Lesson in Evolution

This past summer, my family and a select group of friends, had the privilege of experiencing evolution in action.  I realize it is nothing more than a theory concocted by a bearded man who spent a large amount of time communing with animals in a remote location.  But, that is hardly the point.

We had some friends up to the family lake house one weekend this summer.  It is a trip we do every year with this group of friends.  Between the three families that attend, there are twelve children ranging in age from one year to around 13 or so.  I am never sure about the age of other people's kids.  Anyway, all that to say, it is at best organized chaos.  We cooked out, watched movies, went skiing, caught countless bream and bass, and did a lot of swimming.  On the final day of our sojourn, we had lunch on the dock so we could soak up the last of the weekend.  Docks on our lake are not your typical dock.  They are more like extravagant garages.  They have at least two boat slips to put ski boats and pontoon boats into that can be hoisted out of the water.  They are all double decker so you can hang out on the top, have a high dive, that kind of thing.  It also gives you a good vantage point to see over the water.  We all simultaneously looked up to see a large flock of geese come around the corner in our general direction.  

Perfect!  We had sandwiches, which when you have as many children around as we had, means you have plenty of crusts and extras to throw into the water to attract waterfowl.  We lured the unsuspecting prey to our dock by dropping the crusts and some chips into the water.  Then, my eldest son, much to my surprise, jumped in, right in the middle of them.  I did not even have to say anything.  He just took it upon himself to scare the hell out of that flock of geese.  It was incredible.  They scattered and dodged and ducked like someone had yelled "Fire" in the middle of church.  What he was not prepared for was the leader of the group to turn on him and start attacking.  My son handled it well, got out of the way and came up laughing.  It was hilarious.  I jumped in just because he seemed to be enjoying it so much.  

We climbed out of the water so we could do it again.  We lured the geese back over and this time I jumped first.  This time it did not go so well.  One of the younger geese, full grown but part of this year's brood, did not get out of the way.  I landed on that thing with my foot and power drove it into the depths.  It was awful.

The big goose started attacking me before it took off to join the remnants of its flock.  That poor goose that I landed on was not in good shape.  I looked up to see all, and mean all, of the kids leaning over the railing, their eyes the size of potatoes, watching this whole thing unfold.  The LW, always the first one into action, quickly shooed them away with the promise of candy and sweets and did her best to distract them with song and dance.  Those are not always her greatest attributes, but they do distract.  I think they were too shocked to truly move on.  Two words for you: trau-ma.

The neighbors were watching the events unfold as well.  I think they called animal control on me, and would have called PETA and the police and had me arrested had I not gone over and apologized.

My friend David Bennett couldn't look me in the eye for the rest of the summer.  All he could do was light a cigarette with shaky fingers.  

After it was all said and done, I had to spend some time with the kids, explaining what accidents are.  They, amazingly, bounced back rather quickly and moved on to what they would normally do.  Not me. I was green for hours and could not talk about it for 4 days.  I am just now about to write about it, and it has been three months.  

I was recounting this story to a friend of mine over lunch.  He laughed at my pain and generally mocked what he did not understand.  He then said, "Well, all I can say is that he must have been a slow one and would not have made it anyway.  I mean, if that goose did not have the sense to get out of the way of a falling human, he did not have a chance in the wild."  And all of a sudden, I felt much better, suddenly vindicated by that crazy man on the obscure island in the middle of nowhere.

What I have not told you, kind reader, is that I tried to sink that thing, but geese are bouyant and cannot be sunk in a traditional manner.  I put a large rock on it, hoping a few turtles and schools of catfish would come by and strip it clean.  My plan did not work very well.  Basically I left it for my sister to clean up when she was up there the following weekend with her friends.

Sniping 101

I made a last minute purchase at our school auction last weekend.  I have an unblemished record of making historically poor choices on unplanned buys.  I am the demographic grocery store managers have in mind when they put all that stuff you don’t need by the register, knowing some poor sap is going to see something he absolutely cannot live without, and buys it. 

Well, this purchase appeared to be no different my other previous poor unplanned purchases.  But, like most of them, it was one I could not pass up.  It was an opportunity to learn to accurately shoot a rifle up to 1000 yards the following Saturday.  Who would turn that down?  The LW, that's who.  Turns out she already had plans for us to attend the Auburn- Georgia game.  My purchase went over like a sack of rocks.  Though I do enjoy a good college football game, I also enjoy shooting things at great distances and living out my dream of being a Marine Corps Sniper.  I want to be invisible, shoot the enemy from far away, with s silencer, and slip out completely undetected.

