Posts Tagged With: family

The Clock Is Ticking

“On everything that you start in life there is a timer. Knowing that time is ticking we should probably get to it, huh?” -Me

I POSTED THAT LITTLE QUOTED FACTOID to my Last Native Facebook page on Saturday. While I get little lightning bolts of cool things to say and post from time to time I can’t say that I completely came up with this one on my own. I was given an assist by the man I like to call “The Coolest White Man To Ever Walk The Earth” and that, of course, is the man known as Sting. I came to know of Sting and The Police at a very young age and knew that he was no ordinary White guy. Some rockers seemed to be abstract just for the sake of being so but Sting, even when his songwriting tried to be mysterious, made plenty of sense to me. On Saturday when I found myself listening to one of my favorite Sting songs, “Seven Days” from the album “Ten Summoner’s Tales”, over and over and over again last Saturday afternoon the message of time struck a chord with me. There’s a large lesson in that tune’s incredible rhythmic timing, but like most good messages, they most often go unheeded. Continue reading

Categories: Attempts at Seriousness, Humor, Relationships | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

A Parenting Experiment for Non-Parents

400-04372327THURSDAY WAS A GREAT DAY! One of my best friends welcomed his first child into the world, a baby girl right at 5 lbs and about 17 and a half inches long. From all accounts she’s a gorgeous little girl and by the few pictures I’ve seen I have to agree with that assessment. Of my friends in my immediate circle there are several that I would have thought would become fathers before this guy, especially given his rant in THIS BLOG about rabbits and the greyhounds that chase them, but he’s already taken to fatherhood well, feeding, changing, the whole thing. Truth is, we don’t know who will make good candidates for parenthood. We can make guesses based on personality and demeanor but who becomes a good parent is pretty much a crap shoot. Wouldn’t it be great though if there were some sort of test that you could take that would gauge your parental aptitude prior to making a kid and then finding out as you go? Too bad that doesn’t exist – or maybe it does! Continue reading

Categories: Atlanta, Family, Humor, Relationships, So Incredibly Random | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Birthday Blog: Reasons to Smile

birthdayI’ve been told several times in my life that I smile too much. That I laugh too loudly. That anyone that smiles as much as I do must either be soft or not to be trusted.

I never knew what to say to those pointed statements. The first time I heard it I was in college; a buddy of mine was introducing me to one of his friends that lived in his dorm. He flat out said that he didn’t trust me, I smiled too much, and he walked away. After that, I tried to carry around the seemingly obligatory Black man “mean mug” forcing a scowl in every circumstance regardless of the setting but I always seemed to fail, my urge to smile and the enjoyment of hearing my own laugh always seemed to win out. It certainly kept me out of the cool circles in college but I managed. Continue reading

Categories: Atlanta, Attempts at Seriousness, College Years, Relationships | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

A Birthday Tribute from Uncle Boy…

“Where is everyone?” The house was unusually quiet on the morning of the 24th. No one had come to my room to make sure that I had pulled myself out of bed which, amazingly, I had done all by myself without someone having to flip on my lights, pound on my headboard, or sing an annoying little song. It was about 6:45am and the house was all quiet, so being a carefree 9th grader I thought nothing of it and just got dressed happy that I didn’t have to fight for the one bathroom in the house.

All dressed, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and was off to catch the bus which, if I didn’t hurry up, would be leaving me behind in a cloud of exhaust. The last room in the house that I passed in the morning belonged to my sisters and upon passing the room I noticed that’s where everyone was. For some reason everyone was congregated there crowded around the bed of the younger of my two older sisters. Because I am my father’s child and developed an uncanny sense of worry I immediately asked, “What’s wrong with her?” Continue reading

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Chick-Fil-A and the Simpleton…

“…it’s just like voting, if you don’t vote then you have no right to complain about what happens in the next four years. In this case, if you don’t stand up for the right for gay people to get married then you should just shut up when they come for you next. ”        

-quote from one of the 1,349,712 Facebook threads I’ve read on the Chick Fil A fiasco

 

