people actually believed it? I might know that it would be a bad idea to do a Bible study using “Billy Jim Joe Bob’s Bible Translation,” but some people are always looking for what’s new and different, so I wouldn’t put it past them to take take every word as fact.

When I met Connie, I didn’t know quite what to expect. First, she was a Baptist. Second, she was a preacher’s kid. At the time I didn’t know much about Baptists, except that whenever a stray Baptist joined our little Interdenominational Church they tended to stir up trouble. But I had heard about “preacher’s kids,” and was told that they could go to extremes either way. Either they were “holier than thou” sticks in the mud, or rebellious hellions bent on a campaign to shock and awe.

Connie threw both my preconceptions out the window and was a perfect balance of a good hearted person who was also full of surprises. The only shock was how she filled me with awe and inspiration. We had a Baptist wedding in a Baptist Church presided over by her Baptist Preacher father. Whether I wanted to accept it or not, I was now “Baptist by marriage.”

When we moved to Tennessee in 1988, we weren’t in a hurry to join a church. We had spent most of our young lives attending church services, and although we both treasured those memories, we started to enjoy the freedoms of a church free Sunday. We slept late and took day trips. We communed with nature. There was always an excuse not to go.  It was our rebellious period.

In early 1990, when we learned that Connie was pregnant with Shelby, we knew that it was time to settle down and return to church. We visited a few churches in the area and were almost afraid to keep looking when on three consecutive Sundays at three different worship services, the Pastors resigned. It made for an awkward visit. By the third resignation we began to joke that we might be some kind of jinx, but in the back of my mind I had to wonder if our mixed marriage of “interdenominational” and “Baptist,” along with our prolonged break from church-going, had somehow offended God. It was a little un-nerving.

We finally found a new church home at Robertsville Baptist Church, and they welcomed us with open arms. Connie and I joined the choir and became involved in Sunday school. We developed a close bond with a group of other young married couples and made some of the best friends of our lives.

As I tried to acquaint myself with “Baptist ways” I realized that there were many similarities with my old home church. Primarily, both churches shared a strong preoccupation with all things food. Whether it was a major event like Homecoming, Revival or Vacation Bible School, or just fact that it’s the second Wednesday night of the month, church people can always find a reason to have a meal.

At a certain point I realized that we were going to be raising our kids "Baptist," and I had to come to terms with that.   Any qualms I had were quickly over-ruled by the fact that Connie had turned out pretty well, so between us (and a lot of prayers) we might end up with some well rounded Christian kids.  



(...there's much more to this train of thought, and I might even write about it)

Through the looking glass...

Probably before the doctor spanked my bare, chubby newborn bottom someone had placed a pair of glasses over my visually impaired eyes. I can’t remember a time when I haven’t worn them; from the black plastic “kick me” glasses of elementary school and the massive face shield models of the late seventies to the smaller John Denver inspired wire rims I tend to wear today, they are the first thing I reach for in the morning and the last thing I take off at night (…sorry for any disturbing images that might have created).

My eyes have always had a weakness for distant viewing. Anything further than six or seven feet was slightly off clear and past fifteen or twenty feet was full on fuzzy. Fortunately, I had been able to see up close, and have been able to read with both my glasses on or off. Until now.

Last summer I got new glasses with the same basic prescription that I have had for years. For about three months everything was perfectly normal (or at least normal for me). Then one morning in September I woke up in a Bethesda, Maryland hotel and put on my glasses…and the world was different. I didn’t know it until I opened the door to my room and picked up my complimentary copy of USA Today, but as I brought it up to look at the headlines, I realized that there was something wrong.

After a few minutes of unscientific testing I came to the conclusion that I could no longer see clearly within a couple of feet of my face while wearing my glasses. Just outside that range and beyond my eyesight was still clear, but I could no longer read while optically enhanced.

