I was a good daddy. I only drank three beers while assembling the Thomas the Tank Engine Trundle Table. I was in bed by 11:30 and asleep by 12:30. Still, the boy's early rising meant I was a stumbly mess come Santa time.

Before we let the kid out of his room, I staggered downstairs, grabbed a Diet Coke, and found the video camera. As an afterthought, I decided to turn on the Christmas tree lights. We got a bigger tree than usual this year and getting behind it to plug in the lights is a challenge. What's more, we have child-proof (and sometimes adult-proof) electrical outlets in the house. Without impediment, the process of inserting plug is rather simple. When a giant evergreen is poking me in the belly and jingle-jangling with all its holiday might, the process is decidedly more difficult. When I'm barely awake and trying to hurry, there is bound to be more than a couple four-letter words. When an ornament fell off and hit me in the head, I uttered a couple of words that, if had Santa heard, would've landed me on the naughty list for the next couple of years.

Finally, though, the tree was alight and I was on my way back upstairs to retrieve the boy and his mom. Once there, we spent a few minutes looking at the note Santa had left for the boy on a magnadoodle and looking at the mostly empty plate of cookies. Just as we were getting ready to go downstairs, it happened. My fat body ramming into the tree had loosened the hold of a ball-shaped bell. Further, this ball-bell had decided this was the very moment to fall and make noise all the way to the floor.

After several weeks of preparing for the perfect day, my fatigued mind saw this as the first sign we were headed on the road to disaster. This feeling lasted for all of one second. Then, the boy's eyes lit up and he exclaimed, "Santa!"

My loving wife looked at me as if it to say, "How did you do that?"

I shrugged and gave her a look back that said, "That's just how Santa rolls."

By the time we made it downstairs, Santa had made it outside. We just missed him.

Despite all my cussing, beer-drinking, and tree-abuse, I guess I never made it to the naughty list this year. I got the best gift of all.

I got to see my kid's eyes light up on Christmas morning.

Labels: Family, Parenting

Let's be honest with ourselves here. I've woken up in a really ugly mood for the last few days and had no real excuse for it. Today, I woke up at 7:45am when my kid decided it was time to play drums. I figured it was time to wake up in a bad mood again.

And then I didn't.

And so begins the next 36 hours of holiday goodness. I've started getting gifts together. I have a turkey ready to brine and a ham ready to glaze. I'm going to make some bisque for dinner tonight before I settle into Santa assembly-mode (which reminds me, I need to chill some beer).

So, enough for the blogging for a few days.

I'm ready to see some eyes light up.

Labels: Family

It's downtown Greenville on a cold December afternoon. A magician has worked up a sweat, torn off his coat, and is working the crowd to a wash of smiles and belly-laughs. It looks like a carnival shell game, except he's not fleecing anybody of anything except their disbelief.

When the trick is complete, the crowd applauds and the magician throws his coat back on against the cold air. As he re-organizes, someone tells him they know how he did his trick.

"That's why you shouldn't stand behind me," he says.



Later, we leave a toy store and find ourselves in a sudden snow storm. While it's cold outside, it's not cold enough to snow. It takes little investigative work to determine that a local gallery owner has decided to add to the holiday cheer with a soap-sud snow blower. Perched in a second-story window, the snow-machine is making one quarter of a city block look like New England on Christmas.

Because I'm a jaded adult, I'm finding more to watch in the red-eyed homeless guy and throngs of holiday shoppers. The boy, however, is wide-eyed and screaming. To his three-year-old mind, it's a sign that everything good about the holiday can't get better.

"It's Christmas Eve!" he screams to everyone and no one in particular.

He can't hear me when I tell him Christmas Eve is still a couple of days away. Even if he could, it wouldn't matter anyway. For him, a few cents worth of soap and a snow-making machine are all he needs to be happy for an afternoon.

I can't say anything else. I simply look at him through a lens and wonder if I'll ever be so innocent again. I'm reminded later that because I'm jaded and paranoid doesn't mean I should deliver the mental tension of the father on the son. I try to remind myself of that and hope for the peace to do so.

Because, when I see this kind of joy, I should want to do nothing but make sure it lasts forever.



More from the holiday camera at my Flickr account.

Labels: Family, Photography

I live in a place of four seasons. Today was clearly autumn, but a warm wind pushed red and orange leaves through the air like driving snowstorm. Leaf drifts piled up on the curbs and covered the newly raked grass with each gust. My son stood in awe, amazed and yet sweetly naive about how beautiful it really is. To him, it's normal because it's new. My wife has a spark in her eye. It peaks out from a place where her three-year-old spirit hides. It makes me feel as warm as the day.

I count friends on both coasts and smattered in the middle of the country. They are people who choose to believe in me when either I won't or fail to give them good reason. They offer me opportunity when I don't ask for it and encouragement when I need it. Though hard to accept, it's a safety net I could never bring myself to request. I know if I fall, they will be there to catch me. Some of these people are as much brothers and sisters as they are friends. Having such an extended family--the kind that gives without expecting anything but friendship in return--makes every reunion as sweet as if it has been 20 years since the last.

My dad didn't realize he was dying until he was already living again. It took him a couple of years to realize he wasn't dead or about to be. Now, four years later, he is shooting in the low 70s on hard courses. My mother nearly cries with joy every time she sees my son. It seems she has found new purpose. If I have given my parents nothing else, I have at least produced something that makes them smile. In a couple weeks, I get to see my brother again. The only thing that compares with having a brother for a best friend is being able to spend time doing things we both love on regular basis.

I need for nothing else. I have a healthy son, a beautiful wife, the best friends I could ever want, and a family that has given me all I have ever needed or wanted. The only thing I lack is a sense of confidence in myself, and I know that no one else can give me that. Better though, I feel like I may be close to finding it or something close enough. With that will come peace. However slow it comes, though, I know I am the luckiest person I've ever known.

For these things and more, I am thankful today, tomorrow, and a lifetime of Sundays.

Labels: Family

A couple of pictures from Halloween night from my Flickr account.


Saving the world, one suburb at a time. Also, as I wrote on the Flickr description, for a kid who gets next to no sugar, Halloween night for my boy was like a fallen priest spending a night in a brothel. Or something like that.

Labels: Family, Mt. Otis, Photography

I was about to go to a Halloween party that required a costume for entry. With my work schedule now a little lighter, I took an afternoon trip to Target with my wife.

"The adult costumes are over here," she said. She knows these things because Target calls her every morning and lets her know how the bottom line is looking and whether they need a Mt. Otis funded bail-out.

We turned the corner and I saw my choices. I could either be a strand of metallic garland or a sprig of greenery. I stopped at the end of the aisle and muttered something obscene. Christmas? I looked at the old stock lady with a look that I hoped conveyed, "I'd sooner buy your damned Christmas decorations in October as I would give you a hot oil massage in front of my mother."

I muttered some more and went to what was serving ineffectually as the clearance aisle for the Halloween stuff. As I turned around, I swear the old lady was pulling an Easter bunny and some chocolate eggs out of a box.

The pickings for Halloween costumes were pretty slim. I initially planned a medical/army theme and figured to go into the party as a Five Star Surgeon General. I ended up changing my mind and pulling together a black Medusa dress, an old lady wig, and a fake butcher knife. I was going to make a great Norman Bates' mother.

I ended up missing the party and was left with my old lady wig and a sense of confusion about what time of year it is. Are we really so damned rushed that we have to start buying Christmas stuff before I get a chance to get my "Mother!" on? I know it's trite to bitch about how early the Christmas junk comes out, but, holy, holy, holy, my pumpkin isn't even rotting yet.