Unless you’ve been in a coma for the last few weeks, or bitten by a zombie and just awakened recently in your new, brain eating state you know about the clusterf*ck that is the Chick-Fil-A debate. A week or so ago when this whole thing went nuclear holocaust after Dan Cathy’s comments broke about his stance on marriage I admit that I didn’t get it so I posted something to that effect – I don’t get it – on my Facebook page where, for the next several hours I feared for the server stability at the Facebook offices at the rate and amount of words posted in response. However, I did walk away from that debate with knowledge of the root of the problem; that it wasn’t about his right to say what he said that day, rather, it was about the profits of Chick-Fil-A, some of which went to organizations that are allegedly hate groups…specifically LGBT hate groups. And I got that, and was happy with my learning and information. Continue reading

Categories: So Incredibly Random | Tags: , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Attack of the Whatchamacallit

There was a ball game, a glass sliding door, and a cocker spaniel with bronchitis. No, that’s not the lead in to a joke by some second rate comedian, rather those are the main components in this little ditty that I’m writing today.

I’m a sports nut and will watch any sport on the set, even a game between the Yankees and the Red Sox. I loathe the Yankees and the Red Sox but it was Sunday night and my sports pickings were slim; I was in the unfortunate position of relying on those teams to provide my sports entertainment for the evening. Surprisingly the game wasn’t all that bad, tied in the late innings with a potential go ahead run for the Yankees standing on second base; I even shudder to say that it was entertaining; at least entertaining enough to make me forget about Mocha, my sister’s Labrador snoring like a grown man on the floor next to the couch and Shadow, my sister’s Cocker Spaniel hacking and snorting away in the corner of the den. Pardon me a moment while I tell you all about Shadow just for kicks…

Shadow is old. Shadow is old in human years, I’m afraid to even do the calculations of his age in dog years for fear that the number might top 250. Shadow occasionally loses a tooth simply munching on his dinner. Shadow has gone completely grey around his nose in stark contrast to the rest of his jet black body. Shadow is completely deaf and I question his eyesight on occasion when he bumps into something. I fully expect Shadow to sit down one day, look at me and say, “In my day that big box of Milk Bones only cost $1.99!” And while he’s still playful and spry and will jump and wag his tail when he sets eyes on you there’s no doubt that he’s an old pup, he was diagnosed with bronchitis earlier this week and has the worst runny nose this side of your neighbor’s toddler next door; that’s why he was coughing and hacking in the corner while Yankees were trying to score the go ahead run against the Red Sox. Anyway…

Like most creatures that are old Shadow has to relieve himself more often than most so my sister got up to let him and his younger dog partner in crime, Mocha, out of the house right around the time that Eric Chavez was digging into the batter’s box on the TV. I heard the glass patio door slide open and the dogs’ footfalls across the kitchen floor but nothing else as I was committing the ultimate sin and actually getting sucked into a Yankees/Red Sox game. The crowd on the TV cheered with enthusiasm as Josh Beckett delivered a beautiful curve ball right down the middle that froze the Yankee batter and ended the Yankees rally…and then another scream, not from the television but from the room behind me. The patio door was flung open and my sister was in the process of scampering, turning over her kitchen table and chairs in the process.

“What IS that? What IS that?”

She kept screaming it over and over again to which I could only reply “What is what?” as all I could see was her shuffling in reverse away from the door.

“Oh my God! It’s ON me!”

My big sister was now transformed into the little girl in the yard that gets grossed out when she saw a bug as she cried out “Ewwwww!” in a loud grown up voice.

“What IS that? AAAHHHH and it has wings! It’s flying! What IS that?”

Now she means business. She’s grabbed the broom from the closet and is swinging wildly at this thing that I still have yet to see. My thought process at that point is that she has completely lost her flippin’ mind.

And then finally I did see it.

Dark. Menacing. Droning deeply. Bigger than a waterbug. Slightly smaller than a crow…making its way from the kitchen towards me the den. I didn’t know that we had these things in Georgia! What are those things called again?

Cetera? Nah, I’m thinking Peter Cetera…the former lead singer of Chicago

Sicily? No…that’s a city over in Italy.

Cece Peniston? Nah…that was the cutie that sang “Keep On Walking”.

