My kids know comfort. They like nothing better than lounging on the sofa, piled high with blankets and pillows pulled from their beds. Their clothing choice, if given the option, will run from pajamas to sweat pants.
C has taken his comfort to a new level. He comes home from school, grabs whatever book he's currently reading (Michael Chabon's "Summerland" at the moment) and puts on a robe*. And he'll wear that robe comfortably for the rest of the night.
I've taken to calling him Hawkeye, which I've had to explain. Next, I'll explain that Hawkeye Pierce lived in The Swamp and that it was called that because of the unkempt nature of the tent where he, Trapper and Frank lived.
The boys' room is swamp-like. It's overgrown with discarded clothing and has a boggy stench. It's the sort of landscape where Magwitch might hide out, where Kermit would feel at home or where a still might be built. I plan to search for that still later this afternoon.
My column in today's Commercial Appeal is all about what kids know or, rather, what they don't know. I urge you all to put on your robe, make yourselves comfortable and visit the CA's site to give it a read.
*That robe is one of his mother's old ones, though pretty nondescript and not overly feminine at all. Really.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
International Children's Heart Foundation
I love HBO's "The Wire." I watched the entire series on DVD, each episode back-to-back. I fell for the drama's cinematic grittiness, pop of violence and Dickensian dialogue. One of my favorite scenes, my favorite line, came in the final season, delivered by Gus Haynes, the city editor for The Baltimore Sun played by Clark Johnson, when he simplified a newspaperman's drive in one sentence: I just want to see something different every day, maybe write a story about it.
I'm not a lifelong journalist. I come from a family of newspapermen reaching back to the earliest part of last century, though I was never encouraged to follow their footsteps to the Fourth Estate. Indeed, I was discouraged.
I've always loved newspapers, though, and storytelling and the storytellers. Listening to people and getting the essence of who they are and what they do and why, and then putting that down on paper, whether it's for the world to read or just yourself, is a gift to be worked at and not taken for granted. A truly compelling story, as well, is a gift not to be treated lightly.
I met Dr. Bill Novick several years ago when he would come into my cigar shop as a customer. We had sons in the same class at Downtown Elementary as well. He graciously gave me a copy of his first book, "Healing the Heart of Croatia," written with Father Joe Kerrigan. I read the book a little at a time, overcome with emotion at the thought of going through the struggles his patients' families were dealing with and the selflessness of the doctors and volunteers that comprise the International Children's Heart Foundation.
Dr. Novick's and the Foundation's story is one I've been fortunate enough to hear and to tell in today's Commercial Appeal as part of the celebration of its 15th anniversary.
The ICHF is a hometown organization, overshadowed by others and flying mostly under the radar to countries around the world; impoverished, fractured and transitioning countries where they perform surgeries, train local medical staff and so much more.
It's a good story and one I am honored to tell, my only regret being limited space to cover all that I've been told, such as the entire Abu Bakr story which ends with Novick in a meeting with the then-Undersecretary of Defense for the United States, in which Novick is lauded for all the work of the foundation and asked if there is anything he needs. "I need you to stop bombing my kids," he says, barely containing his ire. It was the last such meeting he was invited to.
There is the whole story of Novick's friend and facilitator in Pakistan, that country's surgeon general, who was assassinated in the shadow of the Children's Hospital by a suicide bomber. When told a matter of weeks later that it was too dangerous for the ICHF's next medical trip, Novick persisted, saying it was the only way he knew to honor his friend's memory.
There are awards presented, heads of state denied, foreign and domestic corporations called upon and globetrotting for a cause. There are funny stories and heartbreaking ones, hopeful stories and, through it and above it all, the stories of children who get more time on this planet to make a difference thanks to Novick and his teams.
The story of the International Children's Heart Foundation is as good as any novel, film or HBO series. It's one I am thrilled to tell.
I'm not a lifelong journalist. I come from a family of newspapermen reaching back to the earliest part of last century, though I was never encouraged to follow their footsteps to the Fourth Estate. Indeed, I was discouraged.
I've always loved newspapers, though, and storytelling and the storytellers. Listening to people and getting the essence of who they are and what they do and why, and then putting that down on paper, whether it's for the world to read or just yourself, is a gift to be worked at and not taken for granted. A truly compelling story, as well, is a gift not to be treated lightly.
I met Dr. Bill Novick several years ago when he would come into my cigar shop as a customer. We had sons in the same class at Downtown Elementary as well. He graciously gave me a copy of his first book, "Healing the Heart of Croatia," written with Father Joe Kerrigan. I read the book a little at a time, overcome with emotion at the thought of going through the struggles his patients' families were dealing with and the selflessness of the doctors and volunteers that comprise the International Children's Heart Foundation.
Dr. Novick's and the Foundation's story is one I've been fortunate enough to hear and to tell in today's Commercial Appeal as part of the celebration of its 15th anniversary.
The ICHF is a hometown organization, overshadowed by others and flying mostly under the radar to countries around the world; impoverished, fractured and transitioning countries where they perform surgeries, train local medical staff and so much more.
It's a good story and one I am honored to tell, my only regret being limited space to cover all that I've been told, such as the entire Abu Bakr story which ends with Novick in a meeting with the then-Undersecretary of Defense for the United States, in which Novick is lauded for all the work of the foundation and asked if there is anything he needs. "I need you to stop bombing my kids," he says, barely containing his ire. It was the last such meeting he was invited to.
There is the whole story of Novick's friend and facilitator in Pakistan, that country's surgeon general, who was assassinated in the shadow of the Children's Hospital by a suicide bomber. When told a matter of weeks later that it was too dangerous for the ICHF's next medical trip, Novick persisted, saying it was the only way he knew to honor his friend's memory.
There are awards presented, heads of state denied, foreign and domestic corporations called upon and globetrotting for a cause. There are funny stories and heartbreaking ones, hopeful stories and, through it and above it all, the stories of children who get more time on this planet to make a difference thanks to Novick and his teams.
The story of the International Children's Heart Foundation is as good as any novel, film or HBO series. It's one I am thrilled to tell.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Meow!
Sometimes you people are guinea pigs. I'm sorry, but it's true. I try things out on you before punching it up, lengthening it in some cases, making grammatical fixes and sending it in to The Commercial Appeal, which pays me for it.
So, a while back I wrote a bit about C taking up and wailing on the saxophone and then I wrote even more on it and it's in the CA today.