See, we even delayed our trip to the pumpkin patch by a week or so. Why, rush it, you know? Last year, we had to throw elbows in a crowd of a hundred or so in the patch. This year, we were literally the only customers there. Everyone else must have shown up in July. The patch had been picked over and looked more like a Civil War battlefield if Robert E. Lee and Wade Hampton had been commanding pumpkins.



The peace and quiet was welcome, though. Instead of fighting pumpkin patch commercialism, it was like we were on our own farm, the slim pickings notwithstanding. I stood at the counter inside the barn and talked to the lady at the counter.

"Sorta quiet here," I said, disregarding my son's baby chick mimicking across the room.

"Everybody showed up the day we opened," the lady said. That was in mid-August. Back then, it was 100 degrees outside, the leaves were all still green, and Father Halloween was still making wooden toys at the South Pole. Still, people had to buy their pumpkins in time to start saving for the Christmas presents they were going to buy in October.

We picked out two pumpkins, a couple bear-fuls of local honey, and some sodas to cut through the Autumn humidity.

"Hey, hon," I said. "Grab some apple butter." The stuff we'd bought at Nivens Farm last year had been really good.

I'm not sure how many parts of the country enjoy apple butter. As far as I know, it's a national spread. However, if you live somewhere that doesn't celebrate harvest with apple butter, you are really missing out. Imagine spreading an apple pie on a buttered biscuit on a cold Autumn morning and you'll start to see where I'm coming from.

My parents were with us and I saw my mom's wheels start to turn. "Why don't we just buy some apples and make it?" she said. Five minutes later, she was explaining the difference between a bushel and a peck and we had a bag of locally grown apples in our car.

That night, after the boy was in bed, my wife, mom, dad and I stood in our kitchen and peeled apples. As my mom worked like an industrial peeling machine, the rest of us laughed while we massacred our fruit with paring knives. Over the course of the next three hours, we made and canned four jars of Mt. Otis Apple Butter.

My mom worked the recipe from memory, calculating cups and teaspoons in her head and measuring them with her hands. It was something she'd been doing her entire life and watching her work with--if you will--careless precision was something as beautiful as she is.

At 11:30 pm, we made toast and topped it with butter and our labor. The next morning, my wife made biscuits and we had the apple butter again. I don't think I have to tell you, it tasted better than anything we could've bought.

It's very easy these days to get treble-hooked by work, consumerism, and mass marketing. Before we know it, we're being dragged through the holiday waters and ending up filleted for Easter brunch. As a father of a kid who gets more mature every day, I'm learning that, holidays or not, life just moves too damned fast. Sometimes we just need to listen to our moms and slow down.

You can learn a lot from apple butter, you know?

I'll be happy to share some of mine with you if you wanna come down for my Fourth of July Party.

It's next month.

Labels: Cooking, Family, Food, Society

I'm a fescue man, matured from youth as a fescue boy, a time where I spent summer nights with my bare feet buried in dewy three-inch blades of it. During July days, I'd pick dandelion blossoms from the fescue carpet on Yulan Drive. At night, when the Dukes of Hazzard was coming on, I'd run in with pieces of grass stuck to my feet, the product of youthful carelessness and my mom's afternoon mowing. My parents' grass had roots in the southwest Missouri soil and they somehow wormed their way into how I look at suburban landscapes.

Where I come from, fescue was the thing. If anyone mentioned Bermuda, we thought shorts before grass. It wasn't until I ventured out from the city limit neighborhood that I started discovering that there was a world outside fescue. If it wasn't a shock, it was at least a real kick in the seat of the shorts.

Bermuda. Who would've thought there was a grass that greened only a few months out of the year, barely grew above its roots, and looked like it had always been freshly mowed? It was like a homeowner's dream. Instead of mowing once a week, it seemed Bermuda owners lived a life that began and ended on the 18th green.

I bought my house in 2000, and, no surprise, its lawn was fescue. It was comfortable, if almost impossible to maintain. Once the contract was signed, weeds raised their flags and bare spots spread like red clay oil slicks. The grass was its own thing, and I couldn't control it on my own.

It was then that I looked across the street and saw the neighbor with the Bermuda grass. He was a closet wife beater and wore a walkman and headphones when he trimmed his grass. He sang out loud and off key. For the summer months, when my grass was either sand-brown or uneven with weeds, the neighbor's yard looked like it was maintained by the greenskeepers from Augusta National. I couldn't decide if I pitied him more for how bad he sang or how little effort he really had to put into his lawn.

I developed a theory over time about Bermuda grass owners. I watched them as they tended to their lawns. They did it far more often than necessary, some even clipping small pieces of it with house scissors. They were the people who needed their lives to look perfect on the outside and needed to be seen tending to the perfection. I considered my lawn, misshapen and brown, a proud admission of my relaxed life outlook. And if anyone asked why I didn't have the perfect lawn, I had the perfect excuse: Hey, what can I do? Forget it, Jake. It's fescue.

That's when the Corner Bastard came in and turned my life upside down.

Corner Bastard lives up the street and around the corner of my little cookie cutter neighborhood. He drives perfect little cars, has perfect little bushes, and has a lawn of green fescue that not only is the pride of the neighborhood, but has managed to emasculate me in such a way that I can barely drive by without reminding my wife that I was "man enough to give her a baby, so stop looking at the damned grass like you want to have sex on it."

Corner Bastard blew my Bermuda theory right out of the Caribbean. Never in history has a lawn of fescue been so well maintained, perfectly groomed, and artfully crafted. It's as if God himself came down with a golden John Deere and rode around for seven days and nights.

It didn't matter when I drove by or what the weather was like. The lawn was perfect. I eventually lost my mind. In early 2006, I was on a quest to become an evil-doer and this guy entered into my plan. At the time, when I was feeling a little more rage, I called him PC. You can read about that time in Becoming An Evil-Doer Step 2.

In short, I had long believed I could leave a relaxed life of disorder because that's just the was fescue was. Corner Bastard proved me wrong.

Tonight after dinner, the wife chose a walk over a trip for ice cream. We four, a husband, wife, child, and dog headed up to the park. Along the way we were forced to walk by the house on the corner. I heard my wife before I saw it.

"Woah," she said.

I looked at Corner Bastard's grass. It was long and uneven.

"He must be dead," I said out loud, not bothering to conceal my hope.

We walked on, not saying anything more. I started playing out scenarios in which the guy had become an alcoholic, porn-addict, foot fetishist who got caught doing body shots off his nanny's feet. You can't very well mow the lawn when you're in rehab.

It was a perfect night. The near-waning gibbous moon was still waiting to come over the horizon. The local Hispanic population was playing soccer. My kid was pretending he was a super hero. I was the perfect father and breathing with the breeze.

After a stroll around the walking path, we wandered into the little playground to let the kid climb for a while. I was hidden under a cap and behind sunglasses, so my wife couldn't see my eyes turn to slits.

"We may have to leave," I said.

"Huh?"

I nodded across the mulch.

"Oh," she said, and nodded.

There he stood with a soccer ball in his hand and chatting with another fit, well-groomed neighbor. Me? My hat was frayed, my shirt was wrinkled, and I hadn't shaved in almost two weeks. He? He was the picture of the perfect damned father. Like J.C. Penney catalog perfect. Why was his grass long? Because he was taking time out of his life to be a better father. Suddenly, I hated myself for hiring a lawn service this year.

A gangly kid walked in our direction. There was little doubt he was the guy's son. My boy ran up to him.

"Hi! What's you name?" L'il Otis asked. The kid answered.

