All Grown Up Overnight

I started this blog entry a few days after Dad's funeral. For whatever reason I didn't finish it then. But, reading it again now, it's probably as complete at it needs to be.
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It's funny how certain things in this life call a person out to grow up and take responsibility. Around my folks and my brother and sister, I've always felt like I was still a kid - even after I've married and have a family. The past couple of years have forced me out of that kind of thinking - especially the events of the week.

When we first talked to Mom and Dad about moving from Malakoff, TX to Conroe, I was thinking about caring for my parents and ensuring that they were not alone for as long as we possibly could. My biggest fear used to be getting a phone call from someone who would tell me that one of my parents had suddenly died. Having them in an apartment off our patio would be a very good thing, for us and them, because we would all be in close proximity. No more long trips back and forth to their house. We'd all be in one place - together. It didn't take long before the new wore off and I realized that our roles had changed. I was becoming more of a caretaker and my parents needed to be cared for. This became so obvious to us toward the end of 2011 when both Mom and Dad both broke a hip and had to endure extensive rehabilitation to just be able to walk. I wasn't quite prepared for that, but somehow we survived. It had been bearable because we were all together.

Since they've been here, we've had to take away the car keys from my mother. Talk about awkward! For crying out loud - I remember when I was threatened with losing my privileges to drive, for coming home late - one too many times. We realized that taking away driving privileges from them meant that we had to pick up the responsibility to take Mom and Dad wherever they needed to go. I obviously didn't think about that, either, but it was what we needed to do.

The past several days have been about accepting responsibility and growing up for me. Family members have died in our family before. Someone else took care of the details. This time, it was my responsibility. That responsibility came with a lot of things. For starters, I've been coming to grips with my own mortality and that of my family - especially Mom and Dad.

I've never been with someone as they died. I've lost friends who died prematurely, but I wasn't there when it happened. I've lost family members who were close to me, but again, I wasn't there. Now, I've watched plenty of movies where this character or that character died. I've heard the debate about how TV violence makes a person insensitive to real violence and I've often wondered, if what they say is true, if I would know the difference. There was no question for me last Tuesday evening. At the moment of truth, I knew what was happening and was terrified.

I'm proud that I can say I was there when Haynes passed from this life to the next. But, I was scared and out of my mind during those moments. At first I didn't know what to do. I was trying to drive to the hospital and hitting Haynes in the chest with my fist, hoping that I could do something to help him. Then, I realized that I was completely helpless. Jessie was trying to keep him from falling forward in the seat while I zigged and zagged toward the Emergency Room. It seemed like an eternity before we arrived at our destination. I drove up to the ER entrance like a madman. Jumped out and ran around the car to get Dad out. I know now that when I pulled him out of the car, he was already a lifeless shell. With the help of kind bystander, we got Dad out of the car and into his wheelchair and rushed him inside. The ER techs went right to work and did the best they could, but it was too late.

I never really stopped to think about what happened when someone died at a hospital, much less anywhere else before Tuesday night. As far as I knew, someone else had taken care of that. But, this wasn't someone or somewhere else. This is where we were. Some 16 years before, Dad told me, before undergoing a routine medical procedure, that if something happened to him that I needed to take care of my mother. That's what a man did. But, now there was a dilemma. Dad had a custom that he would not view the body of the deceased. I never really talked to him about it, but I figured that he wanted to remember that friend or relative as they were when they were alive and not dead. I started observing this custom myself after Dad's brother, Herbert, passed away in 1990. He was my hero as a boy. He was a giant to me and had a personality that was larger than life. Dad wanted to remember him as he had known him growing up. I wanted to remember him as I had as a young man. With a very few exceptions, I have kept this custom since. So how do I reconcile that and fulfill my responsibilities to both my mother and dad? I realized I couldn't and sucked it up. It took a few minutes to adjust to what was happening, but eventually it wasn't as hard to do as I thought. I like to think that God gave me the strength to be there with my mother and my Dad's remains.

My dad's body was in a curtain-partitioned room in the ER, lying on a gurney. I want to think now that I became a man in that moment. But, I know I didn't do it alone. Mom and Dad's pastor, Lloyd Maddoux, was there with us. Soon, my friends, Raymond and Bobby McDonald and Frank Jackson were there,  along with me and my mom. They stayed to the bitter end, when the mortician arrived to pick up Dad's body to take to a local funeral home for the night.

The mortician gave us a final few moments to spend with Dad's body before he would be taken away. Frank asked to pray with Mom and I. After a short, sweet prayer, he started singing the little chorus "surely the presence of the Lord is in this place" with us. It seemed that in that moment all the fear, anxiety, sorrow and concern we'd felt for Dad just melted away. God met us there and had been with us the entire time. We had been where we needed to be, as uncomfortable a place as it had been and it was now a sanctuary, as holy as any church that had ever been built.

More importantly, when my mother and I drove away from the hospital in the wee hours of the next morning, I was no longer a boy in my own mind. I had grown into being a man.

Remembering September 11th

I remember what I was doing 10 years ago when I first heard about the September 11th attacks. I was at work listening to the radio at my desk, when I heard a news announcement "there's a report of a plane flying into one of the World Trade Center towers." The guy said something about how a plane once flew into the Empire State Building during World War II so no one should be alarmed. But, within a few minutes the guy said "wait a second, there's another report of another plane..." I got up and went to our conference room and turned on the TV. They were already showing the first video released of a plane hitting one of the towers. A few minutes later the video of the second plane hitting the other tower started running. I went to get my boss and other co-workers to show them what I was watching. The rest of the day is a blur now.

As I look back, I like to think about the news of heroic feats that were the work of ordinary Americans. The actions of those in local offices and positions of government: police officers, firefighters and regular citizens risked their lives to save the lives of others. These stories were rays of hope amid hour after hour of bad news. The truth is that government failed all of us that day. Ordinary  Americans made the difference. Remember them this weekend.

Blessed

The Christmas Season has snuck up on me this year. That's right, it caught me by surprise. Just when I thought it was safe to plan to participate in all the holiday goings-on in our neighborhood and with our church, the unexpected happened. Many of my friends have followed our travails on Facebook. Who could imagine that both parents could injure themselves as severely as mine have this year?! I definitely didn't see this coming when I talked to my parents about moving into the apartment on our patio almost 2 years ago. In the midst of those troubles, time and circumstances have waited on no one. But, as sure as I'm sitting here, in spite of the difficulties, I'm glad my parents agreed to join us.

Please don't misunderstand. I'm not pouting about our misfortune. When I began down the "woe is me" road, I quickly remembered getting the phone call in May of 2009. The caller told me that my mother was in a car accident 3 hours away. Due to previous commitments, I would have to wait for 3 or 4 tortured hours later to go to her side. Talk about helpless...Now, after what we've experienced in the past 5 weeks, I'm so glad that when both parents recently fell injured, someone from our family was at their side within minutes to provide comfort until help arrived. I wouldn't trade that for anything - and I mean that.

