Tag Archives: life

Jul31

New Beginnings for Budge and a Little Spat

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Tuesday of this week, Budge went back to the first day for teachers, and for the first time in twenty-three years, it was at a new school. She didn’t leave her old school without a lot of soul searching and inner turmoil because she fully planned to retire from one school, but events just made it impossible. I could write a post on what finally made her leave, but it wouldn’t be at all fun, so let’s focus on the new way ahead.

Back in June, we paid to have professional movers move Budge’s stuff from her old school to her new school. It was a little pricey, but I don’t have a truck anymore and borrowing a truck is always a pain, so we bit the bullet and had it hired out. It was for the best since neither one of us is in great shape. Budge has been dealing with hip and back pain. As I mentioned in my last post, I’m getting a new hip at some point so I wasn’t my best. It was a good idea, price be damned.

We went to her new school last week to drop off some furniture she had purchased from IKEA. Then, later in the week, we went back so I could put it together. Yay! Ever since Budge started teaching, I have helped her set up her room. This year was particularly involved because she’s going to a charter school and the building was an office building and not designed as a school. As a result, she had no storage space, or nothing much of anything to be honest. It was four walls and a skylight. Bare bones. So we had to buy stuff to finish it out. That buying stuff lead to one of the few disagreements Budge and I have had in our soon-to-be twenty-nine years of marriage.

It all started over a piece of furniture so found on a Facebook forum for teachers. She had to have it and it was at a “great price.” I asked her how she expected us to get it from A to B. She said we would put it in the back of my Element with the seats stowed. I took one look at the picture and told her it wouldn’t fit. She, who knows little to nothing about my Element, insisted it would. After all these years, I know when I’m not going to win, mainly because I never win, so we texted the guy that we were going to pick the piece up the next day.

We got to the guy’s house, and I couldn’t help but remind Budge this wasn’t going to work, but she dismissed my concern. Then he and I got the piece out of the garage and walked it down to the Element. We picked it up to slide it into the back and it was a good six inches too tall. He offered to put it in the back of his van and deliver it. I took one look at his minivan and knew that wasn’t going to work, but he seemed so earnest and he really wanted that $100. We moved over to the minivan and the piece was just as excessively large as it was for my Element. So we sat the thing down in the driveway and looked at each other.

At this point, I want to just help him carry it back into his garage, thank him for his time, admonish him to put dimensions in the description next time, and go work in the room. It was over ninety degrees in that driveway with the merciless Sun beating down on us when this bright boy comes up with the idea, “Do you want to take it apart?” I thought that was a terrible idea, but before I could say anything, Budge looked at me and I knew my list of stuff to put together just got one piece larger.

It was an IKEA piece so the whole thing was held together by eight screws and a crap ton of wooden dowels. He took the eight screws out with an allen wrench pack, put them all in a Ziplock bag, and started stacking the pieces into the back of the Element. They wouldn’t stack right because of the dowels sticking out at random, so I was starting to lose my cherub-like demeanor. Finally, everything was in the Element, I gave the man his money, glad to be away from him, and we left to take the stuff to school.

We didn’t talk much on the way there. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation because I realized I was going to have to put this thing together with no directions, and that was AFTER I got the blasted thing into her classroom. We got to school. Budge sweetly volunteers to go get the hand trucks we’d been using for all the other pieces. I stood by the opened rear of the Element, my temper rising with the heat.

She came back with the hand trucks and I awkwardly stacked what I could on the plate and off we went. It got to her classroom with a lot of wobble, but no real issues. Oh no, THAT was for the last trip. I went back to the Element and stacked the central piece on the trucks. I wasn’t at all sure it would make it, but not using the trucks meant an extra trip and I was tripped out. On the way to her classroom, disaster struck. I was alone and the piece weebled, then wobbled, then, unlike the toy, fell down. It landed flat on the shelves and collapsed forward, folding up. As it folded, I watched the necessary for construction dowels snap in pieces. At that point, my patience ran out.

Budge heard the noise and came to investigate. I was picking up the pieces and announced to her in a somewhat unkind tone the piece was now completely ruined. She said nothing, which is a typical response she has when she can tell I’m past my sell-by date at the moment. We gathered the shards up and deposited them in her classroom and I sat down in the middle of the carnage and fumed. I was livid. I was certain the piece would never go together again and that we had just wasted money we didn’t have to waste.

Budge, meanwhile was tapping on her phone. I had no idea what she was doing, but it irritated me nonetheless. I was turning pieces over in my hands, pulling out broken dowels with a pair of pliers. All except for four which broke off flush with the top of their holes and so couldn’t be grasped with the pliers. I was even more livid. Finally, I turned to her and said, “I can’t fix this,” in a nasty voice. She replied, “You’ll figure it out.” I then said something I now wish I hadn’t. I snapped and told her, “You ALWAYS have an answer for everything, don’t you?” I wasn’t finished, I continued, “I wouldn’t be in this mess if you had just left when the thing wouldn’t go in the Element, and I wouldn’t have broken the piece if you hadn’t gotten the hand trucks!”

That upset her. She said, “It’s just all my fault then isn’t it!?” I replied, “Yes it is, and what’s more, I don’t want to be sitting here doing this.” She then snapped, “Well, just leave me here then and leave!” Now gentle reader, I was hot, I was aggravated, I was extremely ill tempered, and I was not pleasantly disposed toward my God-given spouse at that moment, BUT I had not lost my will to live or my instinct for self-preservation. I began to deescalate as quickly as possible and just huffed and went back to the pieces.

