Sammy, Sammy, are You Ready?

As I was looking through family photos to submit to my son’s yearbook staff, I determined I was having one of those “moments.” I have a lot of them lately with the rapid advance of the firstborn’s senior year. They are near-breathless moments that rattle my heartstrings with the insulting yet triumphant fact that he is nearly grown and I am getting old.

The photos, a mixed bag of babyhood and grade school shots, provided a bit of time travel:

a newborn wrapped tight in a hospital blanket

our big yellow hound perched in ridiculous profile atop a teetering birdbath, boy at her feet

a grade school Easter egg hunter

a teenager poised for who-knows-what leaning into his silver sedan at dusk

Moments like these validate what I knew instinctively all along. Glimpses of our history together─ the laughter on the road, the tears over lost loved ones, the anger beneath the surface, the fear inside unspoken words, the love within every single embrace and whispered prayer─confirm that being a parent makes me deeply grateful for this life as well as a little shocked that children seemingly become adults overnight.

Years of transitioning from one stage to the next blend and soften the stark reality that photographs showcase with such bold and undeniable detail. Sam is now taller than his dad. He does actually hug his sister, willingly. I am grayer than his dad, proving his father has weathered the years far better than I. This may have something to do with the fact that sentimental activities like looking at old pictures only make him grin, while they thrust me into an exhausting search for lost time.

Although I want to cheer and celebrate the victory of delivering such a grand guy to the world, the overriding desire is to chain the kid to his bedroom and deny him free reign of his destiny.When did this boy who used to spend hours devouring the pages of Calvin and Hobbes turn into a man who talks politics, religion and the complex language of the NFL? When did he learn the ways of the sneaky old world?

These yearbook photos will go on a page that honors his accomplishments and congratulates him on his high school graduation. It’s become a popular tradition for parents to purchase a page and provide photos and a note as a testament to the fact that their kid is, well, theirs.

There is so much I would have liked to say on that page, yet I kept our parental musings short. But given more space, I might have reminded my male child of just how splendid life is with him as our son.

I would remind him:

Even when you launch yourself from this nest we made eighteen years ago, we will still be in the picture. We are that part of you that makes you know you are loved unconditionally, trusted to the depths of your soul and understood at the chromosomal level.

You have never walked alone and never will. We take immense comfort in the knowledge that your faith is secure and your purpose is centered on good works and gratitude.

Whether there is a photo of it or not, we can be seen in the way you choose a good book or take comfort in a good friend’s smile or dance like a fool simply because it makes no sense to do otherwise. Nothing is as liberating as being able to laugh at yourself. (I think I taught that one best.)

We will always show up when you think about doing something you know you should not. It’s called a guilty conscience.

We are there, reminding you that everything happens in God’s time, not ours.

When you see that stray dog, and wonder if you should pick it up, we are the ones who already have you on the side of the road, in the rain, Samaritan heart full-throttle. Mom and Dad, invisible, are in every moment that leaves you marveling over the wildly intoxicating beauty of life. Your smile in that photo is our smile, one way or another.

I have these crazy moments, yes. But they are opportunities for me to reflect on my handiwork as a parent, to cherish this gift of an adult child and look forward to what is yet to come. I need these moments to remind me that this is a good thing, growing up. I just wish I was as good at it as this boy of mine seems to be.

“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”─ 1Corinthians 13:13

Of grown-ups, goons and getting together

Last weekend, I had the pleasure of hanging out with a group of friends, some of whom I’ve known since kindergarten. Hopefully everyone has friends like these, the kind you may not see for years at a time but can pick up right where you left off, talking about everything from college escapades to the unsavory business of gray hair and spare tires.

It’s difficult to describe, but old friends just make time together especially rewarding.

The fact that this particular group claims a wicked sense of humor and an appreciation for off-color jokes definitely keeps things more than interesting. They are kind and mindful of everyone’s personal trials and tribulations without being a wet blanket. Each one of us claims a close personal tie to the Mississippi Gulf Coast and a deep-seated love of seafood, saltwater and days and nights spent in the company of both.

But of all the satisfying reasons we have to gather, I think it is our common history of doing just what we did last weekend that gives us great incentive to remain good friends. Hanging out, retelling the same crazy, hilarious stories, adding some new ones for extra measure, we all simply enjoy time together.