Still, tonight, as I wait for the laundry cycle to finish and I hope that I will eventually be able to fall asleep, I think about our circumstances as well as those of others we know who are also experiencing difficult times. I remember a dear friend of our family who is deathly ill. Their family is caring for her, as they have for the several past months. Another co-worker is at the side of a parent who is being treated for cancer a whole state away. At the same time, my dear niece welcomed - at long last - the birth of her third child yesterday morning. Many more friends and acquaintances are coping tonight with grief, sadness and joys that are beyond my capacity to grasp or comprehend. Our family and I face uncertainty with my wife's employment as we race toward a new year. What will any of us do?

In spite of all these circumstances, I can't help but feel how incredibly blessed we are.

In the book of Lamentations, the Prophet Jeremiah writes these words in the midst of believable destruction, suffering and pain:

I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall.


I well remember them and my soul is downcast within me.


Yet, this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:


Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail.


They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.


I say to myself, "The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for Him."


Lamentations 3:19-24

As the saying goes "God is good, all the time; All the time, God is good." I realize that what I've written may be considered offensive or be dismissed by some of my friends. That is not my intent in writing.

It is my hope to call to mind all those little blessing that are truly everywhere and are so easily overlooked. I want to take the time to appreciate what I see unfolding around me.

I want to express the deep hope that I have that, regardless of what takes place in 2011, we're not in this thing alone. There are people who care who are within arm's reach. We often need to let them know that WE need their help.

And finally, I want to remind myself - and others - that no matter how bad circumstances may seem, WE can make it.

We can. We are blessed.

Proud Beyond Words

(This was started on Saturday, December 11, 2010. The events of the ensuing week prevented its completion.)

Today, my son became a man. It is Christopher's 18th birthday, which is a landmark in every young man's life. As I look forward to what he will become, I am filled with memories of who he is and who I have known him to be.

As much as I want this day to be special, our circumstances are convoluted. His grandfather was admitted to the hospital a few hours ago. His grandmother is in recovery from a fall a few weeks back. As I sit here writing this, he is en route with his sisters so they can participate in the Christmas Parade in Montgomery, TX. It may not seem like much. But I have to ask: how many older siblings can be trusted with the absolute care of the younger ones? Chris takes his two sisters to and from school every day. And he's always been like that. I'm writing this because I've noticed and I want him to know it is not taken lightly.

As am reflecting today, I also remember another of his birthdays, 13 years ago in fact. We celebrated that birthday just after getting Chris home from the hospital. He had been rushed to the hospital before Thanksgiving that year with pneumonia and, as we discovered later, pleurisy. He was possibly near death and in a terribly weakened state. It was his 3rd bout with pneumonia/bronchitis in his 5 years and just never seemed to get rid of it each time. He was the super trooper throughout the experience, though. He didn't complain, was calm and pleasant throughout the ordeal. It was his demeanor which likely contributed to the condition getting to such and advanced stage. We just didn't know how bad it all was until he got to the hospital. With the help of the state-of-the-art technology at the time and medication, "Mister Christer" made a full recovery and overcame the physical ailments that he had not been able to before. For all who know him now, it is obvious he made a full recovery.

Ever since Chris was born, I was ever proud of him. But, when he was sitting there on the elk skin rug on the floor of my sister's house, I wanted him to grow up so I could play with him. I wanted him to get big enough to do stuff with me. It didn't take Chris long at all. When he was big enough to wear a baseball glove, I tried to get him to play catch with me, but he never cared much for the game, though. He wasn't much for anybody throwing hard balls at him. He did get interested in soccer and I became his coach. We learned the sport together. After 2 seasons, he pretty much had enough. After all, soccer players are not necessarily big kids and Chris had become a big kid and he didn't care for all the running that was involved.

Jr High rolled around and Chris discovered tackle football. He knew I had played, as well as his namesake, his 1st cousin, Chris Smith. During the Christmas Holidays before he started the 7th Grade, he and "Big Chris" talked about playing football. It was during that college bowl season and the NFL Playoffs that he started watching games with me so he could understand it. As the school year and football season approached, we went to the high school practice fields to run wind sprints to start conditioning. Chris, ever being the good sport, didn't complain much. I guess it was better than doing it alone. For those who know him, he's never been the aggressive type and football didn't necessarily suit him. He's sort of the "Ferdinand The Bull" among other bulls. He ended up playing for 3 seasons. In 7th grade, he tackled a kid and broke his arm and soon was given the nick-name "Knox-em Out."  That nick-name followed him on into high school. During his Freshman year he hurt his back and endured the injury for several weeks before his mother and I sought medical attention effectively ended his season. I think it was that point where he began considering his future. Football would involve a lot of pain and Chris decided to look into his options.

During Jr High, Chris had taken interest in playing guitar, which is like saying Michelangelo picked up his first paintbrush. I gave him my Yamaha dreadnought acoustic guitar and he began playing it day and night. But, his musical abilities began to show long before he ever took interest in the instrument.

At the tender age of 3, his mother and I were youth pastors at a church in Kaufman, TX. One night, after church services were over, I was in my office and heard the sound of someone playing the drums from the auditorium. I didn't pay it any mind because usually any number of the teenagers in the church would go in there and play the drums when no one else was around. As I finished up in my office, I realized that I didn't know where Chris was and started looking around. It never occurred to me to check the auditorium. After checking everywhere else, I walked in to see my 3 year-old son teetering on the over-sized drum throne and drum kit. When he saw me, he smiled and stopped playing to say "Look, Daddy, I playin' da' drums!"

Now, my son is big enough to do things with. We've played in bands together, alternating between the two of us leading the band and playing guitar and bass. I truly enjoy getting to share the stage with him. He is so easy to play with and and he is a delight work with as a musician. I unequivocally can say that he is much more talented than I am musically and I can only imagine what he will become. It almost seems unfair now that when I am so thoroughly enjoying doing the things we do together that he is considering leaving home to go explore the opportunities that await him in the wide, wide world. But, I realize we have been preparing for this from the first time I saw him in the delivery room in Victoria, Texas 18 years ago.

I'm so thankful to God for giving us such a wonderful son. The truth is it has nothing to do with his incredible talents. He is an incredible human being. I give his mother credit for that. I'm just glad he has my last name. Love you, Chris!

Remembering A Good Friend

I heard just a few minutes ago that an old, dear friend of ours passed away suddenly today. His name was Ed Courtney. My wife and I met Ed several years ago while we were youth pastors at Southside Assembly of God in Jackson, Mississippi. When I was hired, I was young and green and didn't know anything about being a paid church staff member. I learned a lot of difficult lessons and when it was all over, there were a few people that we managed to stay in touch with in the years that followed. Ed and his wife, Syble, were two of those few people. We've been able to keep track with them through the years as they traveled the globe as missionaries and allowed us to read of their adventures online. I wish I could say that I knew Ed longer than just the short time that we lived in Mississippi. But, God had other plans. However, as I'm grappling with the news of Ed's untimely passing, there is one life-changing encounter that Ed participated in with Danelle and me that probably no one - possibly Ed included - ever knew about.