When I returned home I made an appointment with my optometrist and was soon sitting in his office, demanding new glasses. I argued that obviously my prescription was wrong and the glasses were faulty. He humored me long enough to perform a quick exam, then kindly shook his head and explained that my eyes had “changed,” and that as we get older it is bound to happen. I told him that I understood and expected my eyesight to shift with age, but this “change” was not only fairly drastic, but had also occurred overnight. He put a hand on my shoulder and gave me his best Marcus Welby impression of concern. “It happens,” he said.

He went on to explain in more technical detail about the degeneration of my eyes and then suggested that I probably needed bi-focals. I told him that I could still read just fine without my glasses, so why would I want bi-focals. He said, “So you won’t have to take off your glasses to read.” I didn’t buy it. I made the decision right then that as long as I could read with or without my regular glasses, I would not get bi-focals. I had to make a stand somewhere, and that was where I drew the line.

Since that day I’ve become very accustomed to taking off my glasses. I was surprised to learn just how often throughout the day I actually read things that are not what I normally consider “reading.” It’s not just picking up a book or a magazine; there are menus, memos, business cards, package descriptions, pill bottles, instruction booklets, etc., etc., etc.

Aging is a funny thing. When I first open my eyes in the morning, I don’t feel all that different than I did in high school or college. My mind dances with dreams and possibilities. I feel alive with the promise of a new day. Then I start to move and the aches and pains I’ve accumulated tap me on the shoulder, back and knees. I remember quickly that I am no longer so young and have somehow jumped into a vehicle that seems to be racing downhill with no brakes.

It reminds me of a comedian I once heard talking about growing older. He said that when you’re a kid it seems like forever between special events. You’ve got Birthdays and Christmas, New Years and Valentine’s Day. Then there’s Easter, Memorial Day, July 4 and the long wait until Labor Day, Halloween and Thanksgiving. The year seemed long in a child’s eyes.

As you get older, they fly by in dog years. Pretty soon, the comedian said, the calendar turns so quickly that it’s “birthday, birthday, birthday…you’re gonna DIE!”

I thought his joke was funny when I heard it, but I was much younger then. Now I think about it and realize that despite its humor and supposed accuracy, it’s far too cynical a concept to let yourself fall into. Yes, the years might be spinning by a bit faster than I would wish…and my body might be slowing down or “changing,” but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to give up just yet.

I’ve decided that there can be a gracefulness and elegance in removing my glasses to read. (Occasionally, if no one is around, I whip them off with a dramatic flourish, just for the fun of it). I’m trying to look on the positive side, which has not always been my strong suit, but is something I will probably need to cultivate as I get older.

Because even with my bad eyes, I still want to see my daughters grow up and start their own families. I want to see the faces of my grandchildren. I want to watch many sunsets with my agelessly beautiful wife. I don’t want to do all these things with a frown of worry on my face. I want to enjoy each day for the amazing gift that it is…and I’m going to try very hard not to lose sight of that.

...it will last longer

It’s no surprise to my daughter Ashlyn that I am preparing a slideshow for her upcoming 16th birthday party. In fact, she reminded me not long ago that she was expecting one. She didn’t need to worry. I have been planning it in my mind for quite some time, and was already gathering pictures when she mentioned it.

I did my first slideshow on video for our tenth anniversary. Back then I had to set our big, clunky camcorder on a tripod and then carefully zoom in and film individual photos as I counted “1001, 1002, 1003.” After the video was complete, I had to copy it to another video tape, feeding in a separate audio line to give it a soundtrack. It was quite the complicated procedure, and I’m very glad that I can now do it on a computer with software that makes me look much smarter than I am.

Three years ago I did a slideshow for Shelby’s 16th birthday. As I’ve learned throughout the growth of my three girls, anything I do special for one is required to be done for the others. Some things I do grudgingly, despite the equality of love for them all, but the slideshows are not like that. It is with a great, gleeful and selfish pleasure that I make them.

In the last several weeks I have sifted through several thousand photographs from the last 16 years. The early photos were stored in boxes and albums, hidden in closets and drawers. Every time I thought I was done, I’d find more. Those had to be scanned, rotated, cropped and cleaned up for the pc. It took a while.