"I'm Mr. Incredible," my boy said in response and assumed a super hero pose.

The kid didn't know what to say. He stared for a second and then ran away.

"Looks like he has his dad's social skills," my wife mused.

I'm not sure what it was, but I felt better. I hated the guy less and liked myself more. He didn't have to be an adulterer with a drinking problem and I didn't have to have a green thumb. In our heart of hearts, we were both fescue men.

I do not feel any other kinship with this guy. I still think he spends too much time on his lawn, but, I'm done hating him and hating myself for it. He has his own problems, like teaching his son not to run away from potential friendship.

I have a lawn service, a wife who still goes to bed with me, and a super hero for a kid.

I am a fescue man.

Labels: Family, Mt. Otis, Parenting

Three years ago at this time, I was unshaven, stinky, and collapsed on a faux bed in St. Francis women's. However, as I hadn't just shoved a seven pound eleven ounce bundle out of my crotch and I wasn't the cutest thing in the room, I kept my mouth shut.



Now, the boy known here as L'il Otis is a mischievous little monster with enough love to go around for all his toys and all the people who love him.

Happy birthday, buddy. Thanks for putting up with the adults.

Labels: Family, Parenting

It's pretty damned rare to find people later in life that you know you can trust like a brother. I've been fortunate enough to find a few of those people since I began this life far away from my real family. Among those kindred spirits is a guy some of you know and all of you have read about here. I call him Uncle Ted for reasons that would take too long to explain. He's neither an uncle nor a Ted, but he is like a brother to me. Since our friendship began, his family has become like family to me as well. Ted and I have been through a lot together, including my dad's near death and recovery from a brain aneurysm. During that time, Ted was one of many people I could count on to listen to me or talk me down.

Over the past few weeks, the roles have been reversed as Ted's dad Chuck (seen left) has gone through a really tough time. He's currently recovering from some serious cancer surgery. Ted's dad and mom have become like family to my family, so the weeks have weighed pretty heavy on everybody.

I've found it pretty amazing how many parallels there have been between Ted's situation and the one I went through almost four years ago. It like there is is script or at least an outline for what it's like to think your dad is going to die. I remember being in exactly the same mental place as Ted is right now and it's without a doubt the worst thing I have ever experienced.

Ted's dad is still having a rough go of it. However, I know this guy and there's very little that he can't conquer. He's my kind of dude--foul-mouthed, scotch-drinking, curmudgeonly, but as friendly and fun as you'd ever want in a guy. What's more, he loves his family in a way that every father should.

I've not written anything here up to this point about this. However, since Ted and his family have started up a blog to keep friends and family updated, I guess it's alright now. Back when my dad was in the hospital, we got tons of e-mails and comments on the blog I updated for my dad. I remember printing them all out and taking them to the hospital for him to read. Hospitals suck, but when you know there are people on the outside caring about you, it makes it a lot easier.

So, Ted, tell your mom and dad we love'em and to get back home soon.

Labels: Family, Health

I'm not sure exactly how it happened. One day, the tap in the kitchen was working just fine. The next, there was a case of bottled water in my garage. It was like some marketing genius sneaked into our house before we got the Middle Finger to the Bad Guys alarm system and whispered into our ears, "You really should be drinking water out of bottles."

Actually, I know exactly how it happened. One day I didn't stop our dog from drinking out of my Shakespeare's cup and the next day the dog thought she could drink out of any glass she wanted. The next day, my wife was buying bottled water by the case.

"Scoop eats her own feces," was the wife's argument and it was one I couldn't readily debate. Frankly, debating makes me tired. I'd rather have sex.

So began to slow parade of Aquafina, Dasani, and Fruit2O marketing wizardry from the local Publix to my garage to my fridge. The kitchen tap was relegated to soaking pots and pans and filling up the flower watering can.

Over time I began to notice bottles of water around the house. They would be 3/4 consumed and serving little to no purpose. Our recycle bin--already full of my Diet Coke and beer cans--was no overflowing with clear plastic bottles. One day I noticed my wife grabbing the nearly empty bottles and using the backwash to water her flowers. That just about did it for me.

I started drinking from the tap again.

And why not? I live in a pristine area of the country where water flows down out of the Blue Ridge Mountains and into local lakes and reservoirs, most of which are clean enough to bathe a newborn baby. The water, if I may say so my damned self, tastes fantastic and in most cases as good or better than any bottled water. You've actually seen my water. Remember the movie Deliverance? That's my water. Once we got rid of the anal-raping rednecks, there wasn't much to worry about.

There are other places that aren't as lucky. Warrensburg, Missouri likely has the worst water I ever tasted. Las Vegas ain't much better. Still, a cheap charcoal filter on the tap in those places will make the water halfway decent, just like it will anywhere else.

I didn't say much to my wife about her bottle water fetish. I didn't have to listen to her scream at the dog and there were fewer spills at the hands of the Toddler Monster in the house. What's more, my parents had become bottled water drinkers and far be it for me to deny them water when they came to the house.

Before I go on, let me make one thing clear. I love Mama Earth, but I'm not an environmentalist turned Global Warming freak turned Eco-Terrorist. I don't litter, I recycle whatever I can, and I don't go outside and spray aerosol in the air every morning. Still, I'm far from preachy about it. After all, I drive an SUV, my wife drives an SUV, and my kid wore disposable diapers for the first two and half years of his life. To get all high and mighty about the environment would be a little two-faced. What's more, we are grand wasters of this precious natural resource. During the summer months, our vanity takes over and we water our lawn three or four nights a week. You know, keeping up with the Joneses and all.


Damn, this stuff is wet!

Still, within a couple of weeks, I saw two different reports that moved me to act. First, I saw a report about the amount of oil used to transport the bottled water from Fiji and other locales. That same report went on to talk about the amount of landfill space taken up by the plastic bottles that most people were throwing in the trash. The second report was not necessarily news to me, but it drove home the message. See, Aquafina and Dasani...well, they are tap water, people. You're drinking tap water. Out of a $2 bottle.

So, finally, a few days ago, I geared myself up for the fight with the wife. I put on my athletic cup, grabbed L'il Otis' bike helmet and a large stick from the back yard. I stood in front of her and said, "We have to stop buying bottled water."

I braced myself for the gutshot--an area I'd forgotten to protect. My eyes firmly closed, I waited for just two seconds before it came.

"Okay," she said. It wasn't a resigned "Okay." It was like, "You want me breathe? Okay."

Well, that was easy.

As it turned out, my wife wasn't as much of a fetishist as I thought. She didn't really give a damn about her bottled water. She was buying it out of convenience and, likely, some subliminally inculcated marketing magic.

And so that is how the Otis Clan gave up bottled water. The wife is now drinking out of a cup with a lid the dog can't open and I'm still on the Shake's cup. We will get no medals from Al Gore. We will not wake up to lower gas prices in the morning. We will simply save $20 or so a week and reserve our bottled water drinking for the times we go places that don't have a ready and clean tap.

As long as the dog doesn't start taking a dump in the kitchen sink, I think we're going to survive.

Labels: Advertising, Environment, Family

I woke up Saturday morning in Portsmouth, Ohio at 8am. It's a depressing little town that sits in its own shadow. Once a thriving steel town, it now seems to exist on little but welfare and disability money. That might be overstating things a bit, but I don't think I'm far off. The houses there are all--or, I should say were all--beautiful. The architecture is fantastic and in my downtown area, the houses would start at half a million bucks. In Portsmouth, the houses are homes for broken people with broken bank accounts. No home I saw in the city proper look like it had been painted since I was born.