In the fall of 1997, my wife and I were looking for direction and answers. We had been youth pastors in Mississippi from 1993-95 and we then returned to Texas to be on staff at First Assembly of God, in Kaufman, Texas. We were on staff there for 15 months before I resigned my position and returned to Malakoff, with my family, to live with my parents. My wife and I had 2 small children and were expecting our 3rd. We were in debt up to our eyes, we were emotional basket-cases and our marriage was in shambles. What were we to do? Where would we go? We had no idea.

About this time, I heard about a revival that was going on in Florida. It started in 1995 and was still meeting nightly. I had spoken to others who had been to this revival and it had made an impact on them and became convinced that I had to go and experience it for myself. My wife, being the good wife she is, she tried to be supportive. But, it was clear that taking a trip from Texas to Florida and back was probably not in our best financial interests. She tried to dissuade me, but I was convinced that we needed to go. So, she reluctantly went along with me.

We arrived in Florida on a Friday evening. We checked in our hotel and then went to the church service that night. We saw some crazy stuff. But, that's what we came to Florida for. After the service, we went back to our room got some sleep and prepared for the next day. While in the parking lot, we ran into our friend, Ed Courtney. He had come in from Jackson to catch the Saturday night and Sunday morning services. Ed had attended many of these services and was quite familiar with the schedule. After the Saturday services, we went and grabbed a bite to eat. Over dinner, Ed talked about the things that were going on in the church he was attending, River of Life, back in Jackson, MS. We discussed our plans and told him we'd be going back through Jackson on our way home. Ed asked us if we'd be interested in stopping by the church services at ROL. I was more interested in what was going on in Florida, but my wife told him we'd try to make it by there on our way. The next morning, we attended the morning service at the church in Florida with Ed. After it was over, we followed him to Jackson and went to the Sunday night service at ROL.

At River of Life that night, they had a special speaker, a missionary to Poland. He ministered to orphans who were released from Polish orphanages and had nowhere to go. He told his story and then offered to pray for anyone present who wanted any kind of special prayer. In the course of praying for people, he asked Danelle and me if we would let him pray for us. In the course of his prayer, he told us "you are going to experience a new beginning. God is going to start showing you things, what to do and what not to do." Those words stuck with us and carried us back to Texas the next day and the 13 years since. Within a month of returning from Florida, I took a job in Houston which marked a clear change in direction in my life and family.

Now, as I'm sitting here thinking of that weekend in Florida, it wasn't the trip to Florida and the revival that really made an impact on me. It in was that service in Mississippi that made the difference. In such a small way, I like to think Ed was responsible for that.

I wish I could tell this personally to Ed...I know I'll get to at some point...thanks for spending that weekend with us in Florida. You probably never knew it made such a difference for us, but it did.

Welcome to the Surreal Life

I've heard for most of my life about how everyone in the United States has been over-stimulated in regard to violence. So much so that we might not be able to tell the difference between reality and fantasy. At least that was the argument whenever some kid shot his childhood friend, sibling or some other party seemingly without remorse in the news. "They simply couldn't tell the difference between reality and fantasy." There was a lot of this kind of talk when our country was experiencing the rash of school shootings during the late 90's and earlier this decade. I'm sure we all can recall hearing that talk at some time or other, probably more than once. Having heard the same thing most of my life, I don't know that I have an accurate point of reference to even compare the two. Unfortunately, I do now.

Yesterday evening, on our way to the grocery store, while waiting our turn at the traffic light outside our neighborhood, a jogger attempted to cross a major roadway. He was crossing at a time when the light changes to allow the cars in the turning lane to turn, stopping the flow of traffic in one direction and letting it continue in the other. I'm guessing now that the runner had never been this direction before and wasn't aware of how the traffic signals worked at this intersection. All I remember is hearing the sound of a collision and screeching brakes. I looked up to see the image of this young man in the air, next to a moving vehicle, then seeing him land and sliding to a stop in the gutter. Life changed for everyone at that corner in that brief moment.

I was thinking that this young man had fallen out of the bed of a pickup that just passed. My wife screamed "that boy was just hit by that car!" We pulled over to the parking lot at the corner and ran to his side. The boy was lying in the gutter face down and blood was clearly on his head and arms. He was breathing very labored breaths and his legs were shaking. In that second I realized, as surreal as the circumstances were, that what I was seeing was real.

Other people came to his aid as we did, calling 911, trying to comfort him as much as possible without moving him. Many people prayed openly and out loud, others told the boy to hang on, help was coming. Within minutes, possibly the fastest response I have ever seen, the Conroe Police and Fire Departments were on there administering aid. As they left, they told the crowd that gathered that the young man appeared to have good vitals, no broken bones and was regaining consciousness. Police questioned many of the people standing around to find those who were eye witnesses to find out exactly what had happened. Fortunately there was no shortage of witnesses. Unfortunately, the runner had no identification and no one present knew who he was. Someone mentioned as he was being loaded into the ambulance that his parents had no idea what had happened to their son. All I could think of was how this boy was literally all alone.

While all everything was going on at the corner, a mere 100 yards away was another scene. The crowd saw no sign of the driver who had hit the young man and assumed they had left the scene. Sentiment was rising against this person. "This was a hit and run" someone said. Another person said they saw the car turn into the parking lot next door. I looked over and could see the car. So, I walked to the parking lot and approached the vehicle. The windshield was caved in, lights on and engine running. The driver was shaking and in tears. Within moments, the police were there questioning her. There police were trying to determine who was at fault. The vehicle that hit the young man had a green light and the right of way. (As of today, there was no story in the local paper, no word on who was at fault or how the young man was doing or where he was.)

After we left the scene of the accident and went on our way, my wife told me to write about what we had seen.  I asked her "what can I say?" After describing what we saw yesterday evening, I can't help but think how quickly life changed from normal to surreal in a matter of seconds. The runner was getting some exercise. The driver was on the way home from work. We were going to the grocery store for crying out loud.

The truth is we lead very hectic lives. If you're like me, you're probably running late and often that pesky traffic signal, if it catches you, means the difference between being on time or being late. What does it matter if I rush through the signal to beat it? That's what was happening yesterday. After seeing that, it's a good idea that I slow down a bit. Or, better yet, get an earlier start. If you're like me and you wonder if you could tell the difference between reality and fantasy, take it from me, you can tell the difference, but you don't want to see it. As the commercial says, "Life comes at you fast...". It can change in a moments' notice and change drastically.

I'm not really sure how to end this blog entry. I know I've been changed as a result of this experience. I guess I hope that no one who will read this will ever have to experience anything like it...or worse, think that it can't happen to them.

