Where I Come From

Today, I woke up from my nap at my parents' house to find a stranger bartering with my mom to buy/trade for her golf cart.

Turns out that he used to do odd jobs for my dad, so he's not a total stranger.  Just an "old peg-legged drunk who's lookin' for some help".

Ummm... yeah. The man had one leg and drove up on a lawn mower.

This is where I come from, y'all.  I can't even make it up.

I'm locking the door before I take another nap.

The Empty Spaces

Tomorrow is my dad's 70th birthday.

He told me several years ago that he wouldn't make it to 70; he didn't believe that he'd live past the age his own father died at.  He did that last year, and he told me that everything past it was just gravy.

I know that there have been moments where he was ready to give up.  I know there have been moments where I was willing to let him give up.  He is a vibrant mind trapped in a failing body, and just that thought is so painful that I cannot think it without falling apart.

Parkinson's disease is a degenerative disorder of the central nervous system.  It's not labeled as a terminal disease, but it damn well ought to be.

It's terminated my father's spirit, his sense of community, and his independence.  It terminated his career.  It forced him from his home, from his wife, from his friends.  My father sometimes can't feed himself.  He needs help to stand up from his wheelchair.  And the 30 to 60 minutes of energy and mobility he might have in a day is fleeting and fraught with the worry of my mom and myself.  Oh, it's terminal, my friends.  It even terminated my family.

We threw my dad a surprise party for his 60th birthday.  He'd never had one before.  We filled up the Country Club restaurant with people.  My whole family was there.  My mother's card club was in attendance.  My father's poker buddies were there.  Their friends from the golf course.  Their co-workers.  People from town, old classmates, and long-lost hell-raisers all sat together.  My best friends -- who adore my parents -- even made the 5 hour trip to celebrate him.

My dad drank beer and cracked jokes and danced with my mom.  He made a speech -- that wasn't new.  He got a little teary -- that was.  He was surrounded by love and buoyed by friends.  It was such a good night.

That was a long, long time ago.  Ten years never seemed so long.  So much has happened since then.  So many things that can't be undone.  So many mistakes; so much hurt.  So many empty spaces at that table now.

And I've got no idea how to fill them.

Hello, Win Column

It's late.  Really late.  So you'll have to pardon the shortness of this post.

I went to the Rangers game tonight.  One of my best friends invited me along with a big group that had scored some tickets from the Angels management.  It didn't matter how they got them; I don't turn down free tickets.

I love baseball.  It brings back a host of wonderful memories, and I am a full-on romantic about it.  I love to play catch in the backyard, go to the batting cages, etc.  I especially love to catch a game in person.

Bird's eye view of Ian Kinsler.  Team #HighSocks

I especially love to go with kids.  Sure, there are times that they demand your attention more than your favorite player, and there are bathroom breaks and snack runs and an extreme amount of sticky faces.  But they also can sometimes get so entranced that you feel yourself slipping back into those moments when you first fell in love with the game.

That smile. Jeez.

My best friend, Heather, has a six year-old named Marcus.  Marcus loves Ian Kins-uh-ler and shouts for him maniacally when he's up to bat.  This makes me very happy; I also shout maniacally for Ian.  He also loves Joe Nathan, and he dubbed him "The Greatest Pitcher in the World".  When Joe hit the mound in the 10th, Marcus had wandered down to some empty seats (half the crowd gave up hope in the 8th when we were 4 runs down).  He had his feet propped up on the empty chair in front of him with his glove on his hand and his hat pulled low over his eyes.  He didn't move for an entire half inning, and I never once saw his attention leave Nathan on the hill.  For that half an inning, I saw Marcus at 16 and not 6, and time both sped ahead and slowed to a crawl all in the same moment.

In the bottom half of the inning, we had to teach him about rally caps, and he kind of gave us the side eye about it until he saw some of the "big dudes" wearing theirs.  I didn't blame him; it does look kind of dumb.

Only a charming 6 year-old can pull off a rally cap.

It worked though -- 2 strike, walk-off 3-run home run for a 14-11 win in the bottom of the 10th.

Hello, Win Column.

Sixteen Years

Sixteen years ago, while in my first year on Ad Staff at Camp El Tesoro, I met the best friends I've ever known.  There were 8 of us at that time, and as the 4th of July approached, our friend and camp director asked us if we'd like to go to her family's ranch for the weekend.  We had a great time, that first time.