At night, the city is actually somewhat beautiful. The summer sky paints purple the train trestles and old brick buildings. The peeling paint and worn human faces all sit in the dark. The hills that surround the city loom overhead and it's worth a picture or two.

I didn't take any because I left my camera at home. I had a surprise work project pop up and my head was stuck with the idea that I would be working a 13-hour day on Sunday. So, after my wife's family reunion in the 100 degree heat, and a trip to the fire station so my wife's uncle could show L'il Otis the trucks, we got back on the road and traveled the eight hours home. Then the kid puked up two helpings of green beans, two ears of corn, and some BBQ ribs. In the car. Fifteen minutes from home.

By the time the kid was cleaned up and put in bed, it was nearly time to go to work. Before I finally fell asleep, I had been awake for around 39 hours. The only time I had ever been awake longer was during an ill-advised 40-something hour run in Las Vegas in December 2004.

So, when my wife shook me awake an hour and half later, I wanted to die. Not just go back to sleep. I wanted to die. The home alarm system apparently works, because--for reasons that I still haven't figured out--the back door came open. I stalked around the house wishing I'd bought that gun a few years back. No intruder appeared and I eventually went back to sleep.

And now, it's back to the grind. I probably have half a dozen things to write about, but I time is limited at the moment. Just wanted to drop in and make sure everyone knew I was still alive. Also, if you have the time, please send good thoughts out to my buddy Uncle Ted's dad. He's in a big surgery today and could use some good luck.

Finally, a couple of pictures. The first is of the boy at the small town firehouse this weekend (primarily because my wife is on a blogging break that I'm working to end). The second is blind to my buddy G-Rob and Ashley Judd.

Labels: Family, Travel

The title will be better explained in the coming days. For now, a few pictures from an extended trip to the Show-Me State.


My mom prepared a big meal for us Saturday night. Twenty minutes before we sat down to eat, a typical Missouri storm blew through and knocked out the power. We ate by the remaining sunlight and flickering candles.


The power was out for several hours. With no TV, no computers, no music, and no light, we did what few extended families do anymore. We sat around talked and laughed for a long time. We bet on what time the power would come back on (my wife won) and when it did, we all turned off the lights and went to bed.


For a kid who never stops moving, I find it pretty amazing that I'm learning a lot from him about when to stop and smell the flowers.


And what he knows about concentration, I'm not sure I'll ever learn.


This is the face of a woman displaying incredible patience.


Looking out from the inside of a small Missouri cave. We debated while here whether Missouri is known as the cave state and whether anyone outside this state would recognize it as such if it were. Turns out, Missouri is The Cave State, but I'd guess my friends in California just don't care.


A good uncle who would make a great father, if he should ever so choose.


A father who is about to endure an annual departure that hurts worse every time he does it.

Labels: Family, Parenting, Photography, Travel

I was such a tragically bad baseball player when I was in first grade. My team, if I recall correctly, had a Bass Pro Shops sponsorship (this was back in the day before Bass Pro was any more than a sporting goods store in Springfield, Missouri). My ability on the field did not go beyond being able to wear the baseball cap properly. After that, I have to think I was a source of endless frustration and embarrassment for my father. That said, being the guy he was, my dad continued to encourage me through all sporting endeavors all the way through high school. I don't think he ever missed a baseball, basketball, or football game. The first time I ever caught a pass in the end zone (button hook from the right side, hard missile into my chest against Ozark High School), I looked in the stands and there was my dad losing his damned mind he was so happy. It's still a memory that makes me tear up a bit.

The good thing was, my brother turned out to be a pretty good athlete who could hit dingers, plow nosetackles, and eagle the par fives at Deer Lake. My dad got to see a son play well in the sporting arenas, and that always made me happy. Oh, and lest you think I'm harboring some age-old resentment, my dad taught me to play guitar and poker, which happen to be my two favorite recreational activities to this day.

Last night, I went back to the baseball fields for the first time in a while.



I've recently been wondering if I have any ability with the camera outside of shooting seated poker players and my kid. As it happened, my friend BadBlood's son is playing ball this summer and his parents wanted some pictures. What's more, my kid adores the miniBloods and is taking an early liking to baseball. It sounded like a good family evening.

I recall a particular joy as a kid. Whether it was my dad going to play softball with his Roark-sponsored team (followed by pizza at Shotgun Sams), or any of my or Dr. Jeff's games, there were so many constants. The dust was omnipresent. The concession stands all looked the same. The bubblegum on the sidewalks formed a path to each field. The bleachers all felt the same and the people in them all shared the same look--we're tired, but there are few places we'd rather be right now.

Last night, my kid was one of the kids who didn't maintain attention for more than couple innings. In fact, after miniBlood knocked one to right field and made it all the way home, my kid decided he was going to practice his homeruns. Into the dust he ran, making tracks for an invisible homeplate. "I made homerun, Dad!" he yelled from across the field.

I spent my time looking through a lens at a kid who didn't seem like he could be more at ease. I occasionally stole a look at his proud dad and thought, "I'm going to be there in a few years." My job was made easier by the fact that miniBlood was pretty damned good, and much better than most, if not all, of the kids on the field.





It was a little after seven when I looked down at my kid's dirty feet and up at my wife's sun-drenched face. Both looked like they were ready for bed.

I could only think, "Just wait. In a few years, L'il Otis will be tending to the hot corner while mommy wonders how she's going to get the grass stains out of his pants."

Whether the kid gets his dad's or his uncle Jeff's athletic skills, I can't wait.

Labels: Family, Parenting, Photography

If my dad had died in 2003 like he was supposed to, I would've remembered him as a caring, hardworking man. It would not have been a bad memory. Still, I also would've remembered him as a man who never stopped, who didn't know a life existed outside of Type A personalities, and who planned to relax only upon his death.

Dad didn't die in 2003, and for that I'm still pretty damned amazed and thankful. What's more amazing, though, is the effect a near-death experience can have on a guy. Dad is still cantankerous, impatient, and curmudgeony. But, sometimes, when he is alone, he stops. Today, when he thought the rest of us had walked on to look at a potbellied pig, he stepped off into a little grove. I was watching, but he didn't know it. I knocked off a couple quick shots as Dad proved there is time to stop and to...well, do what you're supposed to when you stop.



Sure, it's cliche, but it didn't take away from what it felt like to see my dad, alive and looking every bit of it.

My folks are in town for the weekend. My kid gives me a lot of joy, but there's not very much that makes me smile more than seeing how happy the boy makes his grandparents and vice versa. Here ends the sap. Well, after a couple of pictures.

Labels: Aneurysms, Family, Parenting, Photography

Li'l Otis enjoys the yearly $100,000 toy allowance made possible through a deal worked out by the grandparents, a couple of small foreign governments, and a sweatshop in Juarez. We're having a hard time finding space for all the sports equipment, books, and heavy equipment replicas. There's also the variety of blocks, the likes of which have inspired me with some regularity to throw the goat and scream, "Rock out with your blocks out, buddy!" He humors me, throws his version of the goat, and goes back to doing something a little more mature.

If the compact with Antigua and Figi ever goes south--or the the Juarez sweatshop ever runs out of yeyo--you might think my kid would get bored. Methinks not. If the constant infusion of new entertainment options were to dry up, I'd simply need to live in a place...well, much like I live now. That is, a place where I can go outside pretty much all year without fear of hypothermia or the Minnesota Vikings.

The past few days here have made me a little more grumpy about going to Monte Carlo. That's because it's 50 degrees on the Cote D'Azur and it's 80 degrees on the slopes of Mt. Otis. Under the new Spring sun, my son can find toys in just about anything. Rocks are his favorite, likely because of their multi-use functionality. He's a utilitarian kid. We spent most of yesterday outside in various parks.