Eventually, with the help of a random screw I found in her toolkit, I was able to get out all four screwed up dowels. I showed her and she just grunted. I asked her if she could find directions for the piece online, and she snapped back, “Why? Because I always have an answer?” I dropped my head. I had been unkind and now I was going to have to pay for it.

We left shortly afterwards. She did find instructions online and a video of one being put together. By that afternoon, “I always have an answer” had entered the lore of our marriage. I apologized to her for my words. She graciously accepted, and we went on out way laughing. See, one of the secrets for having a twenty-nine year marriage is you keep very short accounts, you don’t hold grudges, and you don’t take your partner’s bad day personally. It’s worked well for us.

In the end, I was able to get the piece back together with some dowels we got off Amazon and the directions Budge found online. She truly does always have an answer for everything, mainly because she’s one of the best problem solvers I know, and she patiently works with a problem until she solves it. She’s great about that. So I got the piece together along with the rest of the furniture she had to buy. We worked together all day Tuesday on the first day of school and now her classroom looks mostly ready to go. She says it finally looks like home. I’m glad she’s happy.

One thing before I go, she still needs a kidney table to do small-group work at. The school is supplying some furniture, but the kidney table isn’t one of them. A good one like she needs is $450. If the spirit moves you and you want to help an underpaid teacher out, consider dropping a few dollars in the tip jar. If all my followers gave a dollar, we could buy her the kidney table and she and I would be most appreciative.

In any event, whether you do or don’t donate, I’ll still love you. Just be careful and keep your feet clean!

Jun26

Newest Sign I’m Aging

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Budge’s Dad always said getting old wasn’t for sissies or the faint hearted. Lately, I’ve been realizing exactly what he meant. I turned fifty and the wheels just fell off the apple cart. I’m up and down all night because I’ve suddenly developed a bladder the size of a walnut. When I wake up in the morning, I can’t just hop out of bed and get going like I could in my thirties. Now, I have to take roll call of all the body parts who will be taking part in this morning’s arising. Need to make sure the feet and legs are on board with the program and aren’t planning on ditching at the first sign of weight. The arms and chest have to say they’ll be willing to balance things, and of course, the old brain has to agree to run this whole sorry show one more day. Then I can get up . . . after I stretch a bit for safety’s sake.

Still, one thing I’ve been proud of as I’ve gotten older is my flexibility has remained a staple in my life. I can still sit in the floor cross-legged to work on something. I can get up from the floor with relative ease for a guy my size. Walking doesn’t hurt, which is wonderful. Or, it was until a few weeks ago. I went to sit in the floor Indian style and my left hip screamed out in pain like someone stabbed it with an ice pick. I had to wobble around on the floor some in order to get into a comfortable position. Getting up was a chore as well, since my left leg just didn’t want to play along. I noticed walking was becoming difficult as my left hip and knee started paining constantly. I was at a loss.

I wasn’t terribly concerned though because the pain was mostly manageable. I had my yearly checkup with my primary care doctor and I mentioned the new ache to her. She offered to have a set of x-rays done or set me up with some physical therapy, but I told her I’d just wait and see what happened. Well, what happened was ten days later I could barely walk. Every time I put my foot on the floor, pain shot through my knee and hip. I got in touch with my doctor and asked for a referral to an orthopedic doctor. She set me up and the wait to go see him was the longest two weeks of my life. I had to officiate my step-dad’s funeral while waiting and I was almost in tears, from grief, yes, but also because standing felt like nails being driven into my hip and knee.

Finally, the day came for my appointment. By that time, a slow shuffle was about the best I could manage. I got checked in, and the nurse took me back and had me change into an x-ray suit because my shorts had metal in them. Then I went for x-rays. I have to say that was the most thorough set of x-rays I’ve ever had. They included measuring devices and four different poses and the way they had me turn and contort was pure agony on my leg. I was so happy when they finished.

My nurse took me back to the exam room and I got changed out of those horrid shorts to wait on the doctor. He bounded in and shook my hand heartily so I immediately asked him how old he was. He said he was thirty-seven. I told him it didn’t matter, but I was at the age where I just wanted to know if my doctors were older or younger than me. Trust me, the older crowd is getting thinner and thinner. He had me lie down on the table and manipulated my knee. It didn’t hurt at all. It was my old smooth working knee. Then, he torqued my hip. I almost came off the table. White hot pain shot through my hip like lightning. He smiled and asked me if that hurt. I pointed out to him a special place in Hell awaits smartass doctors, and he laughed. He said my knee was perfect, absolutely nothing wrong with it. My hip, though, was another story.

He took out his phone and pulled up my x-rays. First he showed me my pristine knee. He said I wouldn’t have to worry with it for years. My right hip was also lovely. It had a clear band where the cartilage separated the hip socket from the hip ball. The left hip was a disaster. The nice clear band of cartilage was replaced by spiky things that filled up the entire space between the ball and socket. He gave me the bad news. My left hip was bone on bone and had become severely arthritic. That grinding is what was causing me pain.