Dammit, what are those things called? It’s right there on the tip of my tongue…oh yeah! Cicada. That’s the word I’m looking for, or in this case, that’s the thing that I’m looking for…cicada. It was a cicada. About 3.5 inches long, great big wings, and when it landed on the end table it sounded like I dropped my keys on it, it was a big boy, or girl…like this.

I was looking at it sitting there still trying to figure out exactly what it was and was snapped out of my curiosity by a broom headed in my general direction. Ever the girly girl, my big sister didn’t want to get close to the thing in her den so she decided to get all Jackie Joyner-Kersee on me and heave the broom like a javelin at the bug Olympic games style sending just about everything that was on the table onto the floor including the insect which fluttered down to the floor and buzzed a little surely asking in its own Cicada language, “Did this chick really throw a broom at me?”

“Get it! He’s right there. Get it!”

At this point she’s still doing a dance in the kitchen trying to shake the fact that the bug was just on her leg. The dogs are back in the house at this point after having finished their business in the back yard and Mocha is looking quizzically at the bug that’s sitting on the floor; she has that look in her Labrador eyes that says “I’m gonna chase that thing right there… then maybe even eat it.” She tilts her head then looks at the bug then looks at me as if asking me “Can I have it?” I’m pretty sure that if Mocha had eaten that bug my sister would have just fell out in the floor and died so I grabbed the broom from the floor nearby and shooed her away, just as I did that, the cicada looked about ready to take flight again but I couldn’t have that.

I took the broom and doing my best lumberjack impression I went about hacking mercilessly at the thing. I’d smash it into the carpet and every time I’d raise the broom the bug would buzz in defiance. So I smashed it again…and again…and again…and again…each time harder than the last. My sister was screaming at me to kill it, Mocha was running in circles and jumping and barking, the glass patio door was still flung open so now every moth in Decatur was flapping around the florescent kitchen light.

Shadow is deaf, old and oblivious to all of this; he was standing at the pantry door with the sniffles waiting on his post-pee dog biscuit.

Finally it was done. The announcer was back from commercial and welcoming me back to Fenway Park where the game was tied and the David Ortiz would be leading off the Bottom of the 6th inning. I was sweating, books that were once on the end table lay scattered on the floor, Mocha’s tail was wagging furiously as she stood ready to pounce on whatever was left under the broom, my sister stood 15 feet away still not convinced the coast was clear.

Shadow was still waiting on a dog biscuit with a runny nose.

Soon order in the house was restored. The bug was swept up and disposed of, my big sister’s heart rate returned to normal, the patio door was returned to a closed position, and the broom/javelin was placed back in its place in the kitchen closet.

“What WAS that?” My sister was still asking as she made her way upstairs and then again channeling her inner girly girl said, “That was grody!”

I went to the closet and got two dog biscuits, one for Mocha for being a good soldier and being willing, I assume, to eat the bug to protect my big sister and me and the other for Shadow who was still standing there sniffling and snorting patiently waiting for his snack;  then I reclined on the couch to watch the two teams I love to hate…but not before I grabbed the laptop and googled “Cicada” to see exactly what they are and where they  don’t live so I can look for a nice place there.

~thanks for reading

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Categories: Decatur Stories, Family, Humor, So Incredibly Random, Sports | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

Proof That Love Still Exists…

March 9, 1962

49 years ago today my parents stood at the altar of a small church in Atlanta about 1500 feet from where I’m typing right now and said I do to one another and they have, for 49 years. That’s unfathomable, especially in these times when marriage is downplayed and more than half last about the same amount of time as a Presidential term of office.

49 Years. Of everything that I have to be proud of about my parents I think that it’s this thing here. I often asked my parents how they’ve done it for this long. The first response from either of them is the same, they both laugh and they say, “I don’t know”. How does a country boy and a freckle-faced city girl meet up at age 15 or so, spend days “courting” on the porch, attend the same college for a while, then say we’re getting married, and then stay put for good? That’s Disney stuff; it really doesn’t happen does it?

Mom laughs. She says, “When I met your father I thought he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. He was the most handsome boy I had ever seen and I knew I wanted him to be my boyfriend, and then I knew I wanted him to be my husband.”

Dad smiles and shrugs and succinctly (as always) says, “You just know who you love I guess.”