It was 8:30 this morning when I let the dog out for her morning constitutional. I stepped out on the back deck in my bare feet. The kid followed me out in his socks. We stood and waited for the mutt to finish up. The air was warm. The moment was short but perfect.

"I have to go work for a while," I said. "You and mommy are going to take me to the airport, okay?"

"Where are you going?" the kid asked.

"A place called Monte Carlo," I said. "Can you say Monte Carlo?"

"Look! A bee!"

And that was that.

With any luck, the toy cartel will keep my kid in good spirits while I'm gone. I assume the sun will still be shining up my return.

Wheels up, cowboy.

Labels: Family, Parenting, Travel, Weather

My wife and I haven't been sleeping together.

For the past few nights, I've slept on the couch or in my office, curled up under an old blanket or with some random pillow that just doesn't feel right. At the moment, my relationship with the wife is such that if I see her, I walk in the other direction. If she dares enter a room with me, she knows she'll get nothing more than a finger pointed in the other direction. I barely have to speak to her anymore. She knows to get the hell away from me. And, try as she may, she can't bring herself to speak to me either.

Strep throat will do that to you.

I don't think I'm breaking any martial vows by telling you my wife's tolerance for pain is equivalent to a three year-old who knows doting adults are watching. She'd rather suffer years of water boarding than stub her toe. Of course, she is also the only member of this family to drop a seven pound weight out of her crotch, so I can't say too much. However, if I were going to say too much, I might say that she handles the pain of strep throat...well, I guess about like anybody else handles the pain of strep throat. I, for one, can't remember ever having been afflicted with the illness. My mom, ever the champion of the Mother Class, insists I did have strep as a kid and likely handled it pretty badly. She also tells me that it feels like someone took a heavy grade sandpaper and snaked out your esophagus. My wife just says it hurts worse than any sore throat she's ever had.

Yesterday her doctor, in spite of a "false negative" strep test, diagnosed my wife with a "nasty throat" and sent her home with some antibiotics. Where normally I might be a bit intrigued by the concept of a spousal nasty throat, in this case, I was willing the believe that the doctor--again, in spite of a negative test--was likely right. And even if she wasn't right, I still wasn't going to go anywhere near my wife.

Now, in normal cases, I'd be a real fucking hero about all of this. If it meant I had to lick said "nasty throat" to prove my love for my wife, I'd do it. I have a fairly decent immune system and only get sick once or twice a year. This time though, I can't afford to take any chances. I'm getting ready to go on an eleven day international trip, during which I figure to be working 16 hours a day or so and traveling on every mode of uncomfortable transport you can imagine (aside: there should be a law that coach must be described as "coach" and not "tourist class" or some other "class." Coach is coach and it means it will suck, no matter how you look at it).

Before the "nasty" diagnosis, I was avoiding close contact and deep high-school-style kissing with my wife. Now, she gets me in thirty-second shots (that's enough snickering from the peanut gallery). That is, I pop into the bedroom to bring her water or broth and noodle soup. She takes it, rasps something that sounds like "I love you" or "I wish you were dead" and crawls back under the covers. And me? Well, I'm Mr. Mom for a while. See, my kid's pain tolerance is better than my wife's, but he's still only two. And with me getting ready to hit the road, the wife can't really afford to give the kid Nasty Throat.

And so now, as the kid naps and I pound through my work-work, I realize I'm unshowered, unshaven, and generally disgusting. I've slept about 12 hours out of the last 72. I actually feel okay so far. However, if this continues for much longer, I'm going to have to see about finding some home remedy for the Nasty.

More on the upcoming trip to come. The kid is stirring and I need to wash myself.

Labels: Family, Health, Marriage, Mt. Otis, Parenting, Physical, Travel

I woke up to an e-mail this morning that made me nauseous. Two of my dearest friends woke up Monday to learn their father had suffered a small stroke. From there, it just got worse. A few minutes ago, I got off the phone with one of the sisters. Apparently, the doctors have found something of greater concern. As I talked to my friend, I heard the same sound that was in my voice a little more than three years ago. Tonight, I'm hoping my friends are as lucky as I was.

For those of you who have only recently started reading here, I'm going to re-post a long series of updates I wrote back when my dad was in the hospital. I do it both to remind me how lucky I was, and to give hope to others.

Peace tonight, friends.

***

From an e-mail I wrote to friends a few days after my dad's collapse from a ruptured aneurysm

The thing about a brain injury--as near as I can tell--is that it not only affects the decision making skills of the afflicted, but also the people in the vicinity. Exactly 12 hours ago I thought we were in a holding pattern in which there would be no further action taken on my father's head until at least the weekend. After all, that was what the doctors said. Of course, the doctors had said the same thing the last two days and changed their minds. On both days we were fairly sure my dad was going to die.

Nine hours ago my dad went in for the second brain surgery he's had this week. This one was more life-threatening than the last. While I'll spare everyone the emotional details, there is something to be said for the cathartic qualities of taking one last chance to tell your father what he has meant to your life.

In what was a relieving but frustrating sequence of events, Dad came out of the second surgery intact and alive. He is again breathing on his own and is sleeping off the anesthesia. Medical-types will be interested to know the doctors have still not been able to fix the original problem. However, today, they removed a blood clot from my dad's brain that was about the size of an egg. That should help some the problems he was having. On the frustrating side, Dad now requires a third essential brain surgery. We have to wait a few days before that will happen.

Michelle has been the backbone I'm sure all of you expected she would be. I'm trying to find the strength to send her back home. However, in the past three days I've had reason to believe my dad was going to die each afternoon. I'm hoping Thursday proves to be an exception to this week's pattern.

Just as important as Michelle's support has been that I've been getting from friends and family around the country. From phone and e-mail messages, to internet comment sites, to blogs, the support has been overwhelming.

This afternoon, I stood in the entryway to the waiting room. My dad had been in surgery for a couple of hours and I was trying to find a way to not puke on the reception desk. A woman walked in carrying a thick envelope. She was looking for my dad's family.

"We had so many e-mails they almost wouldn't fit in the envelope," she said.

I took them and walked toward my assembled family, expecting to read a few. I started flipping through them and started recognizing names. Michelle saw me from across the room and did as she's learned to do when she sees "the look" on my face. A few seconds later, Chelle was sharing all of your well-wishes with my family as I took a walk around the perimeter of the hospital. Sometimes the good stuff can get to as hard as a bad stuff.

I'd like to spend the next hour writing about how much I appreciate everybody. I like to consider myself a rock. Turns out, it's easy to be stable when you're entire foundation is built on friendships like the kinds I've seen this week.

One thought before I see a bed for the first time in 40 hours...

As Chelle and I sit in the Neuro Trauma ICU, our journalist brains kick in. Chelle's heart has found itself in the middle of many a family's pow-wow. As my family goes through it's greatest struggle yet, we are surrounded by at least five families going through the same or worse in the very same week. The names travel from mundane to exotic. The stories are all horrible.

Jennifer Lojudice begged her husband not to buy a sports car. She didn't think she would have to beg him not to drive 120 mph and flip the car. Two weeks ago doctors told her to plan his funeral. Today he is still alive, but barely.

Randy Lawson was Marshfield, Missouri's answer to Lance Armstrong (or in the case of the WYFF'ers, Scott Enright). He got hit by a car while riding down the road. His daughter pulled up on the wreck and called back to ask, "Mom, Daddy didn't go out riding tonight did he?" He's a bag of mangled pieces that sometimes wakes up and sometimes doesn't. We've lost count of the surgeries and number of doctors.