When my parents passed away a couple of years ago, one of the comforts that helped us manage that tremendous loss was the fact that our family shared countless good times over the years. There were no regrets as far as “I wish we had seen each other more.” We cooked and savored wonderful meals, visited through long afternoons on the front porch, celebrated holidays and birthdays featuring a million or more hugs.

The memories we made together are what get us through our being apart.

Last weekend, ten of us long-time friends and one brave new one descended on Destin, FL with twelve kids. Eyes popped and mouths fell open as the younger set witnessed their parents let loose with endless ribbing and fully animated stories.

I suppose it’s a bit scary to see old Mom and Dad laugh like goons and head to the beach in the wee hours like a band of gypsies. Who knows if they will choose to maintain the same kind of friendships we have? But for those three days, they witnessed their parents adding yet another memorable chapter to the book of our lives and underscoring the vast rewards of lasting friendships.

Making friends reminds me of planting new trees. You can always search out a new one. The more, the better. But it’s the ones with deep roots beside your own that will always cast a wide and comforting canopy, buffering us from the storms of life and reminding us of the beauty. Much like the irresistible shade of a Coastal live oak, the laughter shared with these old friends is uncommonly good, a pleasure I hope we all cherish for many years to come.

Newspapers Need Great Stories Told Well

Much of what’s to be read online in the news revolves around loss of jobs and our ailing economy. I work as a freelance writer, which is a succinct way of saying my income depends on someone willing to pay me to write.

Cut to the cascade of failing newspapers and out-of-work reporters and editors, and I’m sorely aware that something has gone terribly wrong with the business of journalism. What happened to our newspapers?

I’m not what you’d call a real reporter. My experience as a journalist arose from an intense desire to work from home while I tended my children and an average ability to construct newsworthy features. My college degree is in biology, but my passion lies in telling stories.

When you work as a freelance writer, the opportunities to meet interesting people are endless, as are the opportunities to meet people who think they are interesting. Sometimes, you discover you are conversing with someone whose experiences would read like an Oscar-winning screenplay. I love those times. That’s when the writing is less for the buck and more for the sheer pleasure of catching a glimpse of a lovely life.

I came to know of such a life when a man named Norm wrote to me about one of my newspaper columns.

Norm loved puns. He told very silly jokes. I never met him in person, but coming to know him through his emails and posts to a humor writers’ group led me to believe that this man laughed long and loudly much of the time.

Several months into our correspondence, Norm shared that he had had a stroke years before that left him fairly limited in his ability to move. He adapted by using a motorized chair. He participated in university research in Florida that developed devices for survivors of stroke and other impairments. He was a fighter and a lover of life.

Norm’s emails were usually brief, devoid of capital letters, and always, always funny. But, one day I opened an email that was fairly lengthy. I imagine it took him hours to type it. It was a love story. I remember reading that email over and over, stunned by two things: there was not one stupid joke in it, and it was a hell of a story. A true story. The kind of story that, had he shared it with a real reporter, he might have seen it win a Pulitzer prize before he passed away.

When he fell gravely ill as a result of a second stroke, his daughter sent an email to those of us who had shared emails and online friendships with her dad. She warned us that it was unlikely Norm would recover. He died a few days later. The family established a memorial in his honor online where we could post our condolences and share our love of Norm. It was the first time I ever saw a photo of him. He was handsome, smiling like he’d won the lottery in every last frame.

I never wrote about Norm because I felt that his family might want to tell his story in their own way. His daughter is a writer, an obviously talented one from what I read in her correspondence with me. It’s not my story to tell, but it is my inspiration for believing that there are truly remarkable people with incredible stories that do make a powerful difference in the way the rest of us live our lives.

So, I wonder, how much of this mess that is the floundering newspaper industry can be tied to the fact that we have devalued the talent of intelligent, creative writing? Has our need for instantaneous news and bawdy tales of the sensational overtaken the potential for finely crafted stories to remind us that we humans actually have a lot to live for, regardless of the stock market and the current status of Britney Spears?