Dig it!
So, a while back I wrote a bit about C taking up and wailing on the saxophone and then I wrote even more on it and it's in the CA today.
Dig it!
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Who Are These People In My Neighborhood?
We've lived in our new neighborhood now for seven months. I'm an observer, I watch things, I notice. What I've noticed is that we traded the oddness of Midtown for the weirdness of East Memphis.
It is people that make up a neighborhood and, while Midtown may have no end of characters, I've got a guy who walks in front of my house all day, every day, it seems. Every time I glance outside or sit on my front porch, this guy walks by. I have no idea where he's going or, if walking for exercise, how many laps he makes around the block (neighborhood? region?).
There is a gated community across the street from our house and the side that faces us has the typical swath of grass between the sidewalk and street. Typical, except for the fact that this 12-inch wide strip of lawn is mowed every. single. day. The lawn service contracted to handle the common areas of the community pay particular attention to this grass. It's fascinating. It's beautiful.
A park sits a couple of blocks away, abutting Richland Elementary School. Brennan Park. At any time you can go to that park and find three or four kids' jackets. I'm not sure if the park is swallowing children, save for their outerwear, or if students are taking their jackets off after school to play and then forgetting them. Probably the latter.
Every neighborhood has an ice cream truck. Ours plays Christmas carols. All summer long.
Sometimes I have to leave the craziness of my house and its nine inhabitants. When those times come, I find my escape in the bizarreness that's out there, beyond my front porch.
It is people that make up a neighborhood and, while Midtown may have no end of characters, I've got a guy who walks in front of my house all day, every day, it seems. Every time I glance outside or sit on my front porch, this guy walks by. I have no idea where he's going or, if walking for exercise, how many laps he makes around the block (neighborhood? region?).
There is a gated community across the street from our house and the side that faces us has the typical swath of grass between the sidewalk and street. Typical, except for the fact that this 12-inch wide strip of lawn is mowed every. single. day. The lawn service contracted to handle the common areas of the community pay particular attention to this grass. It's fascinating. It's beautiful.
A park sits a couple of blocks away, abutting Richland Elementary School. Brennan Park. At any time you can go to that park and find three or four kids' jackets. I'm not sure if the park is swallowing children, save for their outerwear, or if students are taking their jackets off after school to play and then forgetting them. Probably the latter.
Every neighborhood has an ice cream truck. Ours plays Christmas carols. All summer long.
Sometimes I have to leave the craziness of my house and its nine inhabitants. When those times come, I find my escape in the bizarreness that's out there, beyond my front porch.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
C is for Cannonball
As I've said, the kids all started new schools this year. C is at White Station Middle and is coming to terms nicely with switching classes, lockers and being the new kid on a new block.
Enveloped in all that new is band class. He's taken music the past few years at Downtown Elementary, and he took guitar lessons for a little bit, but this will be his first year of everyday band. His instrument of choice: alto saxophone.
I went to new parent orientation the other night at WSMS and was told that, among sports offerings, cross country was about to come into season. C has always expressed an interest in running with me, especially 5k races, so I thought this would be perfect. When I talked with him about it, he said he didn't want to participate. When I pushed him on it, he said he's afraid he wouldn't be any good at it.
Now, I understand this feeling completely. It's like it was only yesterday that I was his age and having the same anxieties about, well, everything. It's odd to me, though, that he would worry about not being any good at running, which he's been able to do for a long time, and not so much about blowing into a metal horn and making music come out, which seems like a very abnormal thing for a human to do.
Regardless of how abnormal it is, he was given a brand new instrument last night and took right to it. From what I'm told, it's difficult to even make a noise with the saxophone in the beginning, but he was able to make something passable for notes. He's very excited and eager about this new endeavor and I hope he runs away with it.
Here is is last night:
[Thanks, again, Uncle Toby.]
Enveloped in all that new is band class. He's taken music the past few years at Downtown Elementary, and he took guitar lessons for a little bit, but this will be his first year of everyday band. His instrument of choice: alto saxophone.
I went to new parent orientation the other night at WSMS and was told that, among sports offerings, cross country was about to come into season. C has always expressed an interest in running with me, especially 5k races, so I thought this would be perfect. When I talked with him about it, he said he didn't want to participate. When I pushed him on it, he said he's afraid he wouldn't be any good at it.
Now, I understand this feeling completely. It's like it was only yesterday that I was his age and having the same anxieties about, well, everything. It's odd to me, though, that he would worry about not being any good at running, which he's been able to do for a long time, and not so much about blowing into a metal horn and making music come out, which seems like a very abnormal thing for a human to do.
Regardless of how abnormal it is, he was given a brand new instrument last night and took right to it. From what I'm told, it's difficult to even make a noise with the saxophone in the beginning, but he was able to make something passable for notes. He's very excited and eager about this new endeavor and I hope he runs away with it.
Here is is last night:
[Thanks, again, Uncle Toby.]
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Hooray for Captain Spaulding!
He was born Julius Henry, son of Minnie and Sam “Frenchie” Marx in 1890. He left school at the age of 12 to go to work on stage and, with the help of his brothers, he would become one of the most successful entertainers of all time. Through the ranks of vaudeville, Groucho Marx shot up like grease-painted lightning to a time when a new phenomenon, the “movies” were the hottest thing going.
Eventually he would move on from his brothers to a solo career, mostly playing himself, living true to his nom de plume while still being loved by millions, hosting television and radio shows, making pop culture history on talk shows and writing books. Groucho has always held a special place with me. He was funny, largely self-educated, quick, curious and successful.
I’ve tried to instill in my own kids, along with manners, empathy, responsibility and an education, a sense of humor. I come from a stock of people who enjoy laughing and whose sense of humor run towards smart alecky, so the genetics are there. I have, over the years, attempted to infuse my kids’ SpongeBob with Bugs Bunny, their Zack and Cody with The Marx Brothers and their Hannah Montana with Myrna Loy.
And they’ve taken to it, for the most part. I’ve heard their genuine laughing at the antics of the Marx Brothers and it reminds me of discovering them, prodded by my father, on Channel 3 Saturday afternoon movies when I was a kid.
Groucho died on this day in 1977, an anniversary now largely overshadowed by the death of Elvis Presley only three days prior. There is no home to make a pilgrimage to, no Greasepaintland, so we’ll have to put a DVD in, one of those classic Irving Thalberg films, and remember the man as best we can, with a song, a cigar and a deeply felt belly laugh.
