My Brother in Law Chep

I have a jackass brother in law.  Aren’t most brothers in law jackasses?  Even if they weren’t and you were very close, would you admit it?  Doubtful.

I have one particular brother in law who can build anything.  This is my sister’s husband Chep, not the LW’s younger brothers.  Chep calculated and detail oriented.  He is also full of great ideas, and has the ability to build whatever he is dreaming up.  It is a great combination of skill sets.  It is sort of like having your very own Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor in your back pocket.  Very handy.

Case in point: I was blessed to grow up with a lake house in north Georgia.  It is a lovely mountain retreat that holds countless fond memories for me.  The cabin I grew up with has been torn down, but was replaced by a much nicer house.  There are approximately 67 steps from the water’s edge to the door on the back of the house, on an almost 45 degree angle.  So, it is fairly steep.

Chep thought it would be a great idea to build a water slide through the woods to the water.  After all, between the two families we have 7 children, and it would be entertaining for them, and would be fun for adults to participate in as well.  He set about his construction, and before you knew it, he had a fully functioning water slide through the woods from the base of the house to the water. 

And, I have to admit, it is quite the engineering feat.  He thought up the design and built the entire thing almost entirely by himself.  It is awesome, even if he is a jackass.  Where he falls short is his math in calculating velocity, speed, and angle of trajectory when it is a related of his inventions. 

Those problems were soon to raise their ugly heads.  This is where Tim Taylor takes over from the Chep I have grown to know and love, and incidentally, why he is a jackass.  The ramp at the bottom of the slide is just that, a ramp.  Were I to build it, which I could not, I would have made it flatten out so that as you came off the slide, you would skip across the water until you came to a gentle stop.  Not Chep.  He actually turns the ramp up a little so that it launches the rider up, sending said person out over the water for a landing 15-20 yards away.  And the slide, being in the side of a hill, goes straight down to the water.  There are no turns.  Did I say it was steep earlier?  It is.  Chep did not factor in the velocity of the individual on their downward decent, the compression factor as the G forces crush the rider into the ramp at the bottom, or the distance the rider is launched from the slide. 

At first it was awesome, and the ultimate thrill ride.  We made every kid on our end of the lake who tried it cry uncontrollably.  Then, I made my fateful, and final trip.  I am not sure how it happened, but my angle of trajectory was off, so I went hurtling through the air at maximum speed as though I were standing straight up and down.  My feet hit the water with such force and impact that when they hit the water, the rest of my body pivoted and slapped me down face first.  The money maker was unharmed, but I broke at least 2 ribs, and have not been down it since. 

All of Chep’s other inventions are awesome, and put him in a play ground all his own.  But this devilish invention plunges him to the murky underworld labeled "Idiot Family Members" from which he will likely never escape. 

Marathon Training

I like to consider myself an avid runner.  It is one of my favorite activities on a day in day out basis.  It is a quick and easy way to burn off some steam or get some exercise.  You do not need a gym or any special equipment, outside of a pair of halfway decent shoes.   And, I find it therapeutic.  I have never done a marathon, and I do not run any crazy distances.  But, I run several times a week, which keeps me sane and decently in shape. 

Last year I decided to run a half marathon.  Not a problem.  It was in January in California, and I had plenty of time to train for it.  I ran all summer at my normal rate and pace, and just figured I would pick it up in the fall and winter.  It was not long until it got cold outside, and I was relegated to running on a treadmill.  It turns out I am a fair-weather runner, and I get board running on a treadmill.  I went so far as to purchase a new pair of running shoes, hoping it would give me the added boost of wearing something new to keep me interested.  I should have listened to my father when he told me that the joy of owning something new quickly fades.  I soon found myself extremely board, and quit running.  Completely. 

Part of my problem is that I still think of myself as a young athlete who can pretty much accomplish anything.  I figured, hey, I am 38 years old.  I can run 5 miles without getting hurt.  I can just add another 8.1 to that and be fine.  I had never run 8.1 miles, so I don’t know what I was thinking when I thought I could just add it on. 

The weekend of the race arrived, and I found myself completely unprepared.  Outside of my nightly ice-cream maraton diet, I had not trained.  I found myself drawn to the lovely siren’s wail of In-N-Out Burger upon my arrival, so had gorged more than once at that fine establishment.  Hollywood has done me a disservice by telling me that it is always sunny and warm in California, even in January.  It is not.  And, I don’t really have any running clothes, per se.  My shorts are more of a basketball cut athletic short than anything else, and all my t-shirts are cotton. 