Then, he gave me my options to fix it. He said I could take Celebrex for the pain and that would work for awhile. He told me shots into my hip wouldn’t do any good but if I wanted to go that route just to see, he’d set me up with one of his partners and I could try and proved him wrong. Physical therapy would make things worse. The only thing that could provide me permanent relief is a new hip. He said he’d done hundreds and it would be an outpatient surgery. I was borderline body mass that he liked to work with, but I was in spec so it wouldn’t be a problem. All I had to do was tell him when to set the surgery up. I asked him for the largest dose of Celebrex and some time to think. He said that was fine because it wasn’t going to get any worse.

See, I have a strange reason for not wanting to get a hip replacement right now. Budge is in pain from her hip – also the left one – but she can’t have a hip replacement because they told her her body mass index is too high. She’s taking Lyrica to get through the day but the only real relief will be a hip replacement. I don’t want to get one because I don’t feel it’s fair for me to walk around pain free with a new hip when she is still in lots of pain almost daily. She says that is a silly reason and I need to get it done so I can help her. I’m thinking about it.

Right now, I take a huge dose of Celebrex every morning and limp a little through the day. I have to be careful how I sit in the floor now to do things like clean the cat boxes. Walking is okay, but a wrong step still reminds me that hip needs replacing. So, here I am. I’m going to have to decide between my principles and my pain. Right now, I’m hold steady with principles. Budge is having a hip shot on Monday to see if that will help because the source of her pain is not arthritis like mine is so she’s got different options. If it helps her, I may schedule a surgery over her Christmas break. We’ll see.

Until then, remember I love y’all and keep those feet clean!

Apr25

Thoughts on Peewee Baseball

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Budge and I recently had the pleasure to go watch one of our friend’s son play his opening day baseball game. It was a perfect day for baseball — sunny with a nice breeze blowing — and we set our folding chairs up right behind home plate.

Now the last two years, Hayes has been playing t-ball. T-ball, as the name implies, has the youngsters hitting the baseball off a tee. The ball is stationary and the tee is adjusted to whatever height the player needs, since lots of these little ones are not much bigger than the tee at the best of times. Even though the ball doesn’t move, it’s still quite possible to strike out in t-ball. Each player gets the customary three swings at the ball, and many of them miss the tee, the ball, and all three times and so have to have a seat.

This year, however, Hayes has moved up to coaches’ pitch, the next level in the baseball journey. At this stage, the player’s coach half pitches, half tosses the ball to the batters of his team. It’s interesting to see how different coaches pitch to their players. Some, like Hayes’ coach, put a little arc on the ball and it doesn’t have much on it. On the other side of the diamond, the opposing coach fairly hummed the ball in to the catcher.

This is important in the game because the harder the ball comes in, the harder it will fly off the bat if the batter manages to hit it. It’s after the ball is hit and put into play that the real fun of the game starts. In the game we watched, both teams obviously had drilled into their heads to throw the ball to first base to hopefully get the batter out. Now there’s nothing wrong with that approach except when there is a runner on third and the ball is hit to the third baseman. Rather than try to tag said runner out, or throw the ball to home for a play, the third baseman launches the ball all the way across the field toward first while the runner on third runs home.

It’s easy to get frustrated watching the game as the youngsters play, but it is of paramount importance to remember these are, in fact, youngsters. Hayes and his teammates were in the 8U division so all of them were second graders. The game has to be simplified for them or there’s no telling what might happen. The coach already has to deal with keeping the right fielder from chasing butterflies and the second baseman from playing in the dirt. It’s an improvement over t-ball, though. In t-ball, often as much as half the team doesn’t really want to be there and the scene is much akin to a cat rodeo.

Now Hayes has this year and next year in coaches’ pitch. Then, in the 10U division, the players start pitching themselves. That’s a lot of fun to watch! No one on the field or in the stands knows where that baseball is going when it leaves the pitcher’s hand and that includes the pitcher. It takes a brave kid to stand and be pitched to by one of his peers. The ball might go across the plate, but it might just as easily plunk the batter in the ribs or go over their heads to the backstop. No one really knows, and that’s part of the fun of it. They’ll get better and by the 12U division, it becomes obvious who is going to be a pitcher in the future.

On this day, Hayes and his team came up a little short. I don’t think it had anything to do with coaching since both coaches seemed competent. The players are distributed more or less at random and the other team ended up with a few more ball players than Hayes’ team did.

It was fun to watch though and took me back in time to when I tried to play baseball, but that’s for another time. Until then, love y’all and keep your feet clean!

Feb24

Playtime Concussion

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This month I want to tell you a story from my college days that I’ve always thought was funny. I hope you think so too. It all started on a sunny day in late winter at Clemson, as so many stories I love to remember do. Some of the guys had been to a laser tag arena up in the mountains and had come home with stories of fun and excitement. Laser tag was pretty new in the early ’90s. Paintball was preferred, but paintball was expensive and our rooms were miraculously short on money. So we wanted to do more laser tag.

Come to find out, Toys ‘R Us had laser tag equipment, so there was nothing to do but head to Anderson Boulevard and pay the giraffe a visit. I remember the ride because Cook had his ’67 GTO at school. He didn’t bring it all the time, mainly because people are assholes and some of them can’t stand seeing someone driving a nice classic car without wanting to do something like put a knife through the convertible top or break a mirror off just because they can’t have one. Most of the time, the Goat lived at home in Laurens and Cook drove a much more fuel efficient Pontiac Phoenix.