A Dangerous Trend

I've always liked the Bruce Springsteen song "Glory Days." When the song came out, I was still in high school, playing football and baseball. I knew then that when I would be, say 42 years old, I would talk about the "good 'ol days," just like Bruce depicts in the song. Inevitably, there is always a point that comes up in the story where I, or one of my buddies from back in the day will say "back in OUR day, we did such and such. And it wasn't like how they do today." No school like the old school. Get me in the right setting, I'll be glad to fill you in.

After some 10 years of playing football in junior high, high school and college, I had run the course and couldn't play the game anymore and was relegated to the sidelines. By then, my body was telling me it was time. I had often thought of becoming a football coach, but my career interests sent me in another direction. I would occasionally attend a game here or there, mostly homecoming in my home town, whenever I could take off in time to get there for the game. After several years away, now that my kids have gotten older, their interests in school brought me closer to the game again. I've always watched professional & college football on TV and even attended a few of those games here or there. That experience isn't the same - not even close! Now that I have two children in the Jr & Sr high school bands, I'm always at a football game it seems. That's not complaining, either. I hadn't realized, over the years, how much I missed the sights, sounds and the smells (Yes, SMELLS!) that accompany a high school football game. As I've often told my girls, since they got in band, Friday night football is often one of the highlights of school life. It's a community event unlike anything else. I think all of my children would agree.

One of the things I've noticed, since I've returned as a spectator of the high school game, how often players helmets come off during a game. Is this just me? In saying that, I'm not talking about when a player unsnaps the chin strap and takes their head gear off. No, I'm talking about where in the course of a play, the helmet comes off and the player is helmet-less, like this kid, until the end of the play. Just last Friday night, I saw a kid from our own Montgomery Bears lose his helmet in the course of a tackle. He was treated for an eye injury and did not return to action in the game (to my knowledge, he is OK and should play again this Friday night). Two other players also lost their helmets during the same game but did not sustain injury while doing so. Do a search for "gets helmet knocked off" on You Tube and you'll get some 430 hits. I'm sure there are more clips out there. I think this is possibly the worst I've seen.

According to Wikipedia, the 4-point chin strap (2 straps on either side of the helmet, that attach in front and behind the ear hole) became a requirement in 1976 for collegiate football. High school and youth leagues soon followed suit. It took a while for this to catch on at the pro level. In light of the recent interest and concerning the physical & psychological implications of concussions in professional football, the NFL now requires all players to wear 4-point chin straps to be fastened while on the field of play.

Back in the day, I remember seeing Brian Bosworth lose his helmet on more than one occasion when he was at the University of Oklahoma. When "the Boz" did it, it was a big deal. Love him or hate him, in college "the Boz" was a machine. [Pro football was another story (remember this? Watch this to see it in context, and at full speed.).] He really looked tough when he would lose his helmet and make a tackle. He always seemed to get his helmet knocked off and would come away with a bloody cut on the bridge of his nose or something. It just added to his persona. As I think about it, I don't remember it happening to anyone else.

In my 10 years of playing football, I never lost my helmet once. I particularly remember a time I would have loved for my helmet to have come off when it didn't. It was during a practice in college and I was running with the ball. I came through the line and one of my teammates on defense lunged at me and missed. But, as he went by, he reached out grabbed my face mask and pulled me over backwards. My chin strap held firm and my poor neck has never been the same. (Thanks, Tubby. I'll never forget you!) I digress...

If anyone is still reading this far, you might be asking "so, smart guy, what are you getting at? Why are you so fired up about kids and their football helmets coming off?" I'll tell you why...back in my day, we didn't have this kind of problem. Helmets stayed on, plain and simple. Though the game was just as violent, we didn't have to worry about sustaining massive external head injuries because our helmets might get dislodged during a play. It is very troubling to me because the game has in effect become more dangerous in recent years. Players are much bigger, faster and stronger than they were 10, 20 or 25 years ago. If anything, with all the bodies flying around, it's much more important for a kid to keep the helmet on their head now than ever before.

I think the reason this is happening is that chin strap button snaps are different today. If you played football back in the 70's, 80's or 90's, you remember them. Those old metal snaps that would rust, they were hard to unsnap and they would sometimes break off when they got old. When they got rusty, which usually would start happening about midway through a season, it would often take a flat head screw driver to remove them from a helmet. I would venture to say that the straps that are coming loose are the cheaper, plastic variety. Yes, they are cheaper and don't require a screw driver to take them off. But they don't stay fastened either. I think there's no place in football for plastic chin strap snaps and if they continue to be allowed, eventually someone is going to get hurt really bad. If you know somebody who plays football, find out what kind of chin strap they use. Encourage the coaches of the football teams in your area to make sure they use the metal snap buttons.  It is such a small thing, but it could be a matter of life and death - really. It is definitely a serious safety issue.

After all, the whole point of a song like "Glory Days" is to live long enough to tell the tale - even if Bruce Springsteen says he doesn't care to listen.

The Phenomenon of Pixar, Toy Story and Other Such Movies In My Little World

I recently saw the movie Toy Story 3 with my youngest daughter. She, along with her older brother and sister, don't know of life without the Toy Story franchise - like millions of children their age. Watching the movie was almost like reliving my childrens' collective childhoods within an hour and a half. Buzz and Woody, and the rest of the Toy Story toys, were involved in nearly every daily activity of my kids' lives for much of the past 15 or so years. They were involved in everything from bedtime, to meals, to potty training for our oldest child for crying out loud ("you don't want to mess up your Buzz and Woody underwear, do you?!"). We had all the plates, cups, clothes and, of course, the toys.

I distinctly remember a fantastic outing several years ago at Six Flags Over Texas when my son threw up on his Buzz and Woody shirt. That shirt was his favorite, which we had to wash 3 or 4 times a week because he wouldn't wear anything else. He was distraught that his shirt was dirty and wanted to go home. But the park had only been open for 45 minutes. We went to the bathroom to clean the shirt. When that didn't work, we stood on the bridge at Splash Water Falls (or whatever it's called today) so he could wash his shirt. The poor kid got pelted by a gigantic wave (smothered is probably more appropriate), but that shirt got clean enough so we could stay for the rest of the day. On the way home, his Buzz and Woody dolls sat in his lap for the drive and slept in his bed at home. That was how important those characters were in just one kid's life.

But, this wasn't just my kids' childhood. Children all over the world undoubtedly saw those movies, bought the toys and played make believe with them. For the longest time, the image of Buzz, Woody, Mr. Potato Head and others could be seen anywhere. Oddly enough, many of those same toys in the two previous movies (with the exception of Buzz & Woody) were in my own toy box, at one point in time or other. Particularly, there were others that I wanted but never got (I still want a set of Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots). There they were again, drumming up every memory possible of when those same toys entered my own life. They were alive!

I'm a little weird about movies. I like to read movie reviews before I watch any movie. (I want to know what other people are saying before I put down the big bucks to see a movie in a theater. I save the self-discovery for home video.) I read reviews extensively for this movie. I wanted this one to be fabulous, not be some knock-off sequel. One of the reviews I read beforehand said that this Toy Story movie covered some new emotional ground not seen in the previous movies. That is possibly the biggest understatement in showbiz within the past 2 decades. I wasn't prepared for this installment. I laughed. I cried. Then, I cried some more.