We got our first digital camera in 1998; a cheap little Wal-Mart Polaroid that I thought was the greatest thing ever. Throughout the years our photo quality improved with our camera upgrades (Polaroid to Kodak; Kodak to Fuji; Fuji to better Fuji; then a couple of Canon’s and a Nikon). As I searched through the yearly backups of digital photos, I eventually got to the obnoxious 2008 and 2009 sections where there were folders called:

-Bruce’s Fuji March
-Connie’s Canon Spring
-Shelby’s Canon
-Shelby’s Nikon
-Ashlyn Camera
-Taylor’s Camera

In the last couple of years, we have stored thousands of photos of virtually the same subject, which are practically identical except taken from five slightly different vantage points. We take our responsibility to document our lives very seriously. However, as I opened folder after folder, year after year of visual memories, I wished we had taken even more.

We’re encouraged not to live in the past. We are reminded to “look to the future” and “live in the now,” but there’s an incredible comfort in visiting the warmth of days gone by. My mind was flooded with memories as I perused the pictures of Ashlyn’s life, and I willingly, blissfully drowned myself in them.

I beat myself up sometimes (quite often, in fact) for my failings as a father. My travel schedule keeps me away from home too much, and I’ve missed things that I’ll never get back. Worse than that, I sometimes return home a stranger; too many nights alone in a DC hotel room can makes me anti-social and chilly, even to the welcoming smiles and hugs of my family. Sometimes I thaw out quickly, but other times I can be the Snow Miser for days, and the women in my home have sadly learned that I am best left alone.

I’m a loner by nature; most comfortable in my own sullen company where I don’t have anyone to disappoint or bother except myself. Comfort, however, does not necessarily equate to happiness, and in looking through those sometimes awkward, crazy family moments that we’ve captured through years of photographs, I quickly realized that there has been no greater joy in my life.

The weight of responsibility that parents feel to provide for the needs of our children can sometimes pull us down, growing so heavy that we can’t even lift our heads to look around and see what it is we’re working for. I love doing these slideshows because they are a hammer to my head and a jolt to my system. They wake me up and remind me of just how blessed I am.

Photos are moments frozen in time, capturing birthdays, Christmas’s, vacations, camping trips, or just silly moments around the house. Each image jogs my memory and takes me to that place; hearing voices and laughter, smelling campfires or fresh baked cookies.

While I finished Ashlyn’s slideshow this week, sitting in my quiet hotel room, I was overwhelmed by the beauty and spirit of my four ladies. It’s not that I don’t love them all the time, but as I watched their faces flow across the screen, it almost seemed that a window had opened and a fresh breeze blew through me. Like the Grinch, I felt my heart grow three sizes that day. I hope it stays all swelled up with the love I feel right now. It’s a fantastic feeling.

Orlando...epilogue

One of my strongest memories of the Orlando trip is the overpowering smell that emanated from the boys rooms which surrounded ours. Each morning and evening Connie or I had to do rooms check to make sure that they were where they were supposed to be. Even that very first morning the rooms had taken on the epic smell of a locker room, and each time the door swung open we were blasted with the stale, sweaty smell of teenage boys mixed with a fog of Axe body spray and Right Guard.


After one morning’s check, Connie came back to our room laughing, explaining that as she checked the room next door one of the boys quickly closed the bathroom door. He said, “Sorry, Mrs. Warford, we’ve been trying to see how long we could go without flushing.” Then he added, “Lots of Testosterone in here!”


Living with four women, it was my first time around that many males in a long time. I didn’t know what to expect, but considering that teenage boys are the sworn enemy of a father of three girls, I was fully prepared to hate them all. That didn’t happen. I was actually surprised by a few of them.