Today though, we were in the GTO. Six of us were rolling towards Anderson with the top down and the glorious winter Sun shining on our faces. Of course it was a little chilly, it was still winter after all, but why have a classic convertible if you aren’t going to put the top down? So, we endured a little cold and enjoyed the ride with the wind in our hair.

We got to the giraffe’s lair and spread out looking for laser tag stuff. Hoppe found it first and we congregated around picking out what we would need. I have to point out here that I did not purchase a laser tag kit because I had a strict “spend money on liquid stuff” policy that the guys respected and enjoyed since I was a generous host. The other five got theirs though and we headed back towards Clemson after a side quest at Hooter’s for lunch. For those of you who do not know, the founders of Hooter’s were Clemson graduates. That’s why so much of their decor is bright orange.

We got home and played video games for the rest of the day, because laser tag is a night time activity. We had supper and it got dark so everybody went up to the field above Lightsey Bridge Apartments to try out their new gear. I tagged along to see what the fuss was about and maybe borrow a kit for a turn. The guys chose sides and started running around stalking each other for the best angle to score a laser hit.

That’s where things got dicey. Obviously, running around on the field presented too many clear opportunities for scores. However, a stand of mature oak trees bordered the field and the guys soon took their adventure into the cover of the trees. Most of them realized the full tilt running around that had ruled on the open pasture wasn’t going to work under the trees. Everybody except Brent. Wingnut decided to keep his speed up and dash from cover to cover and that’s when things went slightly crooked.

Wingnut was running flat out from one tree to the next. Unfortunately, he did not account for the low hanging limbs — limbs that were all but invisible in the dark — of the tree in between. Just like Absalom on his mule fleeing the armies of King David, Brent ran full bore under those limbs. Now those of you who are younger reading this might not have had the joy that was watching Looney Tunes cartoons on Saturday morning, but one common trope was for a character to run full speed into a limb hanging about forehead level and their feet would keep running until they were stretched straight out at which point gravity took over landing them flat on their back.

Well, Wingnut would have done Wile E. Coyote proud the way he took that limb right between the eyes. I thought the laws of physics would prohibit the actually running into midair horizontal, but Brent proved otherwise. His feet just kept on churning and he stretched out like a gun barrel then plopped to the ground — completely dazed. How it didn’t knock him out I have no idea, but he lay there for a good while trying to unscramble his brains.

We helped him down the hill to the apartment and the first thing we saw when we got into the light of the room was the black and blue stripe right across Brent’s forehead. It was a thousand wonders he didn’t knock himself out and as it was I think he probably had at least a mild concussion. He refused a ride to the ER to get checked out just in case and we, in true male fashion, spent the rest of the night making jokes at his wounded offence.

Sorry it’s so short this month. I’ll try to do better next time! Love y’all and keep your feet clean!

Jan7

Once, There Was A Hummer

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Today is a banner day in my life. It’s a day of great importance that won’t be equaled anytime soon. Thirty years ago today — January 7, 1995 — Budge and I became a couple. It isn’t our thirtieth marriage anniversary yet. That will be next August, but it is the three decade mark of us being together. If you haven’t been keeping up, that’s a long time. It’s more than half my life and almost three quarters of Budge’s.

It all started when I was a first year teacher at Woodmont High School. I found out I was chosen to be a Natural Helper. At the time, I had no idea what that was, but it turns out it’s a nationwide organization dedicated to making sure youth in crisis have someone to turn to. We were chosen by students who felt they could trust us to have a place to talk safely. I was picked as one and therefore got to go on a retreat the first weekend back from Christmas Break.

Budge came up to me at school all bouncy and happy and announced quite proudly she would be allowed to call me by my first name for the following weekend! That was fine with me, but I was a little overwhelmed by her vehemence. That Thursday we left for the retreat site, one Awanita Valley Retreat Center, amid a downpour of snow and freezing rain. There was even some talk of cancelling, but our bus driver assured us he could get us there safely. So, we went. It was my birthday.

When we got to Awanita, we started unloading the bus. I walked into the lodge with a bag in each hand when Budge ran up to me, engulfed me in a hug, and told me Happy Birthday! Now my birthday has always been a big deal to me. I don’t know why, but I’ve always seen it as my one day out of the year when it’s okay to be happy to be myself. It was sweet that Budge remembered it was my birthday because I had only mentioned it to her in passing in a conversation.

All that evening, I couldn’t shake Budge. She was right by my side. Now don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t trying hard. She was funny and good company. We sat next to each other at supper and later on we did a blindfolded trust walk where I got blindfolded and she walked me around this totally unfamiliar ground and managed to keep me upright and avoided breaking my neck. We had a few more activities, and we went to be.

The next day, January 7, was the day things changed. Budge and I both signed up for a Hummer ride up the side of the mountain. The retreat had a surplus Hum-Vee with the canvas top removed so we were all out in the elements. It was a freezing morning, and the “trail” we were going up was two ill-defined ruts in the ground up the side a a much steeper than I thought at first mountain. As always, Budge was strapped in beside me in the middle seat.

Up the mountain we went at a pretty rapid rate of speed bouncing all over the place. Budge was pressed right up against me, practically in my lap on the rough ride. It was fun in a terrifying way. I was sure once or twice we were going off the side of the mountain. We got to the top, stopped long enough to turn around, and started back down faster than we’d come up. By the time we got to the bottom again, something was different between me and Budge.