Margaret Edders dad had just retired a couple of years ago. He was bored and decided to help his son clean a high ceiling. He fell off a 12 foot ladder. The concrete below met the left side of his head with enough force to make sure he didn't wake up for the last three days.

There is likely a great message in all this, but I don't feel qualified to assess what it is. Suffice it for me to admit that I have been more naive than I thought I was.

Again, I hope to send Chelle home soon. I don't know when I'll be back. For the sake of my mom, the rest of my family, and frankly myself, I hope I have reason to see Greenville again very soon.

Again, I'll never be able to repay the love you've all shown my father, me, and
Michelle so far.

***

Written after emergency brain surgery #2

The Neuro Trauma ICU has windows and televisions. Though they masquerade well as portals to the outside world, they are more decoration than anything else. On more than one occasion, one of the assembled masses (usually one who hasn't seen a shower in a couple of days) looks up from a crossword puzzle and asks, "What day is it?"

To remedy the problem, at least in part, we've started hanging handmade signs from the bottom of our lifeless TV. Today's read: Today is...FRIDAY...October 24, 2003.

On the surface, Friday was much like any other day this week. Waking up in a fluorescent-lit room, dry-nosed from the conditioned air, and chilled to the bone by the vents overhead. Eating something quick from the hospital cafeteria. Slugging down coffee and double shots of espresso to shake out the cobwebs.

Deep down, today was different. For instance...a few of us cried today...out of happiness. That doesn't happen much around the NTICU.

Dad is waking up from a week in the fog. He has a large semi-circular scar etched around his hairline. His eyes are glazed. His hands often feel cold. Still, he smiles occasionally and is finding some humor in the middle of his hell.

Michelle and I sat next to his bed today. The nurse poked him the chest. They do that to wake him up when he doesn't feel like it.

"Hey, there. Will you tell me your name?" She did this every time she woke him up from his deep nap.

Dad didn't answer. I sat on the edge of my chair, hoping against hope that he would say something...anything resembling his name. Just two days before he had called his feet "books."

Dad didn't say anything.

"What's your name?"

I was getting ready to cry when I heard him say something. The nurse didn't hear him through his croaking throat (the breathing tube made it sore).

"What? What's your name?"

Dad spoke louder...this time with a smile. "I said I thought you'd know it by now."

Dear God, my Dad is joking. Unbelievable.

Two minutes later, after a couple more jokes, Dad looked at Michelle and me. The nurse asked if he knew who we were. I clenched my wife's hand. While he had seen me there a few times, he had never really acknowledged me.

"That's my son, Brad, and his wife, Michelle."

That's when I started crying.

Everyone was smiling today. We understand there are dangerous days ahead. In a few short hours everything could change and we could be facing tough decisions. We've already made a few, including authorizing a surgery that could've killed our father. We did it because we knew he would've wanted it. Though the decision nearly made us collapse emotionally, the surgery worked and we believe it is why Dad is talking to us now.

***

Written during the long wait for brain surgery #3

Dad was always too busy reaching for success to care much about TV. He had a real world to conquer and the relative safety of America's televised fiction was a poor substitute. TV served more as background noise while he and his family sorted through work files. We learned to alphabetize early, not knowing the work we were doing would someday lead to a college education and comfortable lifestyle.

Still, when Dad took a break from ruling his life and business, he would occasionally escape into the TV. While I know we spent more time in front of the tube than I remember, the best memories are the Cardinals/Royals World Series and reruns of Cheers. Dad's laugh shook the room and made you want to laugh even if you didn't get the jokes. And he's still ticked about that call at first base.

Sometimes one of the kids--and sometimes Mom--would start talking ad naseuem during a program. Like a frog about to die in a pot of soon-boiling water, we didn't notice the volume level of the TV going up or the remote control in Dad's hand. Soon enough, though, we'd realize the noise had risen to a silly level. We'd look over and Dad would be smiling quietly. He never had to say a word. The intent was clear. Shut up...please.

This afternoon Jeff and I went back to visit Dad in the middle of the Rams/Steelers game. We chatted quietly and watched the Rams take it to the boys from Pittsburgh. When Chatty Nurse walked in and started quizzing Jeff on his medical aspirations (rather loudly) none of us noticed what we should've expected. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the TV on the wall got louder...until it was maxed out and blasting through the ICU.

Sitting here in the dark, I still feel a little guilty for my first thought. Jesus, Dad has lost it. He can't hear a damned thing and he's trying to turn up the game so he can hear it.

Then I looked down at his face. He didn't wink, but he might as well have. I almost wish I had interpreted the situation for the nurse. Shut up...please.

Dad is in there. He goes to sleep a lot and takes a while to come back after he opens his eyes, but he's in there. That sense of humor that we love is dancing behind his glazed eyes.

For instance, last night I was sitting beside his bed. We were alone and talking about his past and future. I said to him what I actually believe: This situation certainly sucks, but it could've been worse.

Dad said, "Yeah, it could've. I could've died." A brief pause. "That really would've pissed me off."

Me, too, Dad. Me, too.

I walked into the hospital exactly one week ago this minute. By this time next week, I hope...

Well, we all know what we hope.

***

Written as the third surgery was on the horizon

If you dig through the Willis family archives, you'll find a picture of me standing in front of the television. I'm in my underwear and watching the Charlie Brown "Great Pumpkin" special.

As the stories go, as a child I would cry when Charlie Brown holiday specials signed off. I don't know if it was because as a child I thought I'd never see them again or if I simply enjoyed them so much I never wanted it to end.

Tonight I found myself standing in front of one of those old-school hospital televisions watching and waiting with Linus for the Great Pumpkin. I sucked on a sucker and watched quietly. It would only be a few more minutes until visiting hours began. It would probably be the last time I got to talk to my dad before he went into surgery the next morning.

Dad was lying back in the bed with his head propped up. He was holding my mom's hand tighter than he had in the last few days. He was acting tougher than he had all week. He was ready and I could see it. He's a Willis. His eyes might as well have screamed, "Let's get this thing done and get on to what's next!"

It's been almost a week since I stood beside my unconscious father and told him exactly what he meant to my life. As I stood there tonight, I felt as if he had heard me and knew what I wanted to say again. So, I grabbed his hand and held it tighter than I ever had as a child. I kissed him on his cheek and told him I loved him. He looked at me unafraid, and more gentle than I've ever see him. He loved me, too.

I wanted to reassure him, tell him not to be afraid, and that everything was going to be okay. All I could say was, "You're gonna make it through this just fine."

I felt the tears starting to form and didn't want him to see my cry. I escaped behind the curtain. As I started to walk away I heard him say confidently, "Don't worry. We'll be back. We'll be back."

With Dad, everything has always been "we."

"We'll be back," without a doubt meant he will be back.

I'm a lot older than I was when I stood in front of the TV in my underwear watching the Great Pumpkin. But, there is still a part of me that fears it will never come on again. There is still a part of me that's had so much fun that I never want it to end.

If there is anything that brings me comfort as I try to find some rest tonight, it is this: Some things are too good to not bring back every holiday season.

If you've never met my dad, I hope you soon will.

I want you to know the man who is too good to die.

***

Written immediately following the third surgery

Alive

Odd how one can be so full of words when things look so bad. Right now only one word seems appropriate:

Alive.

It took just a few hours. A doctor who will forever have me in his debt (the insurance company should pay for Dad's end) was able to take care of Dad's aneurysm. The chances of it ever being a problem again are about 1 and 500. I'll take that.