Eventually he would move on from his brothers to a solo career, mostly playing himself, living true to his nom de plume while still being loved by millions, hosting television and radio shows, making pop culture history on talk shows and writing books. Groucho has always held a special place with me. He was funny, largely self-educated, quick, curious and successful.
I’ve tried to instill in my own kids, along with manners, empathy, responsibility and an education, a sense of humor. I come from a stock of people who enjoy laughing and whose sense of humor run towards smart alecky, so the genetics are there. I have, over the years, attempted to infuse my kids’ SpongeBob with Bugs Bunny, their Zack and Cody with The Marx Brothers and their Hannah Montana with Myrna Loy.
And they’ve taken to it, for the most part. I’ve heard their genuine laughing at the antics of the Marx Brothers and it reminds me of discovering them, prodded by my father, on Channel 3 Saturday afternoon movies when I was a kid.
Groucho died on this day in 1977, an anniversary now largely overshadowed by the death of Elvis Presley only three days prior. There is no home to make a pilgrimage to, no Greasepaintland, so we’ll have to put a DVD in, one of those classic Irving Thalberg films, and remember the man as best we can, with a song, a cigar and a deeply felt belly laugh.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Intro to Friendship
The kids started new schools this week - two at Richland Elementary and one at White Station Middle - and even though it's not me starting school, I still get that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I think about them walking into a new classroom for the first time (and then the second time, the third ... fourth ... ).
I tend to project a lot of my anxieties on my children. Inwardly, of course, I try not to let them see that I worry for them, that I dread these first days and weeks as much as they might. I see each of my kids' strengths and weaknesses and install them into my own little scenarios of what their days must be like. It's a hobby, it helps pass the time.
In my list of concerns, my fears and worries for these kids, though, the one that was at the bottom, so far down that I didn't even realize it was there, has rocketed to the top.
On Monday, I walked up the street to school to meet the kids after school, and when JP and S came running out I asked if they had a good day, which they had, and then asked if they made any friends. They both rattled off a list of names of the classmates they'd met and, in the baptism of the first day of school, declared "friends." Great!
C came trudging across the field and through the woods (literally, you'd have to see the campus) and I asked how his day was. "Good," he said, and I asked if he met any friends. "No," he said. I asked if he talked with anyone at lunch. "Not really," he said.
Now, it was the first day of school and overwhelming with the new experiences of middle school and switching from class to class throughout the day, so it wasn't such a big deal. I've asked him the same questions every day since then, though, and received the same answers. I know it's all still new and that a lot is going to change over the next few weeks, but I'm just surprised. C has never had any problem talking to people or making friends, he's like his mother that way, but now I find myself thinking what if he doesn't make any friends?, and I didn't expect to ever be thinking that about C.
He will make friends, of course he will. He's intelligent and funny and has an easy way about him. The problem, I think, is that he has to do it. I can't help him. I'm there for him if he needs help with an English assignment or math or history or whatever, but the social aspect of school, making strangers into friends, is completely up to him.
There's that pit in my stomach again.
In other news, I have a story in The Commercial Appeal today about Memphians who were at Woodstock. The story is in anticipation of the concert's 40th anniversary this weekend. I spent a lot of time on it and I think it turned out pretty well, but I would like to copy and paste here, for posterity's sake, the two-paragraph lede that I was asked to rewrite. The reason for rewriting makes sense - my editor wanted to get to the local aspect of the story before the jump so readers didn't think it was just another Woodstock story, like the one they ran on Monday of this week. I get that.
Anyway, here it is:
In other other news, tomorrow is my birthday. I will be 39, which is not 40. Yet.
I tend to project a lot of my anxieties on my children. Inwardly, of course, I try not to let them see that I worry for them, that I dread these first days and weeks as much as they might. I see each of my kids' strengths and weaknesses and install them into my own little scenarios of what their days must be like. It's a hobby, it helps pass the time.
In my list of concerns, my fears and worries for these kids, though, the one that was at the bottom, so far down that I didn't even realize it was there, has rocketed to the top.
On Monday, I walked up the street to school to meet the kids after school, and when JP and S came running out I asked if they had a good day, which they had, and then asked if they made any friends. They both rattled off a list of names of the classmates they'd met and, in the baptism of the first day of school, declared "friends." Great!
C came trudging across the field and through the woods (literally, you'd have to see the campus) and I asked how his day was. "Good," he said, and I asked if he met any friends. "No," he said. I asked if he talked with anyone at lunch. "Not really," he said.
Now, it was the first day of school and overwhelming with the new experiences of middle school and switching from class to class throughout the day, so it wasn't such a big deal. I've asked him the same questions every day since then, though, and received the same answers. I know it's all still new and that a lot is going to change over the next few weeks, but I'm just surprised. C has never had any problem talking to people or making friends, he's like his mother that way, but now I find myself thinking what if he doesn't make any friends?, and I didn't expect to ever be thinking that about C.
He will make friends, of course he will. He's intelligent and funny and has an easy way about him. The problem, I think, is that he has to do it. I can't help him. I'm there for him if he needs help with an English assignment or math or history or whatever, but the social aspect of school, making strangers into friends, is completely up to him.
There's that pit in my stomach again.
In other news, I have a story in The Commercial Appeal today about Memphians who were at Woodstock. The story is in anticipation of the concert's 40th anniversary this weekend. I spent a lot of time on it and I think it turned out pretty well, but I would like to copy and paste here, for posterity's sake, the two-paragraph lede that I was asked to rewrite. The reason for rewriting makes sense - my editor wanted to get to the local aspect of the story before the jump so readers didn't think it was just another Woodstock story, like the one they ran on Monday of this week. I get that.
Anyway, here it is:
I’m going on down to Yasgur’s farm
I’m going to join in a rock-n-roll band
I’m going to camp out on the land
I’m going to try and get my soul free
-- From the song “Woodstock” by Joni Mitchell
It was in the summer of 1969, the same summer that gave us the Son of Sam, the Stonewall riots of Greenwich Village in New York, and the Manson family’s murderous rampage, that four visionary promoters planned for 50,000 music enthusiasts to attend a three-day outdoor music and arts festival in upstate New York on Max Yasgur’s 600-acre dairy farm.