49 years. Longer than that if you want to tack on the years that they held hands down the halls, went to school dances and football games at old Howard High School and Clark College. They are the anomaly that is not seen, especially in “The Community” and if they are seen they are overshadowed and ignored due to modern day relationship drama, issues, and nonsense.

“Relationships are work. No one wants to work at it anymore. They’d rather complain and then leave it alone when the 1st or 2nd fix doesn’t work.” That’s what Dad said to me one day when we were standing in the kitchen having one of our many man to man talks in the kitchen over a turkey sandwich. “Part of the problem is people getting involved with any ol’ body, you get the right woman and you’ll be willing to work through the problems. You get with somebody just because, though, you’ll just throw her back like a fish you caught that was too small.” Then he chuckled and ate a few potato chips.

“It ain’t like I haven’t wanted to throw him off the deck in the back yard.” Mom told me that one day when I was in her sewing room. She was hard at work with another one of her seamstress masterpieces and entertaining me with tales of her relationship with Dad. “He’s stubborn and he won’t talk for nothing sometimes, he just gets on my nerves. But then I look at him and I see that boy walking down the hall at school or coming up my Daddy’s front steps and I can’t help but love him all over again.” She smiles at a memory in her head and then continues to work her magic with the sewing machine.

49 years. That’s 17,897 days of waking up to the same face to smile at, set of eyes to look at, and pair of arms to have around you. 49 years. That’s 2,556 weeks of decisions to make, children to raise, and conflicts to resolve. 49 years. That’s 429,240 hours to love, honor and cherish ‘til death do us part. That’s a long time, that’s a commitment, and an accomplishment worth praising but, man, it’s still hard to even think of a relationship that long and still, here they are. Same as they ever were, the soft spoken country boy and the city girl still adorned with the freckles.

“Hmm, 49 years. That’s just too long to be with any one person, huh? We ought to just break up on general principle?”

That was my Mother talking last night while I was hooking up the new Zuma/Solitaire Machine (a.k.a. Computer) that my Dad bought her as a wedding anniversary gift. Dad was sitting in his comfy chair eyes closed and hands folded on his belly; he answered with a deep grumbling sound that was a mixture of “I don’t know” and “Really, woman, are you serious?”

She was fiddling with the owner’s manual of the new computer flipping the pages and reading nothing in particular; without looking up at him she noted aloud, “I’ve carried your name more than twice as long as I carried my father’s. People don’t do that anymore, huh?” to which Dad simply replied…

“Nope.” Then he reclined in his chair eyes still closed and gave a pleasant sigh that sounded like it was spangled with a little pride.

Mom looked over at him, smiled, and said, “No, I guess they don’t. But we do!”

So if you’re out there and you tire of the ranting of the day regarding what men and women won’t do, take a minute and look at an example of what a loving couple can do, with a little effort and a lot of love. Thanks Mom and Dad, you guys are the best!

~thanks for reading

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Categories: Atlanta, Attempts at Seriousness, Family, Relationships | Tags: , , , | 10 Comments

For Your Listening Pleasure…

Hey all! I had a few advantages as a teenager but none bigger than having a car immediately after getting my driver’s license. My older sister had previously owned this little blue Ford Escort with gold stripes and a sporty rear window louver on it. When she got married and moved away the car stayed home thus a spare car in the driveway for me to have and hold from driver’s license day forward. So three months after my 16th birthday I was given the key to the car and within 6 months I’d made it completely mine. Included in the Skrap overhaul was: blue and white soccer ball hanging from the rear view mirror, manly scented air freshener, a picture of this girl from the church choir I was dating on the visor and, of course, a new stereo complete with new amplifier and two brand new 10” woofers in the back. Now, because I was on a teenage budget, I let one of my boys from around the way hook up my stereo and speakers which, while cutting costs, meant that my new sound system wasn’t hooked up exactly right. Turns out the car didn’t even need the key to the car in order to listen to the radio; you could just get in and turn on the radio and sit there if you wanted which is not always a good thing.