I went out the day before and bought some athletic long johns that I am sure have a much cooler name now than long johns.  I also bought some light weight gloves and a warm hat.

Then, I got up at the crack of dawn, and proceeded towards the starting line.  I would like to think that I at least looked like I knew what I was doing, but my long basketball shorts and stupid looking long johns and the fact that nothing I had on matched probably took some of the intimidation factor away from my fellow competitors. 

Finally, they fired the gun, and I was off.  I knew enough to pace myself, so I assumed a nice pace and off I went.  I noticed that my legs started hurting around mile 4.  By mile 8, I was in a decent amount of pain, and by mile 12, I was hobbling.  Old women and idiots wearing costumes with capes were passing me. 

I had the good sense to know that if I stopped there was absolutely no way I was going to get that train started again.  I was in a tremendous amount of pain.  Everything hurt.  My legs were cramping in every way possible as I limped the last .1 mile across the finish line.  Then, to top it off, some joker thought it would be funny to run power cables across the finish line under one of those rubber runners that has a ramp on both sides of it.  It is only a half inch high, if that.  But, it was enough to trip me up and almost prevent me from crossing the finish line.  I managed to limp across before I came to a complete halt.  A race organizer ordered me to move on so I would not be in the way of people finishing after me, but I couldn’t.  I just had no gas left in the tank and I was pooped.  I finally managed to start moving again, albeit slowly, away from the pileup I was causing.

Then, to make my agony complete, we had to hurry to our rented Crown Victoria (sweet ride I know) and get to the airport to fly back to Atlanta.  That was a long and painful walk, only to be folded into an airplane seat for the next 4 hours.  Suffice it to say, the next 7 days, were not my most comfortable.

High Church

When I was a slightly younger man and had the margin in my life to get dressed up for church, it was not uncommon for me to be seen in a Seersucker suit in the summer time.  Nothing says southern gentlemen like a Seersucker and white bucs.  It is sharp, and I can safely say, that I looked sharp in it. 

On this particular Sunday, we had gone to pay a visit to the in-laws on Lookout Mountain.  The church my in-laws attend is very nice, and its congregants typically dress well, the men in coats and ties.   And, it is the same church the LW and I were married in, and the church she grew up in, so it always fun for us to attend.

We only had one child at the time, so it was a no brainer to get dressed up, including him, and still manage to get to church with a couple of minutes to spare.  Clothes little boys wear in this neck of the woods are often ridiculous.  They have snaps and buttons and folds galore, which can be very disconcerting in the case of an emergency.  In this instance, our son was still in diapers, which hind-sight being 20-20, were a size or three too small.  He had what I like to refer to as a pooplosion. 

I am not sure how an enfant does it, but they poop so violently and with such force that it explodes out each fitted leg of the diaper, and up the crack in his butt right up his back.  This time, it was like a car bomb exploded.  It went down both legs to his shoes and up his back to his collar.  You couldn’t get away from it.

Being a mostly capable husband, I gave the LW a look of sheer panic, and started to hand the baby to her.  She immediately gave me the, “Oh hell no!” look with her eyes and facial features, and shooed me out of the sanctuary.  Apparently she was in greater need of Jesus that day than I was.  That soon changed.  Fortunately, I had the foresight to sit close to the door, so it was a quick exit that went mostly unnoticed. 

I carried Junior at an arms length with our effeminate diaper bag slung over my shoulder in the least immasculating way possible.  We went down the stairs to the nearest men’s bathroom, to determine the extent of the damage.  Everything he had, without exception, was unwearable.  Younger parents I am sure are more than a little familiar with a nursing child’s poop.  It does not smell terrible, but is sticky and stains everything it touches a light brown.  That is what this was, only in mass quantity. 