What The Woodstock Music and Art Fair became, famously, was a counterculture nation of half a million strong, a four-day experiment in love, peace and openness that was the antithesis of the violence consuming us here at home and abroad in Vietnam. With a population of people from far and wide who imbibed, swam, danced, loved and left with enough memories to last a lifetime, Bethel, NY, and its festival have become icons of utopian dreams realized.
In other other news, tomorrow is my birthday. I will be 39, which is not 40. Yet.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Friday, August 07, 2009
Paul and Me
We were poolside the other afternoon when I laid down the July 20 issue of The New Yorker I'd grabbed as we left the house. The magazine fell open to page 25 and the illustration there of actor Paul Giamatti.
S crawled from the pool, sauntered over and blinked her goggled eyes at it:
S: That looks just like you.
Me: No it doesn't.
S: Dude, that looks just like you. JP, come here, who does this look like?
JP: (JP walks over, giggles, honks, flaps his arms twice and then skips off on the toes of one foot)
S: Just like you.
S crawled from the pool, sauntered over and blinked her goggled eyes at it:
S: That looks just like you.
Me: No it doesn't.
S: Dude, that looks just like you. JP, come here, who does this look like?
JP: (JP walks over, giggles, honks, flaps his arms twice and then skips off on the toes of one foot)
S: Just like you.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Not So Good Mornings
GK is home with me today. She had a fever overnight and we saw no reason to force her to go to school if she wasn't feeling well.
And forcing her is just what it would be considering the week we've had so far. My little 3-year-old, who is such a terror around the house to her siblings, to me and her mom, and poor Mr. Baby, has been beside herself about her daycare and the new morning routine.
On Monday - day one - she talked excitedly about her new school and grabbed up her lunchbox with eagerness. This lasted until we got into her classroom where she lost it and had to be pried from my arms with promises of dolls and blocks and new playmates.
Day two was even worse with me dropping her off at the playground where her class was already so that I could hear her screaming for me all the way to the parking lot, down the driveway and out onto the street.
Day three was awful; she started crying before we even left the house and didn't stop until ... well, I'm not sure when. When she got home that afternoon, she wouldn't even look at or speak to me, such was her disdain for my actions of the past few mornings.
So her fever gains her a reprieve from her new school. It's a day to regroup and reconsider, when I'll spend the day reminding her of the great things about her school, her teachers and all of her new little friends. I'm sure it will register with her and make a difference, she's as rational as any 3-year-old.
I know what you're all thinking, that it will get better, that drop-off will be easier when she's acclimated and she will actually begin looking forward to going. That's a nice thought, but I'm afraid that's just not the case. I've been doing this a long time, I've taken all four of my kids everywhere they've needed to go in the mornings for as long as they've been going there, and I can sense how it's going to go for the rest of the year on the first day. Sure, she'll get used to it and come to accept it, but she'll never be one of those kids who grabs her lunchbox and takes off from the car toward the doors. I'll carry her in every day and every day there will be that last little grab for me, the faintest of tugs at my shirt and my heart, as I hand her off to her teacher.
The daycare she's going to seems really good and we've been happy with the way they've handled these morning traumas and how they have made sure to let us know at the end of each day how she cheered up and had a good day.
I know she gets happy, I know that the morning is not indicative of the entire day, but it's been my lot in parenthood. Having my day ruined from the guilt of leaving a screaming child behind is what I've done for years, yet it never, ever gets any easier.
And forcing her is just what it would be considering the week we've had so far. My little 3-year-old, who is such a terror around the house to her siblings, to me and her mom, and poor Mr. Baby, has been beside herself about her daycare and the new morning routine.
On Monday - day one - she talked excitedly about her new school and grabbed up her lunchbox with eagerness. This lasted until we got into her classroom where she lost it and had to be pried from my arms with promises of dolls and blocks and new playmates.
Day two was even worse with me dropping her off at the playground where her class was already so that I could hear her screaming for me all the way to the parking lot, down the driveway and out onto the street.
Day three was awful; she started crying before we even left the house and didn't stop until ... well, I'm not sure when. When she got home that afternoon, she wouldn't even look at or speak to me, such was her disdain for my actions of the past few mornings.
So her fever gains her a reprieve from her new school. It's a day to regroup and reconsider, when I'll spend the day reminding her of the great things about her school, her teachers and all of her new little friends. I'm sure it will register with her and make a difference, she's as rational as any 3-year-old.
I know what you're all thinking, that it will get better, that drop-off will be easier when she's acclimated and she will actually begin looking forward to going. That's a nice thought, but I'm afraid that's just not the case. I've been doing this a long time, I've taken all four of my kids everywhere they've needed to go in the mornings for as long as they've been going there, and I can sense how it's going to go for the rest of the year on the first day. Sure, she'll get used to it and come to accept it, but she'll never be one of those kids who grabs her lunchbox and takes off from the car toward the doors. I'll carry her in every day and every day there will be that last little grab for me, the faintest of tugs at my shirt and my heart, as I hand her off to her teacher.
The daycare she's going to seems really good and we've been happy with the way they've handled these morning traumas and how they have made sure to let us know at the end of each day how she cheered up and had a good day.
I know she gets happy, I know that the morning is not indicative of the entire day, but it's been my lot in parenthood. Having my day ruined from the guilt of leaving a screaming child behind is what I've done for years, yet it never, ever gets any easier.
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Fear and Loving in Memphis
We had a Memphis weekend. This last weekend before Kristy goes back to work from her summer break and GK begins a brand new daycare with all its Pandora’s toy box of fun, fear and insecurity, we hit some local hot spots.
Today we went to the 32nd birthday party for Pinocchio’s: The Children's Bookplace. This is the tiny cottage on Brookhaven Circle in East Memphis that is built of books. I remember my mother taking us there as children and wanted to share the magic with my own kids. It’s a book store just for children with all the imagination, mystery and Seuss you’d want.
After Pinocchio’s, we made an impromptu visit to the Pink Palace where the kids loved running wild with the dinosaur robots, the tiny circus and various skeletons. The Pink Palace exhibits are like an ancient museum exhibit in their own right as I recognized many bones and interactive contraptions that I’d seen the first time as a child on field trips with my school.
Yesterday we schlepped to the Memphis Botanic Garden for the opening of My Big Backyard, an area of the gardens just for children. All I can say about this is that it is amazing. We don’t currently have a membership to the Botanic Gardens, but this exhibit by itself made me want to get one for the family. There are different areas with various themes, fountains, small houses, a big tree house and stations for learning about what grows here and how. This is an asset to Memphis and especially to the children (and parents) of our city.