Our "teacher" was a colorful character straight out of the United States armed forces about 40 years ago.  He was indeed a great teacher and knew his weaponry better than just about anyone out there.  I think that is why he earned the moniker Chief.  He was also exactly what you imagine an aging Vietnam Veteran would look like.  He could cuss better than anybody I have ever been around, was dramatic when it came to the purpose of weapons and the danger they present when used carelessly, and slowly warmed up to a bunch of wealthy white guys who really didn’t know what they were doing there in the first place.  I say slowly because he certainly did not like us at first.  He saw us arrive, and then looked down on us with disdain for the next several hours. 

I would think he has more than his fair share of war stories, and I am glad there are men like him out there to defend our country.  I certainly did not want to be on his bad side.  I am confident he could have easily killed all of us without a second thought, hidden the bodies where they would never be found, and go about his normal day.  We could probably use someone like him in congress.  Total loose cannon.

What started out looking like another poor choice, actually turned out pretty good for me.  I am confident the LW was not pleased, especially when she was stuck at the house, by herself, with four children, and a babysitter who did not want to show up, making her late to the game.  Fortunately for this sharpshooter, everything worked out.  Auburn won.  My wife was there to see it.  And, though I may not be completely qualified to take out General Stalin at three quarters of a mile, I can put a bullet in the dot on a target at 200 yards and not break a sweat.  I am looking forward to Sniping 201.

Worst Case Scenario

For the past 36 hours, we have had a clogged toilet.  Not that big of a deal.  When my lovely wife Jennifer (henceforth to be referred to as the LW.  Depending on how we are getting along at the time, LW can either be the Lovely Wife, or the Little Woman.  The beauty of that is I am the one in the know, not her.) begins by asking if we should "call a plumber," my wounded ego politely declined.  

"Heck no, we don't need a plumber.  I can handle a clogged toilet!" 

Much to my chagrin, I could not handle it.  I plunged and rooted and splashed until I had blisters on my hands - all for naught.  Whatever dark thing was lurking in that murky abyss had become firmly entrenched behind bulwarks of the most God-awful stuff you could ever imagine. 

As I am sure you are aware, I am a man of finer tastes, and did not want to risk putting my hands into a liquid mess of this magnitude, especially with no clear understanding of what may await my timid grasp. It was bad enough to be in such close proximity to it, but the thought of actually immersing part of my body in that mess was entirely too taxing for my refined constitution.  I tried to convince the LW that we needed her more delicate and sensitive hands to reach in and pull out whatever was in there.  Her little fingers are reminiscent of a raccoon, and can reach into corners my more masculine fingers cannot get to.  And, with four children, I've seen her handle substances that would green the gills of the most seasoned plumber.  But surprisingly, she preferred to call a someone who knew what he was doing.  I, again, in my great wisdom and powerful man-knowledge of all things home related, refused. 

I stood poised over the bowl for what felt like hours as I slowly worked up the courage to do what must be done. Finally, I tore down my inner will and with a gasp and a plunge - reached into the depths.  Much to my distress, I found nothing.  

I decided to hold off and wait it out a little while because you never know, sometimes these things fix themselves.  My car has done that on numerous occasions.  So, I left. 

Imagine my consternation upon my return several hours later to find the toilet in the same sad state of disrepair.  It had not magically fixed itself.  I, a full-grown well-educated man with four children, actually believed that the clogged toilet would "be better" when I got home.  I forgot that there is no such thing as magic.  

As the matter had grown somewhat more dire, I made a quick trip to the Home Depot in search of a tool.  Buying a tool is a sheer-intimidation-offense move.  Sometimes just the act of buying the tool fixes things. 

Returning with what I thought was going to be the final solution in my hands, I knew the end was in sight.  I am sure it has a technical name.  I simply called it the $8 toilet unclogger. 

I jammed this puppy in there and started twisting and tugging and shoving and pulling.  Nothing.  I plunged some more.  Nothing.  Finally, I had the LW go out to the garage to retrieve some vice grips so that I could take the toilet off its moorings and really get to the root of the issue, but before I could do that, I had to empty the bowl.  

It was awful.  I mean it was like something out of Trainspotting.  I am still trying to block out certain scarring images.  

I asked the LW had to go to the sand box in the back and bring back a couple of buckets so that I could begin scooping the mess out, filling said buckets, and dumping them in what must now be a toxic swamp on the neighbor's side of the fence.  The plan was simple - I would fill a bucket and either hand it to her or bring it outside myself. 

The plan was working smoothly.  I handed the first bucket to the LW who, complaining bitterly, hauled it out.  The second bucket was far larger, probably holding about 4 gallons of sand in its heyday.  I filled it with at least 3 gallons of toxic mess.  I then gingerly picked it up by the sides, gently laughing to myself, "Wouldn't it be funny if I dropped this?"  