Without giving anything away, the toys find themselves at the end of the line with their owner, Andy, who is preparing to leave for college. Who could imagine the emotion from the perspective of a toy - the proverbial "fly on the wall" - in a kid's life?! That emotion takes a turn and makes that emotion connect with the viewer. It's not just the toys who are dealing with the changes of growing up. Everyone around them is having to cope, too. Suddenly, I began to see the parallels in my own life and I feeling all those same emotions first hand. That is HEAVY stuff for a kids' movie!

Everybody grows up and they have to cope with the process. Toy Story 3 depicts coping with growing up, which makes it such an incredibly gripping movie. Toy Story depicts an American life which could belong to anybody...me, you or the family next door. When a story does that, it's gone from being just a story to being a phenomenon. Pixar is a master of churning out those stories. What will they come up with next?!

So, if you haven't been to see Toy Story 3 yet, go. Just be sure to take along some Kleenex. You're going to need it.

I Think I'd Rather Ride A Mule...

Last Saturday, my dad and I went to Washington DC on the 5th, and last, Lone Star Honor Flight. It was such a wonderful experience for both of us. I know I'll never forget it. I'm sure it meant a lot to my dad, too. He smiled the entire day - even when we were disembarquing at 2:15 AM. The volunteers did so much to make the entire trip and experience as meaningful as it was. They also went to great lengths to ensure the safety of the 115 veterans who were on the trip and sought to make everything as convenient as possible. However, there was one part of the experience that was inconvenient and quite a hassle, not just for my dad, but for every veteran on the trip...security screening at the airport.

I'm not a frequent flyer, so I was a little surprised at how involved the screening process was. Because of the shoe bomber, people now have to remove their shoes - in addition to taking off every piece of clothing or accessory that has metal in it (metal detectors are nothing new, but are just as much of a hassle). The screeners also have to go through a person's carry-on baggage. I carried my laptop on the trip and found out I had to remove my laptop and allow the screeners to go through it as well as my bag. No biggie - except I forgot a data cable crimper in my backpack. "You have a tool with handles in your bag." I forgot it was there. I had taken everything else out of my bag  EXCEPT for that. I talked to the screener and was given the option of checking my soft-sided backpack along with my laptop. "Uh, no thanks. Go ahead and keep it." That cable crimper is now in a bin of contraband somewhere in the George HW Bush Airport in Houston. But, I understand. Because of a few wackos I'm being inconvenienced. That's the way it is. Somebody eventually ruins everything for everybody. And, in this case, I'm a young man and can handle such inconveniences. Many of the 115 veterans on the Honor Flight couldn't take it so well.

Picture this: 20 plus men in their 70s, 80s or 90s approaching the security check point in wheelchairs. "Empty your pockets and take off your shoes, belts and jewelry." These men are heroes and would never pose a threat to this great country. What striking irony!

The screeners proceded to check these men - who fought for the freedom of this great country on foreign soil - screening them as if they were potentially terrorists or criminals. It was an embarrassing sight. Many of the men in the wheelchairs had great difficulty standing on their own, which was why they were in the wheelchairs anyway. Ironic indeed.

In the case of my dad, he couldn't take his shoes off by himself and needed help putting them back on. As we were leaving the screening station, Dad said to me "I hope we don't have to do that again. I'd rather ride a mule than have to go through that." I told him "we're probably going to have to do it one more time, when we get ready for our return flight." Dad didn't like hearing that and I was sorry to have to tell him. And, just as before, the experience on the return trip didn't disappoint. Only now all the chair-bound men were exhausted after their excursion in Washington. The process seemed to last forever.

I know everyone is submitted to the same screens. Those with mobility issues seem to be inconvenienced the most. The TSA maintains that they are fair to every passenger because they check everyone the same way. I heard someone say in the course of being screened "I guess that's the price of freedom nowadays." That freedom seems cheap and flimsy, in light of what I saw later that day. An inscription at the Wall of Freedom inside the World War II Monument (A wall covered in a field of 4,000 stars that represent the 400,000 lives lost of US Servicemen) says "Here we mark the price of freedom." Quite ironic. The definition of freedom must have changed drastically in 65 years.

I am reminded of the words of Benjamin Franklin: "They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety." When freedom is given away, it's extremely hard to get it back. Wars have been fought to do that very thing.

As I told my dad Saturday, "I'm sorry, Dad, but there's no mule handy. You're going to have to take off your shoes..."

It Absolutely Made My Day!!!

I've had the same commute for 2 1/2 years. I drive along Texas Highway 105, between Conroe and Montgomery, Texas at least twice every day. I chose this commute over my old one, up and down Interstate 45 between Conroe and the Galleria in Houston for obvious reasons: shorter drive, less traffic and usually a less eventful commute altogether. Within the past month, the commute changed a little in that the speed limit dropped 5 mph along the entire route, and with good reason. The Montgomery lake area is getting more and more populous and there's more traffic along the route. Because of the change, there's been a lot more police, sheriff and highway patrol cars along the route handing out tickets, which logically translates into slower traffic movement altogether. I'm still getting used to it, just like everybody else. So far the tickets have been going to everyone else, thank God.

Anyway, we all know there's always somebody out there that comes along that we really wish that THEY would get a ticket because of their fast, reckless and annoying driving habits. "Where's a cop when you need one" is usually what I say under my breath. Well, yesterday, there just happened to be a cop in the area, or more appropriately, a Texas Highway Patrol, and the whole incident made my day.

I was on my way home from Montgomery, on a stretch where the highway goes from 2 lanes in both directions, to 3. Naturally, as cars approach, they tend to speed up a little in order to get their pick of the 3 lanes and get on down the road. I was riding along and noticed in my rear view this sporty Lexus - with out-of-state plates - bearing down behind me. The driver quickly changed lanes to pass me but didn't have room, with the other car riding in the next lane over, just a few yards ahead. The Lexus quickly switched back behind me, bearing down again, as we approached the last traffic signal before the widened highway. Considering that I drive a Ranger pickup with a 4-banger engine, I got over after the signal to let the Lexus go on through, and boy did it ever! It went by so fast, my little Ranger rocked as the faster car whizzed by. I was riding with my daughter and I muttered "what I wouldn't give for a cop to be waiting over that hill." Little did I know that a trusty Texas HiPo was in hot pursuit.

Back up the road, before I the Lexus made its presence known in my rear-view mirror, we passed a HiPo going in the other direction. I was relieved that I was driving within 5 mph of the speed limit (remember, the speed limit changed recently). Apparently that little Lexus was speeding before it ever got to me. And, most likely, the HiPo saw the quick dippity-do lane change that the Lexus was doing just before the highway opened up. Whatever the case, I cannot put in words the glee and sheer delight I felt to see the HiPo whiz past me (which made my little truck rock again) and run up behind that little Lexus, turn on his lights and pull it off to the right of the highway! I only wish I could have pulled up along side the Lexus and waved at its driver, as if to say "hey, you remember me?!" Only, you're not supposed to ride up along side a car that's been pulled over. I waved, but I doubt the driver saw me. Then again, maybe they did.