Sixteen years later, we still go to that ranch.  At least twice a year, for a few days at a time, we leave all our responsibilities behind and just be.  And it's fabulous.

Lots of things have changed in those sixteen years.  The original 8 is now only 4, but we've picked up extra ranch fans along the way.  (There is no greater fun than introducing a new person to the magic of the English E-Bar.)  Instead of Cheetos and Oreos, it's whole grain crackers and hummus.  Instead of all-night Truth or Dare, we might take a wellness walk.  We are less Boone's Farm for breakfast (hey -- it's "fruit-like") and more mimosas and bloody mary's.  We wake up before noon and have face-timed with someone's kids before lunch.  Yes, things change.

And sometimes there are these:

That's Tyler.  He's 6 months old.  It's already is 2nd trip to the ranch.  Proof that if you're a cute enough dude, you can own Girls' Weekend.

But most things have stayed pretty much the same in those sixteen years.  We are creatures of tradition after all.  

There's still an adorable black lab on the front porch.  It's just that now he arrives and leaves with us.  And you better believe that he's the first one in the car when the packing to leave begins.  Homeboy's seen us drive away without him before; he ain't having that again.  He also smells better than the first one.  

Sorry, Moses, but it's true.

Still the same porch swing.  Needs a new paint job, but we're willing to overlook it.

This is different though.  Heather's not afraid of babies anymore.  Who knew?  

You can still stand in the middle of the road for hours, undisturbed.

Literally.  Hours.

Texas forever. 

And ever.

So much prickly pear everywhere.

Missed the first night's sunset for a walk through the property.

We still try to take a truck ride. 

 It's a new truck for a new generation of truck riders.

Sam still sits in back with us (although it's a little harder for both he and I to get in now).

Sitting on the toolbox is still the absolute best view.

Although you do risk mesquite tree attacks.

Deer blind.

Back tank.

Stand off with the longhorn.  We won, begrudgingly.

The other tank -- it's been a long time since I've seen it this green in July. 

Small blessings.

Saying goodbye to Ms. Longhorn.

Sam, aggressively trying to seem fearsome, and not fearful, to the longhorn.

Still lots of cows.  Still pissed that we'd come out there with no food.  

The nerve.

One of my favorite pics of the weekend. 

So very West Texas.

Spent many an evening sitting on the top of the Beer Blind.  

It's the absolute best place for stargazing.

But it's also pretty damn fine for sunsets, too.

We still like our drinks in plastic cups.

They taste best on the front porch.

And what a front porch it is.

The ranch is over a hundred years old.  It's seen its share of history.  But for the last sixteen years, it's seen mostly our history.  Our little tribe of friends and family.  It's seen arguments and tears.  It's seen spilled drinks and spilled secrets.  It's seen visitors from all over the world.  It's just a ranch, but it's also so much more.

It's card games that last forever.

It's guitar songs and lullabies.

It's laughter.  It's love.

It's friendship.  Through thick and thin.

And it's our favorite place to unwind, reconnect, gossip, drink, and cuss.

Forever.  And ever.

Here's to another sixteen, y'all.

The Sounds of Home

The creak of a porch swing. 

The wind blowing through the mesquite trees. 

The squeak of the windmill. 

The clink of ice cubes. 

The howl of the coyotes. 

The shuffle of cards. 

The buzz of cicadas. 

And the laughter of my dearest friends. Always the laughter. 

 These are the sounds of home.

Good Dog

There are a few people who can make you smile just to think of them.  Those are the types of people that everyone should have in their lives.  They make you feel loved and needed.  They are always happy to see you, and they're always down for a snuggle.

And sometimes they're not people at all.

This is Big Sam.  He's not a person, but he doesn't really know that, so don't spoil it for him.

He belongs to one of my best friends, Laurie.  Her extended family rescued him from the pound as a puppy. He went to live on their family ranch to replace the former black lab, Moses.  But when her aunt was moved to a nursing home, there was no one left to care for Sam on a regular basis, and Sam came to camp.