When I was a kid, I read the newspaper. I worked as much of the crossword as my limited skills allowed. I learned about government and how to cook, about local veterans and faraway places and that a columnist from Dayton, Ohio could make my South Mississippi mother laugh out loud on a weekly basis, in spite of us clinging kids and only three channels of network TV.

I'm not saying there are no talented reporters with bylines in newspapers. I'm saying that somewhere along the line, those who manage newspapers let go of the fundamental purpose of newspapers, that the bottom line shouldn't be about keeping advertisers happy. The bottom line should be about serving your readership, and that means hiring and supporting a staff of competent, hopefully imaginative writers who cover the news, sports and stories of human interest with perhaps a little fire in the belly.

Whatever the future holds for newspapers, I hope somebody remembers that whether it’s printed on paper or posted online, the written word remains one of our most treasured and effective tools in documenting the current state of human affairs. It’s a condition that could use some substantial encouragement in the form of great stories told well.

When Toads and Fears Collide

Honey patrols our back yard for toads as if the creatures harbor some secret sinister agenda. One of four poodles we indulgently adopted, Honey faithfully confronts toads in a comical assault, something we call “Poke-A-Toad.”

When our crew of canines bolts outside to empty bladders and bowels, Honey circumnavigates our fenced lot on self-appointed border patrol. She stops dead in her tracks when she discovers yet another amphibious intruder. Her helicopter tail runs full throttle as she prods the hapless toad with tentative paws.

Thankfully, she never tries to eat them. In fact, she barely touches them. She appears innately afraid of, yet irresistibly drawn to toads. She is wary, yet boldly curious. Often, while she lounges inside, a toad will land on the door sill in full view through the French doors. Honey comes completely undone.

We live down south where a plentiful variety of amphibians enjoy a warm, moist climate much of the year. After Hurricane Katrina, it seemed the selection expanded exponentially. I’ve lived in Mississippi for 44 years. I’ve seen wall crawlers since that storm that never before appeared among the typical salamanders and tree frogs familiar to my outdoor jaunts.

Maybe I just never noticed them. Maybe I was too focused on other things, much like Honey and her toads. She won’t give a gecko the time of day. Every night, when all the other dogs answer the call for bed, Honey insists on making one last circuit. Sometimes I have to physically retrieve her. She watches the windows as I tote her inside.

One morning, the unthinkable happened. A toad made it inside. My son spotted one in the corner of our half-bath, tucked in the shadows. Of course, we immediately summoned Honey.
“Look what’s in the bathroom, Honey!” we chimed. She remained motionless, perched on the sofa back, unaware that her worst fear was about to be realized.
I picked her up and dropped her beneath the pedestal sink in full view of her nemesis. The toad crouched in the corner, and Honey surprised us all.

She did absolutely nothing. Not a whimper or bark of defiance did she utter. She simply locked eyes with her web-footed demon then quietly walked away.

Perhaps her behavior should be dismissed as just one more puzzling poodle oddity, but I sensed there was some semblance of a metaphor there.

For Honey, the threat of toads proved almost unbearable at times. Yet, once the unknown was finally realized, fear gave way to understanding. Truth reigned supreme, and the only thing left to face was the possibility that she had wasted way too much time worrying over toads.

She still pokes toads, still takes it upon herself to diligently track their scent and alert the entire neighborhood of their tireless invasion. But I detect a calm resolve where previously there was simply raw anxiety. She has seen the cornered toad, and it is—completely boring.

Then and Now

A guy I knew from community college called this week. He had heard that my parents had passed away a year and a half ago and wanted to share his condolences. My dad had taught him when we were both students in the biological sciences.

When I heard Ray's voice on the answering machine, I didn't recognize it. But when we talked, I recalled how he always made my dad laugh out loud. We shared a deep and abiding appreciation for irreverent jokes. They still make me howl--and blush.

It's strange to strike up a conversation with someone who knew you in a "previous" life. A friend of mine refers to that time as "BC," Before Children. When I think about how very naive and green I was at that stage of development, I cringe. To recall being 18 years old is to instantly feel 180. Many miles and memories span those 25 years.

I was a new student and working part-time at Biloxi Animal Hospital. My dad taught biological sciences. I enrolled in his classes as part of my pre-veterinary curriculum. We learned a lot about living organisms in zoology, anatomy and physiology. But that's not all.