Shortly after surgery, Dad began breathing on his own. That is a good indication he is not going to die.

The tension held for another hour or so as Dad slept off the anesthesia. There was a still a chance the surgery had paralyzed him. There was a chance he couldn't move anything from his nose down.

After an hour of sleeping, a nurse convinced Dad to move all his extremities. That included a thumbs-up on the left hand.

We were able to see Dad for about 10 minutes early this afternoon. He was still pretty zonked out, but we think he heard us when we told him he was going to be okay. We saw the hint of a smile under his oxygen mask.

There is still a very long road ahead. While we have reason to be optimistic today, we still don't know the full extent of his brain damage. The right side of his body is still very weak and will require serious rehabilitation. The left frontal lobe of his brain was also damaged by the aneurysm. That could cause some personality changes.

While we don't know what to expect in the coming months, we now have hope Dad can be rehabilitated to something close to how he used to be. It will just take time to figure out how close he can come. If anybody can succeed, he can. After all, he's made it through three brain surgeries in one and half weeks.

The immediate future will be spent in the NTICU. We're hoping he moves out of there by the weekend. After that, it's anybody's guess. We guess it will likely be a couple of weeks in the hospital, followed by some in-patient rehab, followed by going home. I'm sort of hoping Dad makes it home by my Dec. 4th birthday. It's not an unreasonable hope.

While the immediate threat seems to have passed, the updates will continue here as often as we find time to post them. My hope is that someday soon I can turn over the password to Dad and he can post these updates on his own.

And for all the love, thoughts, and prayers you've all sent out over the past 11 days...we love you all. As I've said before...we plan to spend the rest of our lives showing you how much we appreciate every one of you.

My brother and I are now going to smile our way back to the hospital in hopes of talking to our Dad. At some point we plan to talk about the future.

It's a lot more fun to talk about the future when there's a good chance a future is actually possible.


***

Written a few hours before I left the month-long vigil at my Dad's bedside

Saying goodbye

My friend called out of the blue one day. I knew he'd been having some troubles of his own, so it sort of touched me that he took the time to call and see how I was handling Dad's third brain surgery. At the time I was recovering from a serious bout of "what in the world have we just been through?" I was none too coherent.

Through the familiar crackle of two cell phones connected across half a country of towers, my friend offered an observation that I had not yet considered.

"I was thinking this morning," he said in a voice I'd heard talk through many a long night and problem, "you've had to say goodbye to your father three times."

I can't remember how or even if I replied. But it touched me that he'd noticed. He'd been there before. I was still learning.

The first time I said goodbye, it was in a sleep-deprived and grief-induced fog that I hardly recall. I was surrounded by faces, many that I hadn't seen in years. I saw my dad's friends, his coworkers, his family. I heard long stories of his greatness. I had not yet found a way to handle the idea that I could soon be planning my dad's funeral. I didn't even excuse myself. I just left and sat on a retaining wall that surrounded the hospital.

The second time I said goodbye, I stood alone beside Dad's unconscious body, my voice barely rising above the beeping of his vital monitors. I forced out each word, determined that I would finally say what I'd spent three decades trying to express. I told him I loved him, then fought the urge to run out of the hospital. I made it as far as the retaining wall again.

The third time, I had developed a numbness. However, with the lack of hard core emotion came a simple resolve that allowed me to believe that Dad actually might survive. That time, Dad was awake. He smiled at me as the nurses rolled him toward the operating room. I still can't believe that I pressed my hand against the window between us in a half wave. It was all too theatrical to be real.

When the ICU waiting room volunteer pulled me aside and whispered that the docs were able to fix the aneurysm, I couldn't contain the smile. I couldn't help but yell across the room to whoever would listen. "They got it!" My mom nearly collapsed in relief, the first time she publicly broke down during the entire ordeal.

A slow calm set in. It was one that said, "Save your goodbyes for another day, young man."

It seems like something that happened when I was a kid, but it was two weeks ago today.

Maybe I wouldn't have thought about the three goodbyes again for a while. Maybe I wouldn't have thought about how hard it is to tell the only male role model and hero of your life goodbye.

Thing is...in nine hours I've got to look my old man in the face and tell him I'm leaving. Two hours later, I'll be on a plane. And a few hours later I'll land in another world, one my Dad barely knows, and one that is too far away to look my Dad in the eye and tell him everything is going to be okay.

I know I've got to go. I know Jeff felt the exact same way when he got on a plane a couple of days ago. We both know we're leaving Dad in great hands. We both know there is little more we can do here but provide a small amount of moral support.

It's still one of the toughest things we've had to do. That is, next to saying goodbye to our dad three times.

Thursday afternoon, Dad will see the real world for the first time since October 19th. As part of his therapy, the therapists are taking him to Barnes and Noble. He'll get to shop around and see something other than a sanitized hospital room or what must seem like a torture chamber-ish therapy gym.

The updates will continue to show up here on this site, so we encourage you to keep reading. But from two sons who will be several hundred miles away, we'd appreciate it if you'd look in on Mom and Dad when you get a chance. Mom is going to do a great job and Dad should recover soon. Still, they could probably use the occasional smile in front of them.

To all the people we've known forever and to all the people we've met in the past four weeks...and to everyone who has been keeping tabs on Dad from afar...we offer our eternal gratitude, endless respect, and undying love.

Somehow...our family just keeps getting bigger and bigger...and somehow Mom and Dad still don't have grandkids.

How about that?


***

Written a few weeks after the surgery when I finally started believing everything was going to be okay

I suppose if you're not a Willis you might find the following statement a little silly. I mean, even some Willi (that's the plural of Willis, by the way) find it a little silly. Nonetheless, it's proven true quite a few times.

Where there is a Willis, there is a way.

Apparently that axiom is among the many things Dad has not forgotten. Today, he applied it to walking.

That's right. Six hundred feet. The length of two football fields. More than one tenth of a mile.

The stubborn sonofagun walked. No cane. No walker. No shoulder on which to hold.

The guy walked.

Today he saw his house for the first time in a month. Tomorrow he moves back in. He'll sleep in his own bed, under a roof he worked his entire life to have over his head.

I've seen Dad do a number of amazing things in the last 31 days. I didn't actually see this free-walking thing happen. I wish I had. Still, the feeling is unexplainable. It's almost as powerful as the grief we all felt in October.

Grief is an odd thing. Some of us hold it in tight. Some of us let it go. I was reminded of that fact yesterday. It was the first time I'd been on a murder scene since I got back to work.

I was in a poor neighborhood. The cops and the reporters were doing their best to think about things other than the two guys inside the little brown house. Those two guys had bullet holes in their heads.

There were other things to occupy our thoughts. Gallows humor, the chief coping mechanism of cops and journalists worldwide, took over.

Someone spotted the dead dog on the front porch of one house. A taxidermist had done a heckuva job on the mutt. Apart from the obvious rigor that had set in many year earlier and the cob webs hanging off its nose, the dog looked like it was alive and alert.

Then, someone else spotted the dozens of plastic spoons, knives, and forks sticking up from a flower bed. While we were sure the homeowner had a purpose for the dirty cutlery, we joked about her planting a plasticware garden for many a picnic lunch come springtime.

It was an odd neighborhood, indeed, made even stranger by the dead people a few yards away.

The jokes, told in whispers near the fringes of the growing crowd, served their purpose. They kept the cops and reporters from going slowly insane. But no joke could stop the growing level of grief in the crowd. The dead guys had big families. Nothing was going to stop the screams. A photographer snapped this picture as the grief came to its climax.



One woman's face turned into a mask of insanity as she screamed. A man collapsed on the ground like a forgotten toy.

