Staying Alive.

Posted: January 23, 2015 in brain belches
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I was about 12 years old and I was going to my first night club.

I was excited! Once a month the 20th century club (a very cutting edge establishment) had a Catholic youth disco night. It was on a school night and I was going! Why stay home…when you should be dancing!
I didn’t want to show up alone, I didn’t want people to think I was a loser.
So I invited my cousin…
My incredibly incredible cousin Carmen agreed to go, because she was (and is) a really kind person.
One of our Moms had a great idea…for us to wear matching outfits. We wore denim vests and purple shirts. I think there might have been sequins involved. We looked like part of the Osmond family.
I tried my hardest to look like Barry Gibb, I had a gold chain and shiny, plastic shoes. I put some of my Mom’s Aqua net on my hair and my Dad’s old spice on my face.
We got dropped off and I couldn’t wait to boogie.
I had been watching American Bandstand for a while so I was schooled in the fine art of disco.
I danced like crazy.
I danced with all my might.
I danced like someone was watching.
That was a problem.
I’ve since learned that It’s a whole lot more fun when we dance like nobody’s watching.
Just because we love the dance.
But, it turns out, THERE was somebody watching. An actual FEMALE somebody, who wasn’t related to me. I was doing some alluring moves to KC and the Sunshine Band, when I looked across the dance floor and there was a girl smiling at me! And…then…she…waved…me…over!
i was fairly certain that she wanted to dance or maybe elope.
This girl was about my age and she was cute. Feathered hair, a shiny dress and braces to match.
So, without breaking eye contact, I danced over to her. that’s right, I was that cool.
She smiled the whole time. The disco ball reflected off her retainer.
She was standing with some friends drinking a 7up.
I boogied up, ready to hustle her heart away.
She giggled and said “you are such a cute little boy!”
And then dream girl patted me on the top of my head like I was a puppy…SERIOUSLY.

that wasn’t the reaction I wanted. there would be no eloping that night.

Then she walked off with her friends.
I was crushed…humiliated…embarrassed.
I remember it like it was yesterday, because that kind of painful rejection parks itself on the dance floor of your psyche.
This girl saw me in a sweaty horde of preteen wanna be dancers and in comparison I looked like a little kid. I was smack dab in the middle of a crowd that was taller than me. If only the lighting had been better, she could have seen my mustache. Then it would have been undeniable that I was a MAN. instead she saw a puppy in a pen of big dogs. It was all about the surroundings.
It’s still true 40 years later.
I’m 5″1′ tall.
Honestly, I never really notice my height until I’m standing right next to people who aren’t 5″1′.
It’s really only in a crowd that I feel small.
I look around, and all I see are armpits. I lose myself in the crowd. It’s when I break away from the crowd that my differences don’t matter.
Let me share something unbelievably profound with you…

Ifyou want to STAND OUT you got to STAND OUT.

I know…that just blew your mind, right?
If you want people to get to know the real you STAND OUT, don’t blend in.
Why would you get lost in the crowd when you should be dancing?

the school of minimum wage.

Posted: January 22, 2015 in brain belches
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When I was 16 years old I entered the wonderful world of minimum wage.
My first job was at a grocery store called “Super-H” that was about 4 miles from my house. I was never sure what the “H” stood for, it depended on who you asked. My official job description was “sacker” (which sounds a little more dignified than “bag-boy”). It wasn’t a tough job, I put groceries into sacks and carried the sacks to cars. It wasn’t complicated. I was a hormone crazed, microwave burrito fueled goof ball ready to take the world by storm. This was back in the dark ages when your bagging choices were limited to “do you want paper or…well, paper?” I have to confess, during my sacker days I killed a lot of innocent produce. I also broke my share of not so innocent eggs. It was dangerous work.
I wore a faded blue apron, a spiffy name tag and a garage sale necktie. I managed to make enough money to pay for my first car (a ’74 ford pinto, yep, it was a car named after a bean). But, despite the tens of dollars that I made bagging other people’s food, I took away other things that were immeasurably valuable.