I have a lovely niece, two actually, but I’ll only talk about the older one here since she’s the one that got me in trouble. My sister had come home for a visit and brought the baby girl with her, at this point my niece is almost 2 and she’s in that “I want to get into everything” mode in her life. Everything was child locked/child proofed/ and otherwise protected against curious toddler fingers. Everything but my car, of course which was unlocked and sitting in the driveway. According to my sister, the baby girl’s favorite thing to do was to sit in the car and stand in the driver’s seat and pretend to drive, all the while making the “vroom vroom” noises on her own. So when she made her way over to her Mema (my mother) and pointed outside and said “car” of course Mom took her outside so she could play in my car. I remember looking out the window smiling at her as she sat in my mother’s lap and gripped the steering wheel mock driving, probably making aggressive car noises along the way, and taking a periodic break from that to bat the decorative soccer ball that I’d etched my jersey number into with black marker only days before. I watched her and my mother in my car for awhile then retired to my room to do what I did as a teenager at the time. A minute or two later I hear the unmistakable rhythmic thumping of a rap beat coming from outside. It could have been from any of the hatchbacks in the neighborhood, there were no less than 30-35 teenagers in the neighborhood at that time which meant that there were about 90-100 total woofers on the block to make the grown ups batty. The bass beats didn’t trail up the street though; they stayed constant, same volume – BOOM…boom boom…BOOM…boom boom – and I think to myself, “oh, that song is hot, I got that one in the car”. I start rapping the lyrics along with the beat from outside. This is about the time when the Two Live Crew was coming into being and racy lyrics were all the rage with them and everybody else; no one is in the room with me so I rattle off the lyrics, under my breath of course, about a prospective male/female relationship.

“I’m the Peter Piper of the 1980’s/Got a long hard [expletive] for all of the ladies/I don’t care if you got three babies/You can work on this [expletive] in my Mercedes…

(booming music abruptly ends but I’m still in the house rapping)

If you wanna [expletive] just let me know/ We can go backstage at the end of the show

(car door slams shut outside)

I’ll look at you, you’ll look at me/With my [expletive] in your hands as you fall to your…”

(Front door violently swings open)

Never once did it occur to me that those curious toddler fingers hit the power button on the stereo while playing in the car and started the cassette that had some of the most vile lyrics ever composed and that the words I was saying while bobbing my head were the same words my niece and mother were listening to in stunning clarity from the brand new woofers that I’d bought earlier that year. Not until she busted in the front door with my niece on her hip and that look on her face.

“Boy! What is that garbage on your stereo?”

“Huh?”

“That’s just awful and you know better!”

“Huh?” That’s all I had.

“I’mma tell your Daddy. You better not ever let me hear you listening to that mess again.” Then she walked out the room with my niece clapping her hands muttering a rhythmic tune that I prayed was not Two Live Crew.

Needless to say I got in trouble for that and lost driving privileges for a while all because my adorable little niece wanted to play “Driver” in my car and I was too cheap to have my stereo professionally installed. I never got angry about it because I did get caught out there and the song was pretty dirty but fast forward to my father’s 70th birthday party not long ago.

My parents grew up on what Mom calls “gut bucket blues” which by my determination is just another term for rat nasty words put to music. My father’s birthday party a few months ago featured a CD that was made by a family friend that had some of the vilest lyrics ever. You wanna know the definition of uncomfortable? It’s the sight of your parents and their like-aged friends quoting Clarence Carter lyrics. You know Clarence Carter, he of “I Be Strokin’” fame, who composed this humdinger of a line:

“And it got so good to her, you know what she told me
Let me tell you what she told me, she said:
‘Stroke it Clarence Carter, but don’t stroke so fast
If my stuff ain’t tight enough, you can stick it up my…’ WOO!”

Scream worthy, right? Need a picture of the word “unsettling”? How about your loving, nurturing parents and their friends patting their feet to Theodis Ealey. Not familiar with Mr. Ealey? Well, allow me to introduce you to some of his work in the lyrics below:

She said Theodis you need to know
That you can lick it/And you can stroke it
And you can kiss it/And you can eat it
But you ain’t done a dog gone thing until you stand up in it…” –“Stand Up In It”

Now I’m not even gonna get into other joints like “Banana In Your Fruit Basket” by Bo Carter, “Snatch and Grab It” by Julia Lee, or “I Want A Bowlegged Woman” by Bull Moose Jackson as I think my point is made. And while I know I can’t get that week of restriction back I will simply say, Mom and Dad, you guys were WRONG! You are hereby on punishment, no leaving the house unless it’s to Church or the grocery store. Of course that’s the only place those two go anyway so I still lose.