Want to know what is even funnier?  When the bucket you are holding with 3 gallons of stuff that you did not know your children could produce, breaks.  The rim to which I had attached my ninja death grip snapped off with a loud CRAAACK like the snapping of an angel's wing.  The bucket hit the floor from a height of about 3 feet and cracked right in the middle.  

Imagine if you will - me, standing there with two pieces of plastic bucket in my hands, mouth open wide, eyes the size of dinner plates and the sense of impending doom. 

When I say it was terrible, I am doing it a disservice.  It hit the floor with a loud splash and before I knew it, had successfully sheeted everything in a light brown liquid wash.  It was on the walls and cabinets, filled my shoes - everything.  Before I even had time to cuss good I watched a slow-motion tsunami of sewage go out the door, into the hallway, and quickly work its way into the playroom which, incidentally, was filled lots of lovely things Little Win likes to shove in his mouth.  (Turns out our house has a severe lean in one direction.)  I was powerless to stop it.  

I heard the unmistakable sound of ultimate human suffering emanate from the LW's mouth as she nimbly blazed through the room picking things up before they could get wet - including the hallway carpeting.  I just stood there. I earned it. 

This woman is quick.  If I am ever in a fire I want her to come and get me out.  I don't know if she could throw me over her shoulder, but she could certainly get there quickly.

Finally, after cleaning up the hazmat tidal wave, I was able to take the toilet off its moorings, run the $8 toilet unclogger in reverse, and pull out a child's building block that my wonderful 4th child shoved in, probably at the urging of the devil himself. 

I then burned my clothes, threw away 7 "borrowed" country club towels that did not make it back on Towel Amnesty Day, showered in the hottest water I could stand, and have not returned to the scene of the crime.  I don't need to - the memories of that wave of sewage will haunt me forever. 

In the future, when the LW asks if we should call the plumber, I will humbly, and with a shiver, say "Yes".

'Twas the Night before Hunting... Boggy Creek Style

Care of my friend Clay Calhoun...

'Twas the night before hunting
And all through Boggy Creek,
Not a creature was stirring
Except for one sneak

The shotguns and rifles
Were stashed by the ammo
And there right beside them
Were huge piles of camo

The shooters were sleeping
All nestled in beds
As visions of big game
Danced in their heads

When down the hallway
There came such a clatter
I sprang from my bed
To see what was the matter

The commotion was caused
By a loud alarm clock
Chris jumped out of bed
And reached for his Glock

All this I saw
Looking through the key hole
Next I heard Chris
Call someone an A*Hole

"Now Strib.
Now Clay,
Ward, Jr and Frank
You come here this minute
And pay for this prank"

Though sleepy and dazed
He knew he'd been had
He'd be shocked to learn
It was Ward Sr., the dad

He spoke not a word
and then went to work
He stormed out the door
And called us all jerks

He sprang to his sleigh
And gave out a whistle
And off he flew
Back down to the thistle

They heard him exclaim
As he drove out of sight
"Merry Christmas to All
And to this Hog, Good Night!"

A Little Help Please

We like to think we are an adventurous family.  One of our favorite adventures is to the beach.  We do not get there nearly often enough, so when we were invited by our friends to Sea Island, we greedily accepted and packed up the family truckster.  We loaded bags and bikes, and our favorite- fishing gear.  We are that white trash family that has four rods sticking out of the sand trying to catch anything that happens to swim by.  On this particular trip, there were four families involved, of which we only knew our hosts.  Most of this group was of the sporting nature, playing more sports and knowing more statistics than most nerds do about chess.  Our family was an anomoly, so they were interested.

On the first morning we loaded up our gear and and had our rods set up in no time.  Kids were ambling around, finding shells, digging to China, and generally causing a ruckus.  When the first rod started to bend, it was most exciting for all who were present.  Their curiosity was peaked when we reeled in a small sting ray.

Fast forward- just about all we caught that weekend was stingrays.  They lost their luster after the first dozen.  After that, they got real boring until we reeled in one the size of a car tire.  Then we caught one more, and that is when the real excitement started.  It was me, three of my children, and one that belonged to someone else.  I was careless and the stingray zapped me.  I have had some painful experiences.  I have broken a few bones and been hit in the head with a water ski.  I even fell off the roof of a friend's shed and had a log land on me.   I have never been shot with a gun, but I would be willing to bet that if you shot me in the butt, it would not hurt as bad as being stung in the hand by a stingray.  It was terrible.