We left the Hummer and went over to the lakeside and sat down next to each other on a log bench in the sunshine. We had a serious conversation that afternoon. We both agreed we liked each other, and we also agreed it was silly and reckless for a teacher and a student to have a romantic relationship, but then we also agreed we didn’t really care and decided we were a couple. Consequences be damned.

Now our closeness had not gone unnoticed by others. That evening, Budge was cornered by some of the older women teachers and wives and warned all about the age difference between us and how serious it would be for my job. The whole spiel. Meanwhile, out beside the evening campfire, I was getting the same treatment from a group of the older men. The were warning me about leading on such a young girl and how it could cost me my job. Again, all sound advice and in a sane world, they were exactly right.

We paid it no attention whatsoever. Our minds were made up. Now I’ll be honest, I thought the whole thing might just be chalked up to the atmosphere of the retreat and of course, Budge getting to call me by my first name. Turns out, I was dead wrong. It took about a week and a half of fits and starts once we got back to school, but soon, she was calling me often and I was looking forward to the calls. Later on in January, we went on our first date which is another story for another time.

So there it is. Thirty years we’ve been a couple, and it all started on the Hummer ride as far as we have always been concerned. Like I said earlier, thirty years is a long time. If we’d had children when we first got married, we might very well be getting ready to be grandparents by now. I hope it doesn’t sound silly, but I don’t really care if it does, but I consider my relationship with Budge to be my greatest accomplishment. Out of everything I’ve ever done, being with her together and loving each other for three decades is the most important thing I’ve ever done.

So, that’s our origin story. Thirty years today. We’ll go eat a good supper tonight and celebrate. I’m trying to figure out what to do next year for our thirtieth wedding anniversary, and I hope I can come up with something good. But until then, love y’all and keep your feet clean!

Nov28

#TBT: Giving Thanks This Year

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I’ve been trying to do new material all this year, but I’m in danger of missing November’s post if I don’t get writing, and due to circumstances beyond my control, I’m not going to have any more time than I’ve had the last week to get a post done, so I’m rerunning one of my Thanksgiving posts about giving thanks. Long story short, Budge is in the hospital. She’s going to be fine, but it’s made things hectic around here so I haven’t had time to write anything. I’ll try to do better next month.

I haven’t written much new material in a long while. It’s not that I don’t have any ideas, but rather my computer has gone on the blink and replacing it is beyond my means at this season of life. Putting out a post on my phone as I’m doing now is quite tedious since I think faster than I can type, but this holiday begs for a new post so I’ve set myself a goal of giving thanks. Specifically I’m going to list ten things I’m most thankful for at this time. So without further ado, my list.

1. I’m thankful for Budge. We’ve been married 26 years and she’s stood by me through all the tough times. She’s my rock.

2. I’m thankful I had 42 years with Mama. Sometimes it hits me that it wasn’t enough time, but some people don’t get that much with their mothers.

3. In the same vein, I’m thankful I had all my grandparents until I was 24 and Papa Wham died. It makes me sad that so many people never get to know their grands and I’m so glad I had mine for so long.

4. I’m thankful for my home. It may not seem like much to folks, but it’s ours. The roof doesn’t leak. It’s cool in summer and warm in winter. Some people look down on living in a trailer, but I don’t really know any different so it makes me happy.

5. I’m thankful for my friends. I’m not going to start naming them for fear of leaving someone out, but I’ve got some really loyal friends. I’ve been blessed all my life with friends I could count on and though some have drifted away, they still hold a special place in my memories.

6. I’m thankful for my furry babies. Budge and I never had children and I know it’s not the same but we love them as if they were our children. I spend many hours alone and I also fall into some pretty dark moods and having them blunts the loneliness. They don’t talk back in our language but they have a way of letting me know they care.

7. I’m thankful for my beloved therapist and my equally beloved psychiatrist. That may seem odd to some to care that much about two men who came into my life over ten years ago, but they keep me going. Next to Budge, they are the biggest members of my mental support system.

8. I’m thankful for my health. Oh, I have some medical issues but thanks to a good doctor, they are all well controlled. I can still get around on my own and I’m not in constant pain; except for the odd aches that started popping up around 45. I see people who can’t go and do and it reminds me how much good health really means.

9. I’m thankful for my church. The people I see most Sundays, the ones I serve in the nursery with, the pastors who check on me, they all make me feel seen and cared about and that means a lot when you think dark thoughts like I do sometimes.

10. I’m thankful for Jesus. I realize faith in Jesus might not be as fashionable as it once was, but I’ve never been the fashionable type. I’m glad He came and died on a cross for me to have new life. Sometimes I wish I could move on into that new life, but I’m thankful that as long as I have Jesus, I may get lonely, but I’m never really alone.

So, there’s my list. It may seem sappy to some of you, but it’s all true. Those are the things, not all of course, that I care about. Maybe next year I can add some more if I’m not typing on a phone! Until then love y’all, happy Thanksgiving, and keep your feet clean!

Sep25

Why I Hate One Certain Bon Jovi Song

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I like music. Actually, I like music a ton. I’m not picky about genres although I don’t care for death metal as I’ve gotten older. My ears can’t take the screaming. One artist I always liked more or less is Jon Bon Jovi. I bought his Slippery When Wet album after listening to it in my cousin Todd’s car on the way to school my freshman year. I enjoyed that album. As a matter of fact, one song in particular became my favorite song for a time — “You Give Love A Bad Name.” Because of certain events when I was a junior in high school, however, it went from being one of my favorites to a song that to this day I refuse to listen to on the radio. Budge knows to turn the station as soon as it comes on. I will not listen to that song and I’ve never told Budge why. Here’s why.