Yeah, I know...it's pathetic. I would have hated to have been that person. But, I wasn't and it totally made my day. It's the little things sometime that makes life worth living.

Observations From Watching Band of Brothers With My Dad

I'm sure there are many who might be more qualified to write about my dad's experiences while in Europe. He's never been one to talk about much of anything he considered to be "personal." Why then would he say anything about a traumatic, possibly terrifying experience, such as his experiences while in World War II? He may have talked to other members of the family about his experiences, but by the time I came along, he wasn't talking about anything. He never spoke of anything he did while he was in the Army to me at all. I just put things together, as best I could. To my knowledge, Dad said more to their former pastor, Gaylord Brown, than any other living human being I'm aware of, about his service. Maybe there are others who know a little more than I do, but that is not due to a lack of trying.

One of my earliest memories of my dad and when I realized that he was a veteran of World War II was seeing his German Luger. I wasn't allowed to hold it, but I didn't want to, either. It was a terrifying piece of German Engineering to me. Little did I know then how my dad came to possess it. (Perhaps my family can enlighten me about how he got it. He's never told me anything other than the guy "didn't need it anymore." So far, I've heard different versions of the story, though none are conclusive.) I also discovered some German medals in his old footlocker when I was about 10. (I thought he must have gotten them in a gift shop or something, never realizing what was involved in them coming into his possession. Had I known how special they were, I wouldn't have played with them and eventually lost them!) Later on, I would see his army uniform and find some really old photos from that era. It always seemed like Dad was annoyed with my inquisition into his personal association with the war, but I was fascinated with all of it.

(Also, as a side note, he would make references to "Bastogne," when it would get cold. Every time the weather would change and it would get cold, Dad would talk about being there and how cold it was. I had never heard of it. To me, it was an excuse to turn up the space heater in our house to an uncomfortable level for everybody but him. I got the picture, Bastogne was cold and I would never want to go there.)

Shortly after my family and I moved to the Houston area in 1998, the movie Saving Private Ryan was released. This was the start of a collective emphasis that was being made to honor those who served in World War II. There were reports of elderly veterans experiencing panic attacks and flashbacks of their experiences as a result of seeing the movie. In spite of these reports, I asked Dad to to watch the movie with me. I had gotten him a 101st Airborne cap to wear and he wore it to the theater that night. After the movie, there were several who patted him on the back or shook his hand to thank him for his service. I was so proud for him, but Dad seemed to be embarrassed by the attention. "I just did what I had to" was all he's ever said about it. Many veterans say the same. They had a job to do and did their best to do it and not get killed.

Those who have seen the movie, Saving Private Ryan, should be able to recall the opening scene. For over 20 minutes, the onslaught of German guns against American soldiers storming the beaches of Normandy, France, plays out with frightening detail. The other battle scenes that follow show the band of rescuers proceed across Europe to rescue Private James Ryan of the 101st Airborne Division, which was the division in which he served. Dad watched the entire movie with me, and thankfully he was not adversely affected by the graphic action. After the movie, Dad opened up a little and told me that the depiction of the tanks literally shaking the ground was true to his experience. "You can feel them coming before you start hearing them," Dad said afterward. I wanted to hear more, but Dad felt he'd said enough.

Just a little information about Dad and his service, Dad was a private in the 101st Airborne, the 506th Parachute Infantry Division, G Company. He arrived in Europe just in time to go into the Ardenne Forest for the Battle of Bastogne.

So, last week, I saw that Band of Brothers was coming on HBO, 2 episodes at a time, for the entire week and asked Dad if he'd like to watch, which he did. (Band of Brothers is about E Company of the 506 PIR in the 101st Airborne Division.) We started with Episode 5, Crossroads, which dealt with the battles that led up to the defense of Bastogne and the events surrounding the Battle of the Bulge.

At the end of Episode 5, Easy Company is informed that their leave has been canceled and they are about to head for the Ardenne Forest. As they proceed toward their destination, the are met by a long line of soldiers who are beaten down and demoralized as they return from the front where Easy Company is headed. These soldiers give up their ammo and tell the men of Easy Company that they "didn't have a chance" and "they were killing us." I asked Dad, hey did you experience anything like that? He said 'Yeah. I met this tall, lanky guy who was walking along in line. He was walking along carrying his gun and ammo and saw me and said "what do you think you're going to do, soldier?" I said "we're going to stop them fellas!" He just looked at me like I was stupid and then handed me his ammo and kept on walking.' Of course, those who know their history know that the 101st Airborne were walking right into the teeth of the German Army in one of the bloodiest battles of the war.

Episodes 6 & 7 were about the Battle of Bastogne and its aftermath. I watched with fascination as guys burrowed into foxholes, hid behind trees and scrambled for whatever cover they could find, while German soldiers bombed away at their positions with pinpoint accuracy. Dad didn't say anything during these two episodes. I'm guessing the material was just as he remembered it, or had been trying to forget for the last 55 years.

There was a scene where one of the majors goes around to the different companies to share with them General Anthony McAuliffe's response to the German's offer to surrender. "NUTS" was the general's reply. He said "yeah, they got that right. We were called together to hear the general's message. We went back to our foxholes and dug in a little deeper."

After Episode 6, Dad said "you know, it's a wonder that any of us ever got out of there alive." His words echoed those of the men who were interviewed as part of the film. It is indeed a wonder that any of them made it at all.

Episode 8 is called "Why We Fight" and going in, I had no idea what the "why" would be. As the show progresses, it shows how Easy Company, as it discovers a concentration camp in the German countryside. I asked Dad, did you guys ever run across one of those? "Yeah. There were a lot of them and they were awful. You could smell them miles from miles away, before you ever got to them. It was like a chicken farm, a slaughterhouse and a sewer altogether." I asked if he ever went inside. "No. I never went in until after the Jews were all released from them. It was hard to see how bad those people were treated."

The last two episodes dealt with the things that happened while the war on the European Front were winding down. Dad told me "there was lots of drinking and carrying on going on around that time. I tried not to get wrapped up in a lot of that stuff. Since things were winding down, I just wanted to get back home and I figured the best way to do that would be to stay out of trouble."

I know there's lots more to learn from my dad. I'm thankful for the opportunity created by this mini-series to break the ice a little more. I'm going to get it on DVD so we can watch it again. Maybe it'll serve to get him talking just a little bit more.

Thinking About 2010

I'm sitting on my couch thinking about what 2010 might be like.