We shared a common experience of learning that was as diverse as the creatures we classified. We learned how to love the natural world. Students from all walks of life, all ages and backgrounds filled those classrooms. My dad reveled in that. He loved to open minds and guide his students toward a lifelong love of learning, especially those who had to work extra hard just to be there.

Dad was a tough instructor. His tests were notoriously challenging. Yet, students like Ray took away from his lessons the heart of what he most wanted to share--a thirst for knowledge and satisfaction in learning.

Ray tells me he is working on his doctorate in marine biology. He is 51. I know that my dad would be glad of that. His former student told tales of Dad busting a gut trying not to laugh while conducting labs or lectures. Ray's words brought bittersweet feelings that resonate with what I loved about Dad so very much. He found humor in most everything, even when he was up to his elbows in dissected fetal pigs or explaining for the umpteenth time the Watson and Crick model of DNA.

Perhaps that is why I take such pleasure in the fact that my own children harbor that same love of learning. My children revel in the sciences like their Paw Paw. They read and write with passion. And I remain fascinated by the wonders of our natural world, including off-color humor.

Good luck with the marine biology, Ray, and know that somewhere out there Dad is cheering you on.

Check out my essay in "The Home Forum" of The Christian Science Monitor:

Spider Lilies Herald Welcome Seasonal Shift

Insanity Required for Parenting Gig

More than sixteen years ago, my husband and I became parents when I gave birth to our son. Our daughter arrived on the scene a couple of years after that. Suddenly, they are both in high school, both on the fast track to leaving us for college. It occurred to me recently that we just might survive this parenting gig.

When they were babies, veteran parents offered sage advice, from pacifiers to toilet training to teaching them their A, B, C’s. With all the do’s and don’ts proffered, we had to find our own way. Mainly, we had to realize that to raise kids, you have to be a little bit crazy because no truly sane person could stomach this job.

Doctors will tell you that as you age, your body changes and so does your ability to do things you’ve always done with ease. I’m not so sure about that. I’m thinking that it could be this parenting endeavor that has short-circuited my brain function to that of a house plant. When my back aches and my muscles throb, I feel certain it has more to do with the fact that the last time I truly relaxed was 1991.

My son started driving. This singular event has altered the nature of my psyche to the point that I’m fairly certain the person I used to be was abducted by aliens and supplanted by a large lump of anxiety fashioned into some trembling semblance of the former me, but with lots more gray hair. Every time the car leaves the driveway, so do half my nerves.

I shared my concerns with my husband one evening when our son’s expected time of arrival came and went.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to get used to this,” I told him stiffly. “Ever.”

“I see what you mean,” he said with a smirk. “I’m sure my mom still worries every day that I’m driving out there all on my own. It’s been what, only three decades?”

Where logic is his forte’, mine is listening for the garage door to open.

“It’s just that so many things can happen on the road. And we’re just allowing him to go, free as a bird. What kind of parent does that?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Normal ones, maybe?”

That’s when I remembered that to be a parent, you have to be insane.

One afternoon, my son tromped across the front yard to check the mail. I watched him from the front porch as this small flutter of panic rose in my chest. He is grown! Years ago, he would walk to the mailbox as I peered from the window, making sure he remembered to look for cars that could flatten him. Now he drives off and I’m not there to remind him, “Look both ways, mister!”

In no time, this girl of ours will be getting her driver’s permit and testing the highways herself. It is more than I can fathom. Every wreck I see, every patrol car in hot pursuit, every ambulance with siren wailing makes me want to pull over and lose my lunch. And this is normal?

Through every stage of their development, I have admired their abilities and strengths. Our children have good hearts, good heads on their shoulders, and recognize what a tremendous gift a life of purpose can be. They amaze me daily. Worry me constantly. But they totally make this parenting thing worthwhile.

What I hope they realize is that the term “driving me crazy” must have been coined by a parent, most likely while pounding an imaginary brake and muttering prayers of deliverance through gritted teeth. I also hope they understand that this white-knuckled ride we share with them is one we wouldn’t trade for anything, in spite of that requisite loss of sanity. Parenting proves to be the ultimate, most rewarding job, followed closely by backseat driving.