And speaking of our city, I have to talk about Friday night. SAM had friends in town from out California way and we all went downtown for dinner and drinks with them. There was no real plan, no itinerary, so we ended up taking them to Beale Street.
It’s been a while since I’ve been to Beale on a weekend night, I’m local here so there’s no reason to go. I guess I knew they check identification now, but I wasn’t prepared to have to walk through a security gauntlet as well with someone passing a metal-detecting wand over me and making me empty my pockets. How sad for this city. How completely humiliating and embarrassing for a Memphian taking guests from out of town.
Beale Street is one of the largest tourist attractions in the state, if not the largest, yet to get onto this street one has to be checked for weapons. I stood, arms spread wide while some mutant spoke inaudibly to me, practically whispering when he asked what was in my pockets. I had to keep asking what he was saying as he mumbled, not bothering to even make eye contact with me.
Once on the street, which is so far below someplace like the French Quarter in both excitement and history, there was a police presence as though we were in a militarized zone. Forget a red light district where you’re allowed to carry an overpriced beer outdoors for two blocks, this is the blue light district where there is one cop for every two patrons. Why? Because it’s Memphis and it’s a damn jungle.
It was the last time I'll take visitors from out of town to Beale Street. It’s certainly the last time I go to Rum Boogie Café where we were charged a $5 cover to go in and eat (thanks, Matt!) and then sat next to half a dozen empty tables.
I sat through dinner watching the security checkpoint through the windows at Beale and Third Streets where families, obviously just having left the Redbirds game with their jerseys and ball gloves, were sent single file through the gauntlet of ID and weapon checks. I don’t know why anyone would take their kids to Beale Street on a Friday night and it was sad to watch the little kids who were confused as they watched their dads (only the men were getting checked here) get stopped and checked for weapons.
I believe the next time guests come in, I’ll take them to a quaint bookstore, the Botanic Gardens or even the Pink Palace where they can see a tiny circus, original Piggly Wiggly or animated dinosaur.
Today we went to the 32nd birthday party for Pinocchio’s: The Children's Bookplace. This is the tiny cottage on Brookhaven Circle in East Memphis that is built of books. I remember my mother taking us there as children and wanted to share the magic with my own kids. It’s a book store just for children with all the imagination, mystery and Seuss you’d want.
After Pinocchio’s, we made an impromptu visit to the Pink Palace where the kids loved running wild with the dinosaur robots, the tiny circus and various skeletons. The Pink Palace exhibits are like an ancient museum exhibit in their own right as I recognized many bones and interactive contraptions that I’d seen the first time as a child on field trips with my school.
Yesterday we schlepped to the Memphis Botanic Garden for the opening of My Big Backyard, an area of the gardens just for children. All I can say about this is that it is amazing. We don’t currently have a membership to the Botanic Gardens, but this exhibit by itself made me want to get one for the family. There are different areas with various themes, fountains, small houses, a big tree house and stations for learning about what grows here and how. This is an asset to Memphis and especially to the children (and parents) of our city.
And speaking of our city, I have to talk about Friday night. SAM had friends in town from out California way and we all went downtown for dinner and drinks with them. There was no real plan, no itinerary, so we ended up taking them to Beale Street.
It’s been a while since I’ve been to Beale on a weekend night, I’m local here so there’s no reason to go. I guess I knew they check identification now, but I wasn’t prepared to have to walk through a security gauntlet as well with someone passing a metal-detecting wand over me and making me empty my pockets. How sad for this city. How completely humiliating and embarrassing for a Memphian taking guests from out of town.
Beale Street is one of the largest tourist attractions in the state, if not the largest, yet to get onto this street one has to be checked for weapons. I stood, arms spread wide while some mutant spoke inaudibly to me, practically whispering when he asked what was in my pockets. I had to keep asking what he was saying as he mumbled, not bothering to even make eye contact with me.
Once on the street, which is so far below someplace like the French Quarter in both excitement and history, there was a police presence as though we were in a militarized zone. Forget a red light district where you’re allowed to carry an overpriced beer outdoors for two blocks, this is the blue light district where there is one cop for every two patrons. Why? Because it’s Memphis and it’s a damn jungle.
It was the last time I'll take visitors from out of town to Beale Street. It’s certainly the last time I go to Rum Boogie Café where we were charged a $5 cover to go in and eat (thanks, Matt!) and then sat next to half a dozen empty tables.
I sat through dinner watching the security checkpoint through the windows at Beale and Third Streets where families, obviously just having left the Redbirds game with their jerseys and ball gloves, were sent single file through the gauntlet of ID and weapon checks. I don’t know why anyone would take their kids to Beale Street on a Friday night and it was sad to watch the little kids who were confused as they watched their dads (only the men were getting checked here) get stopped and checked for weapons.
I believe the next time guests come in, I’ll take them to a quaint bookstore, the Botanic Gardens or even the Pink Palace where they can see a tiny circus, original Piggly Wiggly or animated dinosaur.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Ashes
I spent nearly every day from January 1999 until September 2008 in a little building downtown on Madison Ave. Day in and day out I sold cigars, pipes and pipe tobacco to people for a nickel, trying to make a living. That little building became like a home to me and the people who wandered in and sat, smoked, relaxed and commiserated like a family.
I sold the business, Memphis Tobacco Bowl, then in its 59th year, last fall because it was time to move on. Other dreams and aspirations were calling and my family needed me around the house more.
I haven't looked back, I love what I'm doing now. I do miss those people, that family, who came in weekly, some daily, to talk about their day or their own families. They knew my kids, they asked about my life outside of work and we bonded there around a little round table over cigars and coffee.
I was a terrible businessman, I'll admit that. I was simply a man who owned a business. I'm proud, though, of what I made there in that little building on Madison. I felt that I created an oasis for people from their offices, their bosses, their employees and the stresses of a weekday. I saw friendships made and grown, deals brokered and businesses bought and sold.
I was in the thick of it when downtown Memphis was thick with possibilities - AutoZone Park, the Grizzlies and their Forum and Peabody Place. It was occasionally exciting, sometimes lucrative and often heartbreaking, yet it defined me, I thought, for nearly a decade.
But, again, it was time to move on and I did.
The new owner of that little business is closing up shop this week. When it's time to move on, it's time to move on. I can't say I blame him, part of the game is knowing when to fold 'em. I probably should have long before. I'm glad, in a way, I didn't have to.