Men’s bathrooms are generally poorly equipped for changing, and this old school church was no exception.  That is usually a good thing because it keeps me from having to do a lot of work.  All I have to say to the LW is, “Sorry.  Nowhere to change him in there.  You’ll have to take him to the ladies room.”   I had no where to lay Strib down, so I tried to hold him in one hand and remove the offending articles of clothing with the other.  It was akin to holding a greased pig in one hand, while all the time trying not to get any grease on my person.  That didn’t work, so I ever so gently laid him on the floor and continued to clean.  Fortunately the floor was clean, or at least it was at this point.  It was not long before I had run out of baby wipes and had moved on to the hand towel roll above my head.  The hand towel was not very absorbent, ultimately smearing and pushing around more than it was cleaning up.  At this point, I am covered in baby poop, have it on the floor, both sleeves, the bottoms of my shoes, and my nose is beginning to itch, and I could use a little more Jesus, and a little less kid. 

I finally gave up, turned on the warm water in the sink, and plopped him in.  That worked great until he started to enjoy the bath and splashed nasty water all over the place.  Then, once I had him mostly clean, I had to use even more towels to dry him off. 

I finally emerged, well after the conclusion of the service, with an empty diaper bag, a naked baby, and a ruined Seersucker suit.  I have never revisited that bathroom, simply because I know what we did to it.  There is no way, absolutely no way, the custodial crew was able to clean it to my satisfaction.  To this day, when I am attending church there and I need to use the little general’s room, I bypass that bathroom and find one that is as far away from it as possible. 

I walked outside and handed Strib to the LW, took off my own clothes, put my white bucs in a plastic bag, then in a paper bag, in the trunk, and sat in the car with a cloud over my head.  Everyone, with the exception of us, had long since left, so me standing in the middle of the road in my boxer shorts was poor form, but acceptable.  All my mother in law and the LW could do was laugh and enjoy my misery.   My mother in law still can’t talk about it without bending over double and laughing at me until she can’t breath.  I hope they enjoyed the service, and prayed for me.

Stupid Freshman

Freshmen in college are not known for being highly intelligent.  In fact, I think it is safe to say that they are known more for their stupidity and poor decision making than anything else.  Enter Strib on his first day of college freedom.  He is the baby boy of Jim and Carole Stribling, who along with his older sister Paige, was given an emotional sendoff to the rest of his life.  They cried.  Strib did not.  He was ready to spread his wings and exercise his lack of intelligence.

There was a rather odd tradition at this particular institution of higher learning that included streaking across campus, ringing a bell that was about 180 years old, and streaking back.  What a novel idea!  No one had done that before, at least this year.  Well, our hero, who considered himself somewhat of a trend setter, wanted to be the first.  He grabbed a couple of his buddies and ran outside full speed in his birthday suit.  It was dark out, which helped.  Tie that in with a total lack of clothing except for his running shoes, and he was aerodynamic and fast.  It was not long before he outpaced his naked brethren and was running alone in the moonlight, free as a bird, the wind whipping through his hair.

The only light that late summer night was the streetlight above the belltower.  This should have been our hero's first clue.  But he was not to be deterred as he ran full speed!  Due to his lightening fast speed, he reached it first, grabbed the rope, and started ringing as though he had never rung a bell before.  But, it was a moment of glory did not last long.  Our hero looked over to see the campus police sitting on the hood of his squad car, patiently waiting for me.  It was like the scene from Smokie and the Bandit, where Jackie Gleason is sitting on the hood of his squad car waiting at the exact spot where the Bandit shows up. "What we have here is a complete lack of respect for the law!" Only, in this case, I was no Bert Reynolds, and he was Jackie Gleason.  Without saying a word, this police officer opened the back door and motioned for me to get in.  I, not being completely stupid, obliged.

My friends at this point, still encased in the cover of darkness, saw the activity in front of them, and had the mental acuity to abandon the midnight raid and hide in the bushes until the coast was clear.  

The kind police officer, then gave me a free ride back to my dorm, sirens wailing and lights flashing.  I will not swear that he was driving below the speed limit, but I will promise you that it was a long ride back to my dorm, which was not far away.  I am convinced to this day that he did that on purpose.  By the time we arrived at our destination, there must have been 150 students standing outside on the steps, waiting to see what the fuss was about.  Holding my head high, ignoring  the blank stares, snickers, and awestruck faces, I walked confidently through the crowd (which incidentally parted like the Red Sea) picked up my clothes, and walked right up to my room never wanting to emerge from that dark cave of shame again.

But, I did emerge, and enjoyed my fifteen minutes of fame as I became a bit of a folk hero.  It did not last long, as my story was soon over shadowed by the next freshman who did something extremely stupid.   But, that was a spotlight I was more than happy to share before I exited the stage.