It's almost comical to think that when I thought of 2010 as a kid, I expected a completely different world. I think of the Bugs Bunny cartoons, where they had a future sequence. Everyone was in a space suit, driving a space ship around a futuristic sort of world. After making a drive to East Texas earlier this week, I'm reminded just how that is NOT the case at all. Everything I remember is pretty much the same way I remember it. 2010, in that sense, is not nearly as daunting.

Considering the entire landscape however - the financial, political and social concerns as 2010 dawns - it's a pretty scary animal. I have been fortunate enough to have steady employment through a very unstable time over this past year. Many of my friends have not. And, as a nation, we're still free while so many are not.

I'm thankful for everything I had in 2009 but I'm very much aware of what I have to be thankful for in 2010, as well as the consideration of those who have not been as fortunate as me.

God help us all in 2010.

It's Not Luck, It's Answered Prayer

I don't believe in luck. In order to believe in luck, someone has to acknowledge that there is both good and bad luck. Those who have good luck have the leg-up on those with bad luck. Those with bad luck might as well be cursed. That's a simple explanation for why I don't believe in luck. There's a lot more than just that, but that's not what I am writing about.

Because I don't believe in luck, when good things happen, I attribute them to another source. I believe in a merciful, loving God, who hears and answers prayers - often in ways we don't foresee, understand or can explain. The scriptures say that "every good and perfect gift comes from God," so when something good happens to me or those around me, I try to remember to say an audible "thank you" to Him for it.

With that in mind, I want to share something that happened today and say a thank you to God for His protection and providence.

For the last couple of weeks, I've been trying to get my son's car in to get an oil change. It was well overdue. Well, I finally was able to get it in today. As we were leaving, the tech told us we needed to check the serpentine belt because it looked like it was "split" and was in terrible shape. I cautioned Chris for his drive home to not do anything out of the ordinary. When I got home, we picked up another belt and got ready to install it. Of course, we had to take off the old one in order to install the new one. When we took the old one off, this is what it looked like:

I would venture to say that when this car belonged to my parents, they probably never changed the belt, which was why it was in the condition we found it in. You can see from the pics that the belt was literally falling apart. Yet, somehow it didn't. Was it luck? Some might say so. I can't.

Every morning, when my kids leave for school, I say a quick prayer "God, protect my kids." So we find out today that they had been driving a car with fan belt in that bad of a condition. They had been driving with it like that for quite some time. Is it a coincidence that we happened to find out about the belt before it broke and left my kids stranded somewhere along the road? Maybe. I suppose that people could see it as a coincidence. I don't. I believe that God intervened somehow and caused that rotten fan belt to keep from falling apart until it could be found and replaced.

It's nice to know that the God who cares for sparrows, as well as people, also cares about kids driving old cars with old, worn out parts and keeping those kids from being stranded until their cars can be repaired. Thank you, God.

Sometimes You Just Gotta Let Off Some Steam

For folks who know me, I'm usually a level-headed guy who can take everything - up to a point. That "point" often varies, but it always comes after dealing or putting up with something until I just can't anymore. I reached that point yesterday at work. No, I didn't lose my cool and punch somebody or get myself fired. No one was hurt in the course of this little adventure. Maybe I should tell you the story...

Last May, I was at work and was assigned a ticket for a teacher's computer in one of the computer labs in our district. It was doing something really weird when she tried to print and it would only happen in 1 particular application. I went to her room to see if I could replicate the problem myself. Sure, enough, it did the very same thing when I logged in on her PC. I worked with it for about 15 minutes and decided I should try replacing her PC with an identical replacement. When I placed that PC in her room, it did the very same thing. I was stunned. What was even more frustrating, when I took the original PC back to our office, it actually worked properly. "What the heck?!"

I went back the the teacher and told her what was going on and I came up with a work-around to get her by until I could figure out what exactly was happening. This had been working until about a week ago. Not only did she have the original problem that I could not resolve, but now she was having other problems - all of which were just as unexplainable as the original one. So, I went into her room with another new PC. I plugged it up and, wouldn't you know it, it STILL didn't work. "What the heck is going on here! I had to get this fixed.

I restarted the PC (I had rebooted the PC several times already) and this time noticed a funny flash of words on the screen. I went back and restarted the PC again, but this time I opened set up. When I did, it was trying to log me out already. (The Escape key is the exit key from set up, in case anyone didn't know). So, I pressed the Escape key and, wouldn't you know it, I found the problem. The key was stuck on the keyboard. I replaced the keyboard, brought back the user's PC, started it up and magically, all the issues the user had been experiencing just went away. We talked briefly afterward and she told me that the Escape key got stuck right about the time all of her problems got started. I passed the word on to my boss and co-workers and got an "atta-boy" from them.

But there was the issue of the keyboard.

With a bad key, it would never knowingly be allowed to re-enter the production floor of our campuses. I needed to dispose of it, but throwing it away was just too easy. This thing had been the bane of my existence for over 6 months. There had to be some sort of payback for this pathetic, inanimate object for all the grief it had caused me.

I thought a lot about what to do. It was plastic, so burning it could be potentially hazardous to my health and those around me. I could run it over in my truck, but that just wouldn't be satisfying enough. It needed to be something with my bare hands. I thought about a baseball bat, but all of mine are wood and the plastic would hurt the surface of the bat. I went back to doing it with my bare hands. After a lot of stomping, swinging it around by the cable and smashing it on the ground, this is what it looked like:

Notice, there is no Escape key anywhere to be found.

Reflections On Being Too Busy

Being busy has become cliche'. Ask anyone how they're doing, 9 of 10 will say "I've been busy, man. Real busy." I talk to people about their schedules and a realize that I'm not nearly as busy as everyone else. My kids never played Little League or any other pee-wee sports. Chris played football for 3 years and decided to get serious about playing guitar. The girls participated in gymnastics and dance for a few years. But, more recently they've settle into being in the band at their school. Things can get hectic at times, but in the course of a week there's not usually a lot of extra places to be and lots of things to do. Still, somehow I've been too busy.

My family and I don't do much outside of our jobs. We might have a get-together with folks outside of work every now and then. We know there are people who we work with who are a lot more busy outside of the workplace than we are. The only other activities we really get into have to do with our church. We play for church services, outreach events and anything else that might come down the pike. We also have a lot of friends at our church. Some of you may have seen my post over the weekend about our little church. Most of our friends are there and most of our time is spent there. In the vast configuration of things however, it's really not THAT much. But still we've been too busy.

You might wonder why I say that we've been too busy?

This past Saturday, there was an estate sale at a house across the street and down 4 houses from ours. A little old lady lived in that house since we moved in the neighborhood. She likely had lived there long before we ever moved to the neighborhood. From what I could tell, she was really sweet. I would see her every now and then going out to get her mail. She would wave and smile. I can't count how many times that happened. We've lived in this same house 6 1/2 years and not once did I ever introduce myself to that lady. I was always going somewhere. I was too busy.

Over the past few months I noticed that I hadn't seen that lady check her mail. I hadn't seen her at all outside of her house for as long as I can remember - maybe for all of 2009. Her yard was always in good shape. It didn't appear that no one lived there. I just didn't see her. Then, all of a sudden, there's this nondescript sign in her yard "estate sale."