I had a friend in high school. Let’s call her J. J was from another feeder school than I was so we didn’t meet until freshman year. Because we were both honors students, we had many classes together and we got pretty tight over the years. I flirted with her shamelessly mostly because she was never a serious consideration. As Clint Eastwood once said, “A man’s got to know his limitations.” She always laughingly turned me down and I would sing or hum a few bars of “You Give Love A Bad Name” to her. She would respond with mock outrage every time I did and we’d have a good laugh.

The laughter stopped when we were juniors. As will often happen, J met a boy late in our sophomore year. The two could not have been a worse match if they had been members of the Jets and the Sharks. They were from totally different backgrounds and sadly, but honestly, on two totally different life trajectories. J was smitten with the bad boy. We’ll call this bad boy D. J’s mother and stepdad LOATHED D with a burning passion and forbade her to see him, much less go on dates.

Love finds a way though. In this particular case, I was more than once part of that way. See, J’s parents believed a version of me that most parents of my friends and acquaintances held to all through my junior high and high school years . . . a least until I became a senior, but that’s another story for another day. J could go anywhere with me no questions asked, so sometimes, I would take J to see D. I still sang “You Give Love A Bad Name” to her on the way there and on the way back and elicit a knowing smile from her. I knew this was going to all end in tears, star-crossed lovers and all that. Maybe I would have done differently if I’d known just how bad it was going to end. Then again, maybe I wouldn’t have.

This rocked on for a little over six months. Don’t hold me to the exact dates and times. The years have taken some of the details, but enough remains. J started wearing baggy clothes to school the winter of our junior year. I didn’t think anything of it for two reasons, she could make a flour sack look like a prom dress and I was and still am completely oblivious to so much that happens right in front of my face. Budge shakes her head at me sometimes.

Anyway, I went over to see her once during Christmas break and we talked about nothing. She asked me to take her to see D. We snowballed the parents with some story and I took her to him. They grabbed each other and started crying. I had no idea what was going on so I just eased out of the room and waited in the car. She came back and was wiping her face to get the tears off. I took her home and didn’t think another thing of it. I have to be honest, I was going through my own dark valley, the first of many, during this time. So I wasn’t as observant as I might have been, and also oblivious.

J didn’t come back from Christmas break. She didn’t come back the entire month of January. I missed my friend but I figured she had her reasons. She did. Dear Lord Above, she did. When she came back finally, she was different. She wore normal clothes again, and her face was different. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. She didn’t kid around with me like she used to. She wasn’t the same ever again until we graduated high school.

Now all y’all have probably gotten this all figured out by now. It took a mutual female friend sitting me down and explaining things to me. J’s parents found out she was pregnant, but it was already into the second trimester. J did everything she could to hide her baby, but it didn’t work in the end. I can’t imagine the pressure they put on her to have an abortion for her to actually go through it. She couldn’t get it done in South Carolina though so her mother took her to Georgia for the procedure. It took her a while to get over so she was out of school that month.

D was devastated and he partially blamed me. I don’t know why since I didn’t do anything other than what I was asked and i always supported them, but sometimes people need a scapegoat so that’s what I was. They never saw each other again to my knowledge, but I’m not certain about that.

All I do know is J was never the same. Her laugh that used to be so melodious sounded forced. She had a darkness about her that nothing I did could pierce. We graduated. She went off to school, got married, and had two or three kids so at least her uterus wasn’t damaged. She got a divorce. I don’t know why, but she married again, a guy from high school. They didn’t last long until she cheated on him. Now they are divorced. That’s all I know; Facebook stalking will only get you so far. From what I see, she seems happy, but who knows what thoughts come in the deep hours of the night. I know I don’t.

So, that’s why I hate “You Give Love A Bad Name.”

Love y’all, and keep your feet clean.

Jun25

I’m Not Sick, But I’m Not Healthy Either

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Dr. Lopez after my visits.

Dr. Lopez after my visits.

I recently had my summer checkup with my GP, Dr. Lopez. Even though I think the world of Doc, I don’t hate many things on Earth quite as much as I do going to see him. It’s definitely a top ten pet peeve of mine — nowhere near as loathed as Weed-Eating the yard but quite a ways above a slight paper cut. It’s not that Doc is a bad guy, because he’s not; I simply despise repetitive activity for the most part and my physicals are always extremely repetitive.

First, regardless of when my appointment time happens to be, I’m going to sit in the exam room for at least an hour. I wouldn’t mind if I was confined to the main waiting room. It’s much larger and cooler and the reading material is of a better selection. No, I have to cool my heels in the tiny, windowless exam room with the paper covered table and box of tongue depressors. I’m claustrophobic and after about ten minutes alone in there, I start hyperventilating and the walls begin moving towards me. Then, just as I am about to go bat-poop crazier that I already am, Doc comes in and wonders how my blood pressure can always be elevated no matter what hypertension meds he has me take.skeleton

I could endure the waitings, though, if the consultation wasn’t so negative. Doc always starts with the lab results from the blood I had drawn the week before. (Just as an aside, if you want to see your doctor flip completely out, instead of going in for labs fasting, eat three Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnuts and chug a pair of Mountain Dews about thirty minutes before they draw blood — they’ll send an ambulance to get you as soon as the results come back.) Now all I care about from my lab results is my A1C level and my PSA level. The A1C tells if I’m diabetic or not and the PSA lets me know all is well with Mini-Me down below. He could give me those numbers and the visit would last five minutes — tops. Instead, he starts off with my CHOLESTEROL and TRIGLYCERIDES. I take meds to reduce both and he still isn’t satisfied. Unfortunately, no matter how much I try to convince him I don’t give a tinker’s cuss what my LDL and HDL levels are, I still get The Speech.