But to all of you that were told that our music was “bad” or “wrong” or “immoral” feel free to bring up any of those songs up there. Chances are, they will blush and walk away and you won’t hear that argument ever again.

~thanks for reading 🙂

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Categories: Decatur Stories, Family, Humor | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 20 Comments

Waffle Induced Worry – Driving with Dad

Hey all! If you’ve been here to the South then you know a couple of things. You know that our winters are short and our summers are humid.  You know that the mosquito is the regional bird of the south. And you also know that there is a Waffle House every 3.5 miles on whatever street you might be traversing at the time. Waffle House is like Coca Cola in the south, it’s a freakin’ institution. Everyone in this area of the world can tell you exactly how they like their hash browns, I prefer scattered, covered, and topped, and even if you don’t like the place everyone has a late night Waffle House story because after hours it’s pretty much the only place open; those bright letters looking like hovering yellow Scrabble tiles bidding you welcome after a late night salsa party or wild night out with friends. Most everyone loves the Waffle House in one way or another, my Dad does, or he did, until they started construction on one less than a mile from my parents’ house. Now he’s not so sure.

If you’ve frequented this blog for a while you know that my Dad worries; in fact, it’s almost like he likes to worry. It’s his own little adrenaline rush of sorts; it gets his blood pumping to fret over something. He can be in the midst of a normal conversation about something normal and then – Boom! – there’s something to worry about! Like the Waffle House.

I had to run Dad across town last week to go get his car from the mechanic. I hadn’t talked to Dad in a couple of days so the 20 minutes in the car would give us boys a chance to chat it up in the car with some light conversation over his favorite jazz station on the radio. Our ride was going great until we passed the brand new still not opened for business Waffle House on the corner of Memorial and Candler Roads in dear ol’ Decatur, GA. I, for one, am excited about the new Waffle House as it is going to be closer than the one that I used to have to frequent on the off chance I had to make a hash brown run so I thought that I could start a little small talk about liking the idea of having a new Waffle House nearby. Bad idea.

Me: The new Waffle House should be open soon, Dad. They’ve already paved the parking lot and finished the inside.

Dad: It’ll be closed in a week.

Me: What? Why do you say that?

Dad: A Waffle House? Here? On this corner? Where do you think knuckleheads will go late at night when they want something to eat? Someone will be shot in a week.

Me: Dad, really? This isn’t a bad neighborhood.

Dad: You’re right, but bad people have cars and hooligans get hungry and Waffle House doesn’t close.

Me: So you think that someone is gonna get shot in a week over a waffle.

Dad: I’m not saying someone is going to get shot over a waffle. I am saying someone will probably get shot while eating one though!

Me: Dad, really?

Dad: They should have opened a mini police precinct in the parking lot.

Me: But Dad, all the other Waffle Houses are open 24 hours too. There haven’t been any shootings there.

Dad: Maybe, but this one is new, you know how people like to mess up new stuff.

Me: So you’re saying that I shouldn’t go there on the off chance I want late night food?

Dad: Nope…I’m just saying you should get it “to-go”.

And it went on and on like this in the car about all the people that would be maimed whilst eating waffles and hash browns and orange juice at the brand new Waffle House up the street. How the kids from the teen club around the way would swarm on the place after they finished staying out long after any teenager should be out in the first place. And, oh, goodness what about Friday nights after the high school football games when people are just hanging out, they don’t want waffles, they’re just in the parking lot with their loud music looking for trouble. And never mind me telling him that I used to do the same thing when I was a teenager after high school football games and it never amounted to anything more than me sitting on the hood of my car with my radio up too loud with my friends because, for goodness sake, all he said in response was that’s because I had parents that raised me right and taught me about consequences so I knew better than to fight with someone over something stupid much less shoot at somebody. And he’s not saying that the streets are full of orphans without parents but that the parents today aren’t as strict with their kids and that’s why they are running the streets putting bullet holes in waffles at 2:30am when they should be at home in the bed and even more than that what about the…