The only thing I could think of was that I needed to pee on my hand.  Well, in my hightened state of activity, I could not muster up what needed to be done.  My little girl Josie could only scream and cry when she saw the blood dripping out of my hand.  Funny thing is that's what I wanted to do.  I have to give my son tremendous credit for stepping up to the plate.  It is hard to pee on demand when you have one person crying, one person who wants to cry, and a crowd onlookers staring at us like we were insane.  It must have been akin to relieving oneself in front of a stadium.

All I can tell you is that peeing on a stingray wound is a myth and provides not more relief than the amount of time it takes to pee.  After that, all you have to show for yourself is a great deal of pain and the knowledge that someone else just peed on you, which actually makes the situation slightly worse.  About the only thing you can do for a stingray wound is to put the part of your body that got zapped in the hottest water you can possibly stand for an hour and a half.  After that, the pain subsides to the point where you do not feel like you are going to pass out. 

Needless to say, the other families that at first thought we were an anomoly, now thought we were completely insane, and they no longer had the confidence of entrusting their children to me on the beach without proper supervision.  I am not sure we will be invited back to our friend's house on Sea Island.

Ten Years and Counting

Today marks 10, yes I said 10, years of wedded bliss.  It was this day, those many years ago when the LW decided she could no longer live without me.  She took one good long look at me and said, "Yes, he must be mine.  I need to snap up that tall drink of water before some other woman sees him and tries to steal him away."

There are numerous versions of our courtship, but that is the one that sticks out the most.

Extra Pick Up

When I was a young man, free of familial encumbrances and responsibilities, life ran at a different pace.  I did what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it.  You could easily say my world revolved around me.  It was a happy place.  

Fast forward 10 years, one wife and four children later, life looks a little different.  As much as I would still like the world to revolve around me, sadly, it does not.  Today, for example, I went to our children's school 3 times.  Normally, twice is a lot.  I drop off two of my four children there in the morning for what I have been assured is an excellent education and well worth the East Wing I did not know I was sponsoring.

However, today was not the usual Fun Friday where the week happily ends and the weekend happily begins.  After drop-off, I merrily went on my way and got some exercise.  I then found myself in my trusty vehicle driving down 14th Street when the phone rings.  It is the school.  My eldest daughter Demi had gotten sick and needed to be rescued.  Not a problem.  I was close.

When a child is sick and needs to go home, it means one thing and one thing only- throw up.  Few things are worse to a child, or an adult for that matter.  About the only thing that is worse than actually throwing up, is doing it in public in front of your class.  I distinctly remember the day in chapel in first grade when Warner Bonner threw up all over his Lovett shirt, leaned forward so he could see around the children between us, and said, "Strib, look what I just did."  I think he was proud of it.  Girls do not share that same sense of pride.  I also remember when a young lady who shall remain nameless, threw up on the floor right in the middle of our classroom.  From that day forth I could not look her in the eyes, and we were in school together for the next 10 years.  I avoided that place in the classroom for the rest of second grade.  These things can be scarring, and are remembered vividly for at least 30 years.  Poor Demi.  I just hope she has the personality to get her friends to look beyond it.  If not, she is going to have a long and laborious tenure at HPS.

Sir Woodrow

I have a friend named Woody who is blessed with a high sense of fashion and a timely word.  On this particular evening, he did not disappoint.  The LW and I were going to a party down the street for a friend who was turning 40.  We like to attend parties together and be social.  With four children, we rarely get to do this kind of thing anymore, so an evening out fills buckets for us that often lie empty.  Woody has three lovely daughters, and was bringing the eldest over to babysit so the LW and I could jet out the door.  We made sure that the kids were ready for bed, well fed, bathed the dirtiest ones, and were about to get ourselves ready.  

Woody rings the doorbell, dapper as ever, especially for a weekday evening.   Together, the three of us stand in the doorway, enjoying the friendly banter, unaware of what awaits, .  Our third child, Josie, walks by the top of the stairs in her Auburn cheerleader's outfit and smiles down on us.  Woody, looks up at her, and says, "Isn't she cute in that outfit."  He was right.  She was cute.  Then, she opened her mouth and threw up.  I am not even sure she blinked.  One minute she is standing there innocently, a cherub of a three year old girl.  The next minute, she is throwing up her body weight.  I was almost ready for her head to start spinning around.  The LW runs upstairs, nimble as ever, scoops her up and plops her in the tub, cheerleading outfit and everything.  She was not there in time to save the hall carpeting, but she did keep it from getting worse.  I, as usual, was standing there holding our fourth child, staring stupidly up the stairs.  I turned to Woody, who says, "Well, welcome to parenthood.  Have a nice evening."  He then grabs his daughter, closes the door behind them and leaves.  He probably covered the two of them in a thick coating of hand san before they got in his car out front.  Needless to say, we did not go out that evening. 

Well done Sir Woodrow.  Well done.