The Speech is a variation on “you need to exercise; you need to lose weight, you need to eat healthier.” Depending on the time of year or his particular mood, one of the three will get more emphasis than the other two. The latest iteration focused on diet. Every time he starts the “getting healthier” spiel, I ask him why I need to be so concerned with cholesterol. He always says it’s so I won’t have a massive heart attack and die. That’s when I ask him the same question every time: “What is the single biggest indicator of longevity in humans?” Usually he mumbles a bit then comes out with “Family history,” at which point I say, “Okay, forget cholesterol and tell me my A1C.”

Here’s my line of thinking and it infuriates him to no end — I’m not scared of a massive heart attack. If your heart explodes, you die. Simple. Pour water on the fire and call in the dogs boys because this night’s hunt is OVER. On the other hand, I am terrified of Type II Diabetes or, as we say in the South, “The Sugar.” Diabetes doesn’t kill you — at least not outright. No, first they cut off your toes; then your feet, followed by your legs to the knee, then to the thigh. Before long, you end up looking like an extra from the 1932 Tod Browing film Freaks. Plus, the entire time leading up to your butchery, you have to stab yourself with needles two or three times a day. Needles are the main reason a Skittlesques pack of pills was my drug of choice rather than heroin or morphine when I was a young and reckless lad.

Getting back to family history, though, Granny Matt (my great-grandmother on Daddy’s side) had six sons: Uncle William, Uncle Bob, Uncle George, Papa Wham, Uncle David, and Uncle Jack. Of the six, FIVE died of massive heart attacks sometime between 72 and 76 years old. Daddy has already had one and a half heart attacks and he’s 63. On the other side of my family tree, however, diabetes and cancer, sometimes both, run roughshod through Mama’s side of my family. I’m trying to get Dr. Lopez to see I’m not fatalistic or reckless with my health, I’m just playing the averages and trying to help skew them in my favor.

Eat RightI could cut out everything I love to eat — red meat, ice cream, starches, sweets, cheese, etc — and I could exercise religiously like I see so many people doing around here, but WHY would I want to? Perfect health is simply the slowest possible rate at which you can die. In most ways, we’re dead already. Luke the Drifter said it best when he sang, “I’ll Never Get Out of This World Alive.”

I go see my precious Granny every Tuesday. She can’t talk to me anymore. She can just barely feed herself and not even that some days. She can’t walk; she’s in diapers. I love her more than words can describe, but I don’t want to end up that way. Many of the inmates in the nursing home where Granny lives are the last members of their family. No one comes to see them. They are just taking their time dying in a warehouse of obsolete humanity, and there’s not a thing wrong with that, I just don’t want it to be me. Anyway, I was raised all my life to believe this live is just a dress rehearsal for what comes next. That’s where Mama is. That’s where I want to be. Right now, the only thing keeping me here is my Budge. I won’t leave her alone if I can help it.

So, see why I drive Dr. Lopez to distraction? Love y’all; keep those feet clean.

Apr10

Clarification of Terms

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Um, yes, you DID leave me.

Sometimes I hear people using terms and phrases and, as Inigo Montoya puts it so aptly in The Princess Bride, “you keep using that word, I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Today’s post is an effort to clarify one such phrase. The phrase that needs clarification is “I left your mother (or your father), but I didn’t leave you.” Now, I’ve heard this little chestnut all my life and it’s always used for one parent to justify the crushed soul of his or her child following a divorce. Please allow me to clarify this term.

“I didn’t leave you” is a baldfaced lie. It’s quite simple and children understand even when adults do not. As a child, if I am sleeping in MY bed and Mommy (or Daddy) is sleeping in her bed and you are sleeping in some other person’s bed then, by definition, you have left me. If two people are in the same location and you walk, drive, fly, or camelback ride away from that location, you leave them both. You cannot leave one without the other.

Now, I realize that you might be feeling guilty and have some inner need to assuage the guilt you have accumulated by ignoring your marriage vows or, in the case of the new unmarried “modern arrangements”, ignoring your parental responsibility, but please don’t confuse a five year old by saying, “I’m not leaving you, I’m leaving X.”

Children aren’t stupid. If you aren’t here and they are, YOU LEFT THEM, and they are very unlikely to ever forget it and it is going to color their experiences throughout life, especially their relationships with the opposite sex, FOREVER. Now, if you can live with that, fine. If not, find some other way to explain away your extramarital dalliance to your children.

Sorry to be so harsh, beloved. Must be the pollen. Yes, that’s it . . . pollen.

So wash those green toes and remember who loves y’all.