I had my last cigar at 152 Madison in its incarnation as a cigar shop this afternoon among the tile, plasterwork and age. It tasted just as good as any I'd had before, if not somewhat bittersweet.
I sold the business, Memphis Tobacco Bowl, then in its 59th year, last fall because it was time to move on. Other dreams and aspirations were calling and my family needed me around the house more.
I haven't looked back, I love what I'm doing now. I do miss those people, that family, who came in weekly, some daily, to talk about their day or their own families. They knew my kids, they asked about my life outside of work and we bonded there around a little round table over cigars and coffee.
I was a terrible businessman, I'll admit that. I was simply a man who owned a business. I'm proud, though, of what I made there in that little building on Madison. I felt that I created an oasis for people from their offices, their bosses, their employees and the stresses of a weekday. I saw friendships made and grown, deals brokered and businesses bought and sold.
I was in the thick of it when downtown Memphis was thick with possibilities - AutoZone Park, the Grizzlies and their Forum and Peabody Place. It was occasionally exciting, sometimes lucrative and often heartbreaking, yet it defined me, I thought, for nearly a decade.
But, again, it was time to move on and I did.
The new owner of that little business is closing up shop this week. When it's time to move on, it's time to move on. I can't say I blame him, part of the game is knowing when to fold 'em. I probably should have long before. I'm glad, in a way, I didn't have to.
I had my last cigar at 152 Madison in its incarnation as a cigar shop this afternoon among the tile, plasterwork and age. It tasted just as good as any I'd had before, if not somewhat bittersweet.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Diving Bored
Despite my fear of the germs (not my germs, mind you, but yours) and whatever else might be living in the tepid water of a man-made hole in the ground, our family joined the Jewish Community Center last week so that the kids might swim.
And swim they did.
We went on Friday and they ran (no running!) and jumped and slid and swam. They had a big time and, I might add, I had a good time watching them. The facilities at the JCC are amazing, with something for every age group outdoors and indoors. In addition to the pool area, there is a great work out facility and game room for kids.
My first thought when I walked out into the sunlight and saw the pool was disbelief. We never had anything like this when I was a kid with the slides and the fountains and different swimming areas for all different ages and skill levels. As a parent, I really appreciate all the shade so that it's easy to escape the sun if anyone is getting a little too pink. I also feel comfortable letting the kids run (no running!) wild with so many lifeguards on duty.
I'm sure my kids' first reaction when they saw all there is to do was one of amazement as well. I'm sure that last week they were amazed, too, that their procrastinating parents finally did what they said they'd do ages ago and joined the JCC. But that had all worn off by day two when JP announced he was bored.
Bored.
There are slides and fountains and a lazy river and kids everywhere and more slides and he says he's bored. I told him I didn't ever want to hear that come out of his mouth while standing in the middle of a place like this.
Bored? What more could he want? It's all here! He wants the same thing most kids want and that is whatever is next. It doesn't matter what that next thing is, they've experienced this thing and now they want that thing.
I've decided that next thing, should they ask, is always going to be cleaning something. Their room, the kitchen, bathrooms, it doesn't matter, that's the new next thing. Be careful what you wish for, kids.
And swim they did.
We went on Friday and they ran (no running!) and jumped and slid and swam. They had a big time and, I might add, I had a good time watching them. The facilities at the JCC are amazing, with something for every age group outdoors and indoors. In addition to the pool area, there is a great work out facility and game room for kids.
My first thought when I walked out into the sunlight and saw the pool was disbelief. We never had anything like this when I was a kid with the slides and the fountains and different swimming areas for all different ages and skill levels. As a parent, I really appreciate all the shade so that it's easy to escape the sun if anyone is getting a little too pink. I also feel comfortable letting the kids run (no running!) wild with so many lifeguards on duty.
I'm sure my kids' first reaction when they saw all there is to do was one of amazement as well. I'm sure that last week they were amazed, too, that their procrastinating parents finally did what they said they'd do ages ago and joined the JCC. But that had all worn off by day two when JP announced he was bored.
Bored.
There are slides and fountains and a lazy river and kids everywhere and more slides and he says he's bored. I told him I didn't ever want to hear that come out of his mouth while standing in the middle of a place like this.
Bored? What more could he want? It's all here! He wants the same thing most kids want and that is whatever is next. It doesn't matter what that next thing is, they've experienced this thing and now they want that thing.
I've decided that next thing, should they ask, is always going to be cleaning something. Their room, the kitchen, bathrooms, it doesn't matter, that's the new next thing. Be careful what you wish for, kids.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Summertime
As we rest firmly in the clenched jaw of the dog these days of summer were modeled for, I sit on the patio waiting for Kristy and SAM to return home with sushi. It would be better served in breezy, beachy, tropical climes instead of coming from the dank, loud kitchen of a Summer Ave. restaurant where some young person, half-stoned and watching the Friday night clock wasn’t in charge of touching my food, but I take what I can get.
Everything is better on the beach, where we were not so long ago, but I’ve been slightly more pro-Memphis lately, having visited some local bookstores, the zoo and Flashback just this afternoon where I bought a new summer hat.
S, my 6-year-old has always been my harshest fashion critic and today was no better as she saw me and declared, “I never thought it would come to a flowered hat.”
To be fair, the whole hat isn’t a flower motif, just the band.
I had a nice chat with co-owner of Flashback, Gene Rossetti. We talked about reading and writing, retail and travel, kids and Italians. Gene is a treasure in this town. He’s friendly and helpful and genuinely curious about his customers, their needs and their interests.
Later, I took a few of the kids to the White Station branch library where GK and I read a book that featured a mama elephant and her baby. She knew of the tragedy at the Memphis Zoo this week and told her own version of the story in the book, one where the baby elephant falls and is hurt and dies, but then the mommy helps it and it’s okay. It was a good story with a much better ending than the real one.
I was recognized as the writer of a column in The Commercial Appeal at the library, something that happens rarely if never. I do appreciate everyone who takes the time to read on Thursdays. This week I wrote about golfing with the kids, or having kids instead of golfing. I told the tale of some injuries in the front yard while trying to get them interested in the game. It was worse than I said, the benefit of time making everything funnier. In reality, JP brought his club into a backswing and caught a running GK on the forehead, her feet came completely off the ground and she landed flat on her back. That was the end of the lessons. JP felt horrible and GK was upset, but there wasn’t too much swelling and all was forgiven.