At the theme park on Friday, Connie and I noticed some of our boys standing off to the side of a ride when a group of inappropriately dressed young women (not a part of our school) walked by. Although our rules were fairly explicit about the type of clothes that were allowed and not allowed on this trip, it was obvious that many other groups and families did not care. For most teenage boys (and a lot of adult men) it could have been like being in a candy store. As a Dad, I was always shocked, and very glad that my girls prefer baggy t-shirts and long, loose shorts. Of course, I would not allow them to dress the way many of these other girls were dressing.


As these scantily clad girls walked by, we overheard one of our boys say “LD” to the others. I understood that this was some kind of “guy code” to alert the others of the presence of the young women. It was a “code,” but not in the way I thought. The boys dropped their heads and did not do the typical ogling. “LD” meant to “Look Down.”


I heard some of the boys talking later about church and their girlfriends who were not on the trip. It gave me hope. Every father wants the best for his daughters. They want her to date a young man who will respect her and treat her right. I had almost given up on the possibility of that happening. Now I realize that there just might be some boys out there who have good intentions and honorable hearts.


Of course, that doesn’t mean I won’t be watching them like a hawk.

Orlando...part four

The morning of the competition we had an even better breakfast that the day before, highlighted by some of the most perfect bacon I have ever had. Crisp and flavorful, I was tempted to pack up some for later, and if I’d have had access to some fresh tomatoes and soft bread, I’d have done just that. A nice BLT (without the L for me, I prefer my salad in a bowl, not on a sandwich) would have made a great lunch or dinner. I ate bacon until I was embarrassed to get more and then sadly left for the bus, looking back one last, wistful time at the chafing dish which was still nearly full.

Connie, meanwhile, was having a tougher trip than I. She had strained her back a few days before we left, so she was either drugged or in pain for the drive down and the first day at the park. I had suggested that she might feel better not going at all, but she would have none of that. She had looked forward to this trip for quite a while, and was determined to go. I guess she figured that if she could put up with me for over twenty-three years, she could deal with some pain for a couple of days.

Her back was much better that Saturday morning, but the medicine had upset her stomach. Unbeknownst to me, sleeping soundly in my separate bed, she had been up sick a few times in the night and had no interest in food that morning. I felt really bad for her, especially considering how amazing the hotel bacon had been, but she ate nothing and insisted that she wanted to go to the competition. I definitely married a trooper.

The competition was being held at Apopka High School, in the small town of Apopka, about twenty miles from Orlando. The school was beautiful and newly renovated, with an exceptionally nice auditorium where the competition would be held. We were early and went inside to watch some of the other groups perform.

The other groups performed fine, but I wasn’t overly impressed. The music they had chosen was much simpler than what our choirs normally perform, and even then I didn’t think they did them particularly well. One school from some place I can’t remember had two choirs and a group of Handbell performers. I chuckled to myself when I read about the Handbell choir in my program. That’s even lower on the “gonna get a date” scale than tuba players. (No offense meant to either “handbell” performers or “tuba” players. I’m just stating a fact. I can do this because I was a charter member of the AV and Chess clubs, so of these things I know only too well).

I sat there like those parents who sit on the sidelines of kid’s softball and baseball games, ready to root my team on to victory. It was a competition after all. Then, as our confidence swelled, someone read the program notes detailing the biographies of our judges. None of the three were choral judges. They were all “band directors.” What the heck?

We were fairly stunned. We had no idea how this would impact their decisions. Only half the participants in the festival were bands, the other half were choral. It seemed incredibly unrealistic to expect these judges to fairly score our half of the competition.

The Women’s Choir performed first, singing better than I’ve heard them all year. The Ensemble Choir, whose membership included my beautiful and talented daughter, sang thirty minutes later, and the difficulty of their music put them in an entirely different category from the other choirs competing. At 1pm the Men’s Choir finished our section of the competition and maintained a superb level of performance. There was little doubt in my mind that all three choirs had represented Oak Ridge well enough to win the overall school prize. (Not that I was prejudiced).

But I was still concerned about those band judges…

The kids changed clothes quickly and we got back on the bus for the return to Universal. Today we would go to the Movie Studio theme park, my favorite of any of the parks in Orlando. It was nearly 3pm by the time we got to the park, through the gates, retrieved everyone’s tickets and made the plan for dinner.