As it always has, the sound turned my stomach. It was made even worse this time by knowing I was very close to having those screams escape my mouth a month ago.

Over the course of the past month, Jeff and I talked about whether this experience might help us or hurt us in our jobs. Whether it would make us more sympathetic or make us unable to deal with what we have to see everyday.

The jury is still out on that one.

But one thing is sure: We know how thankful we should be.

And because we know how thankful we should be...we are.

***

Now, in 2007, my dad is Dad again. He is also Papa.

In a couple of months, we're going to a Cards game together.

I am among the luckiest people I know.

Labels: Aneurysms, Brain Injury, Family

With each passing year, the Valentines Day expectations around Mt. Otis get smaller and smaller. Mrs. Otis respects my disdain for the holiday. I humor her attempts to make it relevant. This year, we worked together. Instead of buying useless gifts for each other, we went out for a nice meal last Friday night, had some drinks, and came back home to watch "Snakes on a Plane." You know, lovey stuff.

Part of the deal on spending a nice little sum on a meal and $3.99 for SoaP was that we wouldn't buy gifts this year. In the past, I did a lot of the roses and other romantic crap. Mrs. Otis bought very thoughtful gifts (just two months off of Christmas, my level of thoughtfulness and creativity is usually still in the wane). And so, no gifts.

Last night, I was at my local Men's Club. And by Men's Club, I mean room full of boys (ages 17-70), thousands of wagering dollars, and a new cocktail waitress who obviously forgot to tell her breast augmentation expert when it was time to take a coffee break. In this room were discussions of true romance. One man--gold chained and overweight--spoke of divorce, or after a few drinks, the donkey shows he'd seen in the Far East. Other men would speak reverentially about their wives in between mad cussing fits, driven by poker tilt and general rage.

It was around 8pm when Stan walked in holding a red five gallon bucket. Stan is a genial guy, rarely swears, and acts a lot like that older uncle who always gives you a chocolate bar when you see him.

"Oh, jesus," I muttered. I like Stan. I really do. But, this was a little much.

In the bucket rested about 20 dozen roses of varied colors.

"Just in case anybody forgot," he said with a smile. Thirty-five people looked up and pretended to dismiss Stan's entrepreneurial efforts. "Just $20 a dozen," he said.

Stan is not a late-night guy, so I was surprised to see him stay past 1:30am. Even more surprising was the line that formed around him around 1:45am. He was selling and selling fast.

I couldn't decide which was correct. Was this of a bunch of forgetful, unromantic, painfully inept guys? Or was I watching these usually tough men turn a little soft. Before I could figure out which, I was buying a dozen white roses and a little red balloon. Just because I thought they would make the wife smile.

I guess it was pretty clear. We may act like a bunch of tough guys who talk about Far East sex shows and try to wrap our head around the concept of double-D breasts on a 105 pound girl, but deep down, we're romantics. Or something like romantics, anyway.

"Be sure you put them in water before morning," Stan said.

Love comes in many forms...and sometimes it comes in a five gallon bucket.

Labels: Family, Marriage, Mt. Otis, Valentines Day

I wasn't going to admit it. In the current media climate, it seemed unseemly. Simply mentioning it is sure to draw photographers and nosy reporters to my front door. Worse, it stands to adversely affect my relationship with my wife, a woman who is understanding...to a point.

Before I make this admission, I want you all to know that my motives here are pure. My only goal is to make sure the world knows the truth. Any thing else that my come of this admission is beyond my control. I just want to be honest.

I am the father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby.

I don't plan to file any lawsuits or submit to any paternity test. I won't tell you how the relationship started. Nor will I tell you how it ended. I will only tell you that the time in between resulted in the conception of Dannielyn (a name that I accepted on the grounds that I get to name the next child "Q*Bert").

It goes without saying that I am crushed by Anna's untimely death. While it did not susprise me, it was an unfortunate way of making sure little Q*Bert would never see this world.

Anyone wishing to discuss this matter, please understand that I am in a time of greiving. I'm spending a lot of time trying to explain to my wife how I ended up in a threesome with Anna and Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband. Oh, there, now you've made me say it.

I will make no further statements on this subject and ask that all members of the media respect my privacy during this tragic time.

Note: It has come to my attention that I am not the only one making this confession. I guess in this world of money/celebrity-hungry vulturism, there is no end to people's need to be seen and recognized. I, for one, am disgusted by this kind of behavior. How disgusted? I may just reveal where Anna's viola-shaped freckle is.

Labels: Anna Nicole Smith, Family

It began with a discussion about where we'd put our Charlie Brown Christmas Tree. The wife wanted to break from tradition and move the tree to a different corner of our living room. This plan involved the moving of furniture and several other unpleasant duties that may or may not have involved me sliding down our chimney in a pair of ladies underwear. When the discussion was complete, the tree was in a new place, a sofa table had been moved to a different part of the house, and I was getting in touch with my feminine side.

The move also involved the realtively easy movement of a small cubish table from underneath one of our front windows, which I accomplished despite my new light in the loafers leanings.

"MOLD!" the wife screamed and ran to our neighbor's house, carrying the kid in a bubble.

I gave her a ring on the cell and informed her that the stain on the carpet wasn't mold. It was obviously a stain leeched from the cheap-ass cube storage table. Of course, I knew it was mold, but I wasn't about to let her know that. My guess was the kid had spilled his water under the table at some point. No reason to worry. I coaxed the wife back into the house with an assortment of chocolates, a sex toy, and the DVD box set of Extreme Home Makeover.

So, we went to the Bahamas and the moldy conditions at the five-star Atlantis Resort and Casino somehow allayed my wife's concerns about our house. It was clear, if the opulent Atlantis had mold problems, our five-inch-square stain wasn't a really big issue.

Upon our return home, I made the mistake of packing my bags and once again leaving the house. This time, I left the wife behind to care for the kid and home. It was an annual boys' trip and, frankly, the lady was handling it very well. In fact, my cell phone only rang twice while I was on a four-day binge of sleepless poker playing and silliness. One time, the wife was calling me to tell me the boy was wearing big boy underwear for the first time. It was a sweet moment and one for which I was happy to take a break from my endeavors.

The second call began, in part, like this:

"MOLD!"

In fact, no more mold had developed. But my wife, as is her wont, had discovered a whole new calamity.

"The floor is wet. I mean SOAKED."

Some very heavy and persistent rains were hitting Mt. Otis and, apparently, there was a leak. The floor was wet and the prospect of more mold was, apprently, more than immediate. In fact, around the same time my wife called, Atlantis announced a new ad campaign that began, "Atlantis: Now with less mold than Mt. Otis!"

Of course, as a good husband, I offered to catch the next flight home and stick my finger in the dike. My wife said she would endeavor to persevere. She, the kid, and the dog took turns making sure the mold didn't spread to the neighbors' home.

Though the crisis was averted with the passing of the rain, the entire problem of the wet floor remained. While, upon my return home I could find no evidence of the dampness, my wife insisted it existed.

A brief aside: My wife, whom I love with every fiber of your being (and mine), believes everything is broken, especially if it isn't working for her. Just this afternoon, her computer told her it was about to shut down.

"What's happening? Something is wrong!" she exclaimed in her best 'this is broken' voice. A little investigation showed the laptop had not been plugged in for a couple of hours.

Okay, so though I could find no evidence of wetness (and likely won't for some time after this post), I agreed we should call Pike's.

Pike's, you ask?

Indeed. This is the company we employed to spend an inordinate amount of time at our house last year so that we may spend an inordinate amount of money to make sure