Sometimes these kids are so active and funny … or maddening … that it’s difficult to keep up with all the antics to make note here or in a column. And other times it’s just deathly still. A lot of the time, recently, I’m just tired and all thought-out when it comes to writing. This is something I’ve tried to get over as I start to see more of a pattern and a schedule to my work. I hope this keeps up as I had a meeting this week with a little known, though worldwide, foundation based out of Memphis, the International Children’s Heart Foundation. The heart and head of this charity, Dr. Bill Novick, had me over to his lovely South Bluffs home for cigars on the patio and to discuss a writing project that, if it’s greenlighted, could provide me with at least a year of steady work. It would be difficult, all-consuming, gratifying work. I’ll know more in a month or so.
Memphis keeps throwing nuggets like that project at me. It continues, within the bad, the awful stories we hear, to offer a token of peace every now and then.
We are all looking forward to tomorrow’s Rock-n-Romp, which promises to be the largest to date, at the Levit Shell at Overton Park. The venue is big and beautiful and the atmosphere will, as always, be family friendly. I had the pleasure this week of speaking with Levitt Shell renovator Lee Askew III of Askew Nixon Ferguson Architects; Anne Pitts, executive director of the Shell; and board president Barry Lichterman for a story in today’s Commercial Appeal. The three agreed unanimously that the Shell is an asset for our community. For Memphis, which has no end of problems with crime, racism, hate and an all-around apathetic nature, the Levitt Shell has become a meeting place, a living room for people from all walks, all corners of the city to come together and enjoy free music in a beautiful and historical setting.
I hope to see you all at tomorrow’s Rock-n-Romp show.
It’s been busy around here and, yet, not so much. This summer has been a time to get a lot of work done, but also to spend time with family at a less hectic pace. Now, to figure out how to keep that pace slow and steady through the school year …
Everything is better on the beach, where we were not so long ago, but I’ve been slightly more pro-Memphis lately, having visited some local bookstores, the zoo and Flashback just this afternoon where I bought a new summer hat.
S, my 6-year-old has always been my harshest fashion critic and today was no better as she saw me and declared, “I never thought it would come to a flowered hat.”
To be fair, the whole hat isn’t a flower motif, just the band.
I had a nice chat with co-owner of Flashback, Gene Rossetti. We talked about reading and writing, retail and travel, kids and Italians. Gene is a treasure in this town. He’s friendly and helpful and genuinely curious about his customers, their needs and their interests.
Later, I took a few of the kids to the White Station branch library where GK and I read a book that featured a mama elephant and her baby. She knew of the tragedy at the Memphis Zoo this week and told her own version of the story in the book, one where the baby elephant falls and is hurt and dies, but then the mommy helps it and it’s okay. It was a good story with a much better ending than the real one.
I was recognized as the writer of a column in The Commercial Appeal at the library, something that happens rarely if never. I do appreciate everyone who takes the time to read on Thursdays. This week I wrote about golfing with the kids, or having kids instead of golfing. I told the tale of some injuries in the front yard while trying to get them interested in the game. It was worse than I said, the benefit of time making everything funnier. In reality, JP brought his club into a backswing and caught a running GK on the forehead, her feet came completely off the ground and she landed flat on her back. That was the end of the lessons. JP felt horrible and GK was upset, but there wasn’t too much swelling and all was forgiven.
Sometimes these kids are so active and funny … or maddening … that it’s difficult to keep up with all the antics to make note here or in a column. And other times it’s just deathly still. A lot of the time, recently, I’m just tired and all thought-out when it comes to writing. This is something I’ve tried to get over as I start to see more of a pattern and a schedule to my work. I hope this keeps up as I had a meeting this week with a little known, though worldwide, foundation based out of Memphis, the International Children’s Heart Foundation. The heart and head of this charity, Dr. Bill Novick, had me over to his lovely South Bluffs home for cigars on the patio and to discuss a writing project that, if it’s greenlighted, could provide me with at least a year of steady work. It would be difficult, all-consuming, gratifying work. I’ll know more in a month or so.
Memphis keeps throwing nuggets like that project at me. It continues, within the bad, the awful stories we hear, to offer a token of peace every now and then.
We are all looking forward to tomorrow’s Rock-n-Romp, which promises to be the largest to date, at the Levit Shell at Overton Park. The venue is big and beautiful and the atmosphere will, as always, be family friendly. I had the pleasure this week of speaking with Levitt Shell renovator Lee Askew III of Askew Nixon Ferguson Architects; Anne Pitts, executive director of the Shell; and board president Barry Lichterman for a story in today’s Commercial Appeal. The three agreed unanimously that the Shell is an asset for our community. For Memphis, which has no end of problems with crime, racism, hate and an all-around apathetic nature, the Levitt Shell has become a meeting place, a living room for people from all walks, all corners of the city to come together and enjoy free music in a beautiful and historical setting.
I hope to see you all at tomorrow’s Rock-n-Romp show.
It’s been busy around here and, yet, not so much. This summer has been a time to get a lot of work done, but also to spend time with family at a less hectic pace. Now, to figure out how to keep that pace slow and steady through the school year …
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Vacation, All I Ever Wanted
It seemed simple in theory. Sitting behind this desk, Googling up directions costs nothing, requires no real effort and, if done at the right time of night, is pretty quiet.
It takes almost no time to say, "We're going to Naples, Florida." No packing required, no seat belts needed.
Driving 2,100 miles, however, is a whole different world. It's a world at 75 mph with
frequent stops for the unhealthiest foods and foulest bathrooms. A world populated by tractor trailers, state troopers and creepy rest area attendants.
And it's a loud world.
But it's a world we explored for 10 days and it was (mostly) good.
We stopped first in Greensboro, GA, to visit with my grandparents, eat a delicious steak dinner and sleep in comfort for free. I always enjoy my grandparents' house and their company. We visited a nice park so the kids could run off some pent up energy and then laid around all night sipping wine, playing games and reading.
And listening to stories. I could listen to my grandparents tell stories about growing up all day long.
The very next day we packed up the kids and headed toward the tip of the dangle. It was a long, long drive. This is the first time we've driven to Naples and it was every bit of 10 hours. It felt like we would never make it to Tampa and, once we did, that we'd never make it the final two hours to my mom's house.