If I needed a reminder to NEVER go to Orlando during Spring Break season (which I did not), it was loud and clear in the park that day. There was a roiling ocean of people flowing through the wide streets and walkways. Flashing signs warned that lines for the new Rock-It roller coaster was over two hours long, and other big rides had a wait of nearly ninety minutes. The kids were going to have a long afternoon.

The six chaperones watched as the last of the kids disappeared and then agreed that since we had skipped lunch we needed to find some food. We waded into the crowds and found our way to the New York section of the park and Finnegan’s Irish Pub, where we hoped we might find something bland for Connie’s sensitive stomach other than the burgers and hot dogs vended at most of the other shops. Like everything else, there was a wait for a table, but that gave me time to watch the Blues Brothers show taking place in the street outside. I got a few stares when I joined in on singing “Rawhide,” but I didn’t care.

Connie got some potato soup and crackers, which made her feel much better, and I had some delicious Irish Beef Stew. When we finished eating, we looked at our watches and realized that in slightly over an hour we would be meeting the kids to go to Bubba Gump’s for dinner. Our timing was impeccable.

We got in line for the “Twister” experience, which is not a ride, but designed to put you into a scene from the movie. Since it is one of the older attractions in the park, the line was only fifteen minutes, leaving us plenty of time to meet the kids. If you like the movie, don’t mind a little breeze and want to see a cow fly, I highly recommend it.

I thought most of the kids would have eaten something, but they had much more self-control than the adults did and they were ready for Bubba Gump’s. Still stuffed with stew, I wasn’t hungry at all, and neither were the other chaperones. Unfortunately, our meal vouchers would go to waste if they weren’t used, so we all ordered shrimp platters and handed them into the next booth full of teenage boys who were just finishing their own meals. The shrimp and fries were vacuumed up in minutes flat.

Back in the park, we laughed through the Shrek 4D show and rode a bike with ET, the Extraterrestrial. After dark, we got on my favorite movie ride in the park: Jaws! It’s probably the oldest ride in the park, and some of the kids called it “cheesy,” but they are young and therefore prone to moments of complete stupidity. I love Jaws, however, and could easily do it twice in one day. In fact, I have.

At 9pm we gathered to watch the Mardi-Gras parade that runs through the park. The floats are beautiful and elaborate, with costumed workers who throw out a constant hail of beads. I caught quite a few sets of beads and shared them with some of the height challenged kids around me. When I asked one of the workers if I’d get more beads by removing my shirt, he told me that he’d give me a case full if I wouldn’t. I think I’ll try to sell them on EBay.

After the parade, all of the festival participants gathered in a nearby amphitheater for the results of the judging. As each group was introduced, screams and cheers erupted, and the anticipation was rising. Each choir received a “participation” trophy as their score was announced, and we were thrilled when all three of our choirs achieved “superior” ratings.

The overall school award was announced last, and I’m sure that each school felt that they were deserving of the honor. For some it was a form of positive reinforcement. For others, it was merely delusion.

I was more than a little concerned when the announcer said that the difference between the first and second place schools was only 4/10’s of a percentage point. I didn’t think anyone of the groups I had heard was anywhere near that close to our school. Then I remembered who had made the decision: band judges.

Surely, I thought, even these three odd acting, older men who had probably lost most of their hearing over thirty years of deafening blasts from trumpets and the thumping of bass drums could appreciate the difference in quality that should be obvious to even the most tone deaf listener. (Not that I was prejudiced).

The crowd hushed and the festival chairperson opened the envelope with a dramatic flair. The seconds crawled by like hours and after an interminably long clearing of the throat, the overall winner was announced.

It was a long trip back home to Oak Ridge. Orlando was fun and I love the theme parks, but we had all tasted the bitter pill of injustice, and we didn’t like it.

Stupid handbells.

Stupid “band judges.”