Jun2

Of Tragedy and Old Friends

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I stopped by Kentucky Grilled Chicken (?!?!?) today for a three honey BBQ snacker snack at lunchtime. I was done with the tater wedges and halfway through my second snacker when an old friend showed up in the KFC (KGC . . . KGB . . . ???). Now when I say “old friend”, this chicka is quite possibly my second oldest friend in the world. She and I literally have known each other from right near the cradle. We went through twelve years of grade school and K5 together. I distinctly remember talking her out of playing with the toy kitchen set in Miss Coggins’ room so she would come play in the sandbox with me. Birthday parties, McDonald’s parties, swimming dates. We go way back.

For the purpose of this story, her name will be Nadia. First, I don’t want her real name plastered all over the Internet because she’s a private person and second, I didn’t go to school with anyone named Nadia at any time that I can remember, so people won’t be running to the old yearbooks (as if they cared) to see who I’m talking about.

Nadia was one of my first kindergarten crushes. I thought she was beautiful with china blue eyes and long snowy blond hair, but even more, she was cute and funny. She was a lot like me. Her parents were the first couple in my dinky little home town to get divorced after mine broke the ice. It wasn’t much of a loss for the family since her dad was, as Papa used to put it, “not worth the powder it would take to blow his brains out.” Still, not much ever seemed to get her down. She was the middle child of three, then the second oldest of four when her mother got a bit of a surprise when Nadia and I were beginning sixth grade. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only surprise Nadia’s family would get that year.

Nadia was the most graceful gymnast I knew in my short life. She was athletic all around — great runner, champion swimmer, etc. — but her true gift lay on the floor exercise platform. I still recall our sixth grade talent show when she did her floor routine and absolutely floored everyone else. Her dream was the Olympics. She had her sights set on Los Angeles and 1984 and none of us, young or old, doubted her ability or commitment. We joked in math class about how much tickets to LA would cost. Our closest airport wasn’t even equipped for that kind of trip then. Nadia had big dreams and we all dreamed with her. Somewhere boxed up I’ve got a wallet sized picture of her in her leotard with her rhythm hoop. She’s smiling that spotlight smile and looks for all the world like she was posing on the podium getting the gold medal.

If iPods had been around in 1982, I don’t doubt for a minute she’d have made LA. Nadia, her mother, her mother’s best friend, and Nadia’s three sisters, including the baby, were on their way home in a car driven by Nadia’s oldest sister, who had just gotten her permit. The cassette they were listening to reached the end and automatically ejected. It came out of the player and fell to the floor beneath the sister’s feet. When her sister glanced down to mark where it fell, the car was in the beginning of a curve and drifted into the path of a fully loaded gravel truck  from the local quarry.

The Highway Patrol statement said there were no skid marks visible from either vehicle. Neither driver had touched a brake pedal. The truck was stopped by climbing atop the car and sliding several hundred feet until both vehicles went into the ditch. The truck driver was physically unscathed and everyone, including Nadia, have always maintained there was nothing humanly possible he could have done to avoid the collision. In any event, I heard the accident drove him to the bottle. Whether that is true or not, I can’t say. You’ll hear anything in a small town.

What is a fact is Nadia’s Olympic dream ended in a tangle of sheet metal and diesel fuel. Her spine was severed right below her belly button. She would never walk again. Her mother, the friend, oldest sister, and the baby, who wasn’t in a car seat because she didn’t have to be in those days, all died at the scene. Nadia’s next sister, seated at impact between the friend and Nadia, walked away with a cut over her left eye that required five stitches.

I don’t know many well adjusted grown men and women who could have withstood a tragedy of that magnitude with all mental flags flying, but Nadia seemed to. I don’t pretend to know what nightmares have ridden roughshod through her dreams these last thirty years, but I know she took to her wheelchair like the proverbial duck to water. After some therapy, she was riding rings around her grandmother and grandfather’s home. She even came back to school and finished the year.

In those pre-Americans with Disabilities Act days, our beloved principal and several of the more “handy” fathers came to the school several days over the winter break and built ramps to every place they could imagine Nadia wanting to go. She was given a key to the faculty bathroom because it was the only restroom in the school large enough to accommodate her and her wheelchair. One of her trusted friends would always accompany her in case she fell making the transition from chair to commode and back. That’s how we did it back then. We took care of each other.

Nadia was the first handicapped person I knew up close and personal. She could have been the poster child for how to deal with the biggest poop sandwich I’ve ever seen handed to one person in one lifetime. She was, and still is, a survivor. She and I graduated the same night and I lost track of her for some time. Then I started running into her at local stores and such. She was still pretty as ever. In time’s due course, she married a very kind and decent man. He was with her today. They have four children and the oldest was graduating tonight, just as his mother and I did these twenty years gone.

So I told y’all Nadia’s story to tell you, and myself, this little tidbit — it could ALWAYS be worse. What’s more, when it GETS worse, it’s up to you how to handle it. If anyone in this world has ever had a right to end up hooked on drugs or completely depressed or suicidal, Nadia was that person. That wasn’t how she rolled, pun intended, though. One dream and most of her family had died, but the woman I saw today still had a head held high and her china blue eyes still sparkled. The snow blond hair had some grey streaks, but mine does as well and my life has been a cakewalk compared to Nadia’s. So don’t take anything for granted folks. Life moves at the speed of love and it moves by very fast. Nadia is moving right along with it. She’s been an inspiration to me for going on thirty years now. I hope her story inspires some of y’all as well.

So, love y’all bunches and now that summer’s here, when y’all come in from chasing fireflies, don’t forget to wash your feet! 🙂