“DADDY! We’re here…”

I made the right turn into the mechanic’s establishment in Hapeville, GA and there sat Dad’s car in the parking lot to the right. He looked over to it and smiled knocked out of his Waffle Induced Violence Diatribe by the thought of a new transmission in his beloved Ford. I put my car in park and asked him if he needed me to stick around for a minute and he waved me away saying that he just needed to pay the mechanic and then he’d be gone. Then he grabbed his walking stick and started his cool stroll across the parking lot around the corner and out of sight. I sat in the car for a minute still dazed and processing all that was prophesied to happen within the first week at the new Waffle House just a mile from my parents’ home and came to the rapid conclusion that I’d better dine there within that first week or end up being a victim in a hail of bullets over hash browns covered in cheese and chili.

~thanks for reading 🙂

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Categories: Atlanta, Decatur Stories, Family, Humor | Tags: , , , , , , | 13 Comments

Observations from the Stands – A Family Affair

Whenever I’m lucky enough to get a ticket to see the Falcons play I tend to make a day of it, go down to the stadium early, wander around and mooch off people’s tailgate parties, go into the Dome early and watch the teams warm up and, in general, people watch…

*sidebar* The most beautiful women in Atlanta are at the Falcons games on Sundays, my Lord where do they breed these women? Anyway…

I’m sitting in my seats about 25 minutes before kickoff eating a personal pizza that I paid WAY too much money for when the perfect family walked down the aisle and sat in the row behind me.  The wife was one of the beautiful women I was talking about a minute ago. About 5’5, hair in spiral curls, jeans hugging her curves perfectly, her red #33 Michael Turner jersey illustrating her allegiance and her smile was, in a word, incredible. Her husband was a regular dude; the kind of guy that gives average Joes like me hope that they can score a woman like her if they talk fast enough and purchase enough dinners and roses. Regular guy, jeans, and like his wife, adorned in a red Falcons jersey.

…and then there was their daughter…

Let me preface this by saying that I adore little girls, I want a son one day that I can sit and watch football games with and teach him to keep his left up when the bully on the block tries to test him. But I would love a little girl too…something about little girls with me, maybe it’s because I’m getting a little older and my daddy urge is starting to kick in, but she was the perfect little piece of the both of them. She looked like her mom but had enough of her daddy to let you know that she was his. Her hair was in spiral curls to match her mother’s; jeans and, just like Mom and Dad, a red Falcons jersey. She was on her father’s shoulders and holding a red and black pom pon in each hand, she had this look of amazement in her eyes as she looked up at the roof of the Dome. The three of them sitting there in anxious anticipation of the start of the game, wife with her arm around her husband telling him something that induces a laugh and the little girl, maybe 3 or 4 years old, with her entire face slammed inside a bucket of popcorn that her father had just bought.

It was the perfect, red jersey draped family. I don’t know what kind of issues they may have at their home, don’t know if they are one paycheck away from being foreclosed on, don’t know if they even have a house, but from what I saw that family of three for 3 hours didn’t have a care in the world, they were perfect. The little girl probably didn’t know what was going on but whenever Mom and Dad jumped up she would shake her pom poms furiously along with them. Along the way all the cheering and the hour of the night had taken its toll; the daughter was fast asleep, I mean, drooling sleep, in Mom’s arms. Wife and husband gave a knowing look to one another and then they decided to take their leave late in the game. We all said our goodbyes and said the usual “See you next week!” and they headed for the exit, Mom…Dad…and daughter.

They were perfect, I can’t explain to you why they were…they just fit, you know? A beauty of a wife and her regular working man husband and this gorgeous little girl all in their red jerseys headed to wherever home was for them and as I watched them leave I couldn’t help but wish to myself that I can be a piece of that perfect example to some dude sitting behind me, my wife, and my child at the Dome on some future Falcon football Sunday.

Love your wives, love your husbands, love your children, love your families, love yourselves.

     ~thanks for reading 🙂

Categories: Attempts at Seriousness, Sports | Tags: , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

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