Over the course of the day, on Saturday, people came and went and before dark someone loaded up a trailer with what could have been the entire dining room set. No sign of the little lady. She was gone. Where? I have no idea.

I've driven by that house at least 4-6 times since Saturday and when I do, I feel such a sadness. Something is missing...that little lady is gone - and I have no idea who she was. More importantly, I never knew who she was because I was just too busy to find out who she was. That, to me, is the saddest thing of all.

Before My Very Eyes

Last Saturday, I witnessed a startling transformation.

My oldest daughter, Jessica will turn 15 next May. She's currently a freshman at Montgomery High School. She's in the Golden Bear Marching Band along with many of her friends. Thanks to changing jobs two years ago, I get to see her every day and have met many of those friends.

Last Friday was the Homecoming Game for Montgomery High School. I was there, along with my family, to see Jessica march in the band. I was bursting with pride to see her out there on the field. We spent most of the band's routine trying to point out where she was to my parents as the routine twisted and turned back and forth across the field. It was a good night. The football team had won handily. The band looked great. On the way home Jessica mentioned something about a homecoming dance the next day. It didn't really register. It was late and we all needed to go to bed.

Saturday morning, the band traveled to Bryan, TX to participate in a marching contest at Blinn Jr. College. Her mom & I dropped her off around 7 AM and picked her up later in the day. It hadn't quite registered what Jessica had told me about the dance later on that day. On the way home she mentioned something about getting some stuff for her dress for the homecoming dance.

"What?! What are you talking about?"

"Dad, there's a dance at the high school tonight. Remember? You and Mom both said I could go."

"Oh, yeah! Right."

I remembered, but some of the stuff she said she needed startled me a little. She and her mom had bought a strapless dress for the occasion a few weeks before. I hadn't seen it yet, but I was somewhat confident that since her mom had signed off on it, it would be OK. But we still had to get the accessories to make it work properly. Girl stuff. Somehow I regularly end up taking both of my daughters to get " girl stuff."It's OK though, I'm a pretty good dad.

---

It was stressful in the early days. I had gotten used to getting those things for my wife. I got over being embarrassed about buying femine items for her by doing it - again and again. Real men buy Kotex. (You can write that down!) I don't know why it was different buying those same things for my daughters, but somehow it was. I had to get used to it all over again.

There was the time I took one of the girls (I don't remember who now. I'm sure they'll tell me.) to buy some bras. I'm sure if their mom were there, she would go in with them and make sure they fit and all that. Dad's don't do that. So, I'm sitting in the shoe department in JC Penney's and one of the sales guys comes by to offer his assistance.

"Can I help you?"

"Uh, no, thanks. I'm just waiting on someone."

"You might be interested to know that we have a special on shoes..." He continues on.

"Listen buddy, I'm here with my daughter who is trying on bras right now. I just need a place to sit and think. Is it OK if I sit here for a bit?"

"Yeah, sure." The guy just busts out laughing and I know he's laughing at me. He came back a couple of times before my daughter was ready and was still laughing. He OBVIOUSLY does not have girl children - if any children at all. One of these days the tables will be turned. It would be nice to get to return the favor - only I wouldn't be laughing. I would just say "hey, it happens!" It definitely does!

---

So, Jessica and I go shopping together - to one shop and then to another. We find what we're looking for fairly easy, but I'm feeling rather uneasy. I don't know that I want her to wear a strapless dress - even if her mom DID approve. No offense, but this is MY little girl!

Then, like a shot out of the dark, she finds ANOTHER dress. It's not strapless, which has me feelin' pretty good about this new prospect. She tries it on and - WHAM! - it's a keeper. But in that split second a realization sets in. My daughter is lookin' good - real good! Wait, maybe a little too good! Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Who said she could go to this dance thing anyway?!

I know my kids aren't babies anymore. But, when Jessica tried on that dress a serious realization or perhaps an epiphany: I'm looking at a beautiful young lady. It should have been obvious, but it wasn't clear to me until that moment.

Now, I don't particularly like it that she's all grown up, but that doesn't really matter. Time marches on regardless of what we do or DON'T do. I suppose I could fight and resist - only to look ridiculous to her and everybody else. It would be best for her and us to embrace the transformation and celebrate it. With that, I have to admit that she looked really pretty Saturday night. See for yourself:

So, there it is - a dad struggling to find his place in a world that revolves less around him and more around his kids. I'm sure I'll get better at it. I still have some time to prepare. Because even though she has grown up so much, she's still growing and will continue to. The best part is that I can be a part of it along the way.

Sing a Family Song

I just got a new batch of music the other day and I heard this song for what seemed like the first time:

There’s got to be some folks around with memories just like mine

Who’d give the world to stop the clock and turn back the hands of time

To an evening spent like so many spent with Mom and Dad at home

When Dad would get the old guitar down and sing a family song

Sing a family song, oh, sing a family song

When mom and me sang harmony, little sister she hummed along,

Sing a family song, oh, sing a family song

When Dad would get the old guitar down and sing a family song

Now maybe your first memories of home won’t resemble mine at all

But I know there’s one thing I know we all have in common

And that’s the God given gift to recall

Maybe your dad didn’t play no guitar but I know there was something he did

That doesn’t make your old heart well up and sad when you relive your life as a kid

Sing a family song, oh, sing a family song

When mom and me sang harmony, little sister she hummed along,

Sing a family song, oh, sing a family song

(words & music by Merle Haggard)

It got me to thinking of family reunions that I attended, as a kid, on my mother's side of the family. After they had lunch, everyone would start taking out their instruments: fiddles, accordions, guitars, banjos and start playing. Those who didn't play would sing along. When I was little this would last FOREVER! That's what I grew up with expecting family reunions to be.

Now, in the case of the Knox Family, I don't recall everyone getting together to sing. Like the song says, my memories weren't of my dad playing and singing a song at home. Mom did all that in our house, but most of our singing was in church (though when we would make long drives, she and I would sing along with the AM radio. When we got tired of that, we'd just start singing and take turns harmonizing with each other). I don't know how many of us play any sort of instrument. But, this is my idea for the reunion this year: If there's some song that is near and dear to your heart from your childhood, let me know. I want to get a collection of songs together in a Power Point slide show so we can sing them together at the reunion.

This is where it will get interesting - if you play an instrument that can be carried into the Malakoff Senior Citizen Center - bring it with you to the reunion. I'll put together chord charts and sheet music so we can play them together. [There is already a piano there (I think), so if you play piano, you'll be splitting time with my mother.] All I ask is that if you'd like to play, please let me know in advance so I can make arrangements for you. Of course nobody will NOT be allowed to play, but it'll be easier if I'm already expecting you.

So, if you have a favorite song you'd like to sing, let me know. And, if you play an instrument, dust it off and bring it with you. Who knows, maybe we'll be starting a whole new family tradition!