Upon arrival, his presence was felt immediately, and he took to it pretty quickly.  I've never met a dog who was as unfazed by hordes of children running at him, screaming his name.  They would crowd about him, 15 or 20 at a time, petting him, tugging on his ears, and snuggling his stinky snout.  I think his tolerance mostly centered around the fact that little kids tend to be sticky with candy and are known to carry beef jerky in their backpacks.  To travel around camp with Big Sam was something akin to being the roadie for the Beatles; you're necessary to manage the crowd but not much else.  I spent many summers as Sam's human sidekick, even sharing the title of "Assistant Director". He dealt primarily in curing homesickness and snack clean-up while I mostly dabbled in paperwork and scheduling.

Sam is a little weapon-shy.  He's a total failure as a bird dog.

Popular

Pretty sure that kid had ketchup behind his ear.

Katie and Sam

He was invaluable on more than one occasion though, most notably with a camper who had erupted and run away.  After a tense 15 minute chase around the lake, I came upon her, poised at the edge, threatening to throw herself in and die.  I managed to grab her in a panicked snatch.  As I squeezed her tight, her tiny fists beat upon my back.  Little did I know that Big Sam was behind me charging to the situation (Big Sam does not run).  He got between us, shimmying and licking her face, drawing her attention out of her furor and back to reality.  I'll never know if he thought he was saving me or her, but, in truth, he probably saved us both. His timing in a crisis is almost as impeccable as his timing for dinnertime and daily snacks.

Sam is always a good sport, letting us dress him up and humiliate him on several occasions just for the benefit of marketing or a good laugh.  We paid well, though.  Milkbones every day at 3 PM.

Sam at the Ranch

Sam with the mowing gear on.

Riflery goggles.  He was not pleased.

Not a squeaky toy that he can't destroy.

Checking cook-outs in the mule.

Snuggling with Jamie

Sneaking into the chicken chair when no one's looking.

When none of us returned to camp this summer, there was a certain sense that maybe it was just time to move on. Admittedly, there probably haven't been very many people missing my paperwork skills, but I feel pretty confident that they could've used a good camp dog a time or two this summer.

Tomorrow, I'll go to the Ranch with my best friends, and when I get in the car, there'll surely be a very fat, very happy, black dog shimmying in the back seat, ready to say hello.  And I'll surely give him a big smile.  

And maybe a Milkbone.  

Cooperative Learning

I have always been a dog person.  I love dogs, even the little yappy ones.  Dogs are goofy and funny and you can take them on a walk or for a drive in the car.  Dogs go places.

Dogs also require a little attention.  They have to go outside to the bathroom.  They are pack animals, so they need interaction.  And unless you have the little yappy ones, they need a lot of room.

When I started at Nichols JH 13 years ago, I knew that I'd be living in an apartment.  I also knew that I'd be working really long hours as both a teacher and a coach -- sometimes never seeing the sun except for offseason workouts.  So I took home the tiny calico kitten that had resided in our camp office all summer.

I actually have 3 cats now.  They rule my house, and it's a good thing that I have such a kind heart and guilty conscience.  Otherwise, I would have thrown them all out this week.  Ransom spilled a Diet Coke on my computer and then, 5 minutes later, turned over the refill.  Maggie tried, on several attempts, to eat some hair dye.  And Pootie wakes me up every summer morning at 6:00 AM to feed them.  She does not like her strict diet, and her internal clock is very efficiently attuned to 6:00 and 6:00.  Who needs an alarm when you could just have a 19 pound cat stand on your chest?  Also, 95% of the time, they still all hate each other.  On the regular, I hear squalls of terror only to find someone cornered by another.  I'd remove the bully, but they all just sort of take turns being it.

But since I've been home all summer, I've noticed that cooperation seems to be increasing among them -- at least between Poots and Ransom.  Three times this week, I've woken up to a clatter.  It seems that they've figured out how to break into the old popcorn tin that keeps their food.  They use their noses to push on the lid until it's loosened and then Ransom knocks it off with her paw.  I've tried moving the can, placing heavy objects on top, etc. to little avail.  This morning, there was no clatter, but I did sit up in bed just in time to see two waving tails sticking out of the top of the can and the lid on top of the cat bed.  Cooperative learning at its finest. Unsurprisingly, Maggie the Cat is the only one who hasn't caught on yet.  I mean... hair dye, people.

So if your dog's driving you crazy with all the walking and need for frisbee catching, let me know.  I'm willing to make a trade.