We did make it, though, and there was a houseful waiting on us when we arrived. My mom, stepdad, brother, sister and her family were all there to greet the weary travelers.
For the next six days we visited the beaches of Naples, swam in the pool, played endless games of Wii bowling and spent hours talking. It was the perfect way to spend a week. Our first excursion to the Gulf was to visit Vanderbilt Beach, which
was much nicer than I remembered. The next time, though, we ventured downtown and found the city pier which extends out from a white sand beach butting up against homes in a quaint tropical neighborhood. We were smitten and visited it again the next day despite the half-hour drive from my mom's house.
We ate seafood and ice cream at Tin City and explored the paradise of Naples a bit.
It was great for my kids to get to visit their grandmother in her own home for the first time. They certainly made themselves at home, taking over her living room, video games and television, and declaring them for their own.
The following Saturday we learned that you can drive all. day. long. in Florida and at the end of that day you'll still be in Florida. It took us another 10 hours to make it to Panama City Beach where SAM had taken an impromptu vacation and met us for the weekend. We stayed in the townhouse of the fabulous Robin's parents (thanks again!), had dinner at Billy's Oyster Bar, swam in the pool, had the perfect Father's Day on the beach with lunch at Schooners.
After a couple of days of that, we loaded up once again for the drive back to Memphis. There was a time in my youth, before kids - long before - when I could make that drive in eight hours. This day it would take 10. A miserable 10 hours.
We made it home. We had a great time, all of us. The kids, hopefully, have memories of beautiful beaches, long days at the pool, visits with grandparents and great-grandparents and quality time with their mom and dad, and not just of the interminable drives.
I look forward to our next trip, whenever and wherever that might be.
It takes almost no time to say, "We're going to Naples, Florida." No packing required, no seat belts needed.
Driving 2,100 miles, however, is a whole different world. It's a world at 75 mph with
frequent stops for the unhealthiest foods and foulest bathrooms. A world populated by tractor trailers, state troopers and creepy rest area attendants.And it's a loud world.
But it's a world we explored for 10 days and it was (mostly) good.
We stopped first in Greensboro, GA, to visit with my grandparents, eat a delicious steak dinner and sleep in comfort for free. I always enjoy my grandparents' house and their company. We visited a nice park so the kids could run off some pent up energy and then laid around all night sipping wine, playing games and reading.
And listening to stories. I could listen to my grandparents tell stories about growing up all day long.
The very next day we packed up the kids and headed toward the tip of the dangle. It was a long, long drive. This is the first time we've driven to Naples and it was every bit of 10 hours. It felt like we would never make it to Tampa and, once we did, that we'd never make it the final two hours to my mom's house.
We did make it, though, and there was a houseful waiting on us when we arrived. My mom, stepdad, brother, sister and her family were all there to greet the weary travelers.
For the next six days we visited the beaches of Naples, swam in the pool, played endless games of Wii bowling and spent hours talking. It was the perfect way to spend a week. Our first excursion to the Gulf was to visit Vanderbilt Beach, which
was much nicer than I remembered. The next time, though, we ventured downtown and found the city pier which extends out from a white sand beach butting up against homes in a quaint tropical neighborhood. We were smitten and visited it again the next day despite the half-hour drive from my mom's house.We ate seafood and ice cream at Tin City and explored the paradise of Naples a bit.
It was great for my kids to get to visit their grandmother in her own home for the first time. They certainly made themselves at home, taking over her living room, video games and television, and declaring them for their own.
The following Saturday we learned that you can drive all. day. long. in Florida and at the end of that day you'll still be in Florida. It took us another 10 hours to make it to Panama City Beach where SAM had taken an impromptu vacation and met us for the weekend. We stayed in the townhouse of the fabulous Robin's parents (thanks again!), had dinner at Billy's Oyster Bar, swam in the pool, had the perfect Father's Day on the beach with lunch at Schooners.
After a couple of days of that, we loaded up once again for the drive back to Memphis. There was a time in my youth, before kids - long before - when I could make that drive in eight hours. This day it would take 10. A miserable 10 hours.
We made it home. We had a great time, all of us. The kids, hopefully, have memories of beautiful beaches, long days at the pool, visits with grandparents and great-grandparents and quality time with their mom and dad, and not just of the interminable drives.
I look forward to our next trip, whenever and wherever that might be.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Storybook Couple
I have a story in today's Commercial Appeal on Corey and Cheryl Mesler, the owners of Burke's Book Store. This is one of those stories you look forward to telling - how two people met, where they fell in love, the small business they run and raise their family around.
The Meslers were a joy to talk with, an interview that took over two hours because we kept getting sidetracked by books, movies, jazz and other such interests. It was a pleasure to meet them and to tell their story.
You should go in yourself and say hello. And buy a book, making a living at retail is an uphill struggle, trust me. Show the Meslers how much you enjoy their shop by spending a little cash. It doesn't take much.
I was embarrassed to see that I misspelled Harriette Beeson's name. She was the previous owner of Burke's. I have a very vivid memory of doublechecking the spelling of her name as I was writing. I know I did. I ... think I did.
Other than that, I'm very happy with the way the story turned out. And the way the Meslers' story is turning out should make us all happy at this time when marriages and small businesses fall apart on a daily basis.
The Meslers were a joy to talk with, an interview that took over two hours because we kept getting sidetracked by books, movies, jazz and other such interests. It was a pleasure to meet them and to tell their story.
You should go in yourself and say hello. And buy a book, making a living at retail is an uphill struggle, trust me. Show the Meslers how much you enjoy their shop by spending a little cash. It doesn't take much.
I was embarrassed to see that I misspelled Harriette Beeson's name. She was the previous owner of Burke's. I have a very vivid memory of doublechecking the spelling of her name as I was writing. I know I did. I ... think I did.
Other than that, I'm very happy with the way the story turned out. And the way the Meslers' story is turning out should make us all happy at this time when marriages and small businesses fall apart on a daily basis.
Thursday, June 04, 2009
June 4, 1994
I put on the best suit I've ever owned, brushed my teeth and put some sweet-smelling pomade in my hair 15 years ago today to marry this girl.
And even though I had on a new pair of wingtips and a flower in my buttonhole, she still stole the show that day, as she's done every day for 15 years.
Happy anniversary, Kristy. I love you.
And even though I had on a new pair of wingtips and a flower in my buttonhole, she still stole the show that day, as she's done every day for 15 years.
Happy anniversary, Kristy. I love you.
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