I learned many valuable life lessons from my first run in with organized work.
I learned to show up 15 minutes early.
I learned that shortcuts rarely pay off. Don’t trade RIGHT for EASY.
I learned that if you at least look busy, you get yelled at less.
I learned not to get distracted. My friend was slicing a ham once and got distracted by a pretty girl (what else) and ended up slicing off a chunk of his finger tip. The positive thing was that it blended right in with the ham.
I learned valuable skills like mopping and how to properly use a time clock. Both of these took me years to master.
I learned that, even when you THINK you have found a good spot to hide out, somebody is probably watching you.
I learned that there is always that ONE person who is ALWAYS in the break room.
I learned that sometimes people are mean. They treat you like dirt. That doesn’t make you dirt.
I learned that joy is a powerful weapon.
I learned that joy makes some people nervous.
I learned the value of a buck or 3, I made $3.35 an hour the entire 4 years that I worked there.
I learned that sometimes there is no chance of advancement. That shouldn’t keep you from advancing. Be better.
I learned the difference between BE and DO. I had to DO a lot of stuff that I didn’t like, that didn’t change who I was. You DO what you have to do while you find ways to BE who you are.
I learned that everybody has a story and most of those stories are pretty interesting.
I learned that sometimes you will have to deal with a lot of crap. Once, we were out of toilet paper in the very public restroom, so an older guy wrote a hostile message on the wall…with his own…um…crap. Guess who got to clean it up? Yup, it was me. Sometimes you have to do that!
I learned how to tie a necktie, which is a skill that I still use, every Christmas Eve.
I learned that I really hate neckties.
I learned that I’m also not a fan of name tags.
I learned that you don’t want to put canned green beans on top of bread.
I learned the value of just showing up. You earn a reputation by showing up as a person who shows up instead of shrugs off.
I learned that if you drop a jar of spaghetti sauce just right, it will break and go all over your customer’s white pants.
I learned that attitude is more important than ability.
I learned that some thieves aren’t very smart. I watched an older lady hike up her muumuu dress and put a gallon of ice cream down her panty hose. We stopped her and she denied it until it started to melt.
I learned that your social circle is going to grow out of the people that you are around the most. Hang around with people who make you better.
I learned that sometimes the customer is wrong.
I learned that you might not always want to tell the customer that they are wrong.
I learned that some people will do anything to advance themselves, don’t be THAT guy. don’t throw other people under the shopping cart.
I learned that we all have a daily choice: am I going to be a jerk? Just …don’t…for the love of God…don’t be a jerk.
I learned who I was and who I wasn’t. I was more than a hormone crazed, microwave burrito fueled goof ball.
I learned that you can learn something from everything.
I learned that cruddy jobs don’t last forever, but the lessons we take away from cruddy jobs DO last forever.

when scars become stories.

Posted: January 21, 2015 in brain belches
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I have a dent on my forehead. A nasty little scar. It’s a forever testament to the fact that I’m easily distracted. When I was a little kid I was hanging out on a playground on a summer day, I was pushing someone in a swing. They were laughing I was laughing. But then…suddenly something caught my attention…SQUIRREL!!! I stopped and turned to look at it. The problem is that the swing didn’t stop. That is until it was stopped by my forehead! So I have a swing set shaped dent in my head. It hurt at first but I got stitches and treated it the way It needed to treated and it eventually healed. But, It left a mark. In time the scar became a story. It’s a part of me. A part of me that’s not pretty but it is real. Life is hard, hurt happens but healing can happen too. life can leave a dent, don’t let your dents become ruts. Don’t let scars become shackles. Let your Scars become stories, testaments to survival. Stories of hope and healing. What is your scar story?

Man Club.

Posted: January 17, 2015 in brain belches
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I was introduced early to the man club through my dad & his circle of hunting buddies.

They would stand around in a smoky garage, swap stories with Merle Haggard and George Jones playing in the background on the AM radio.
I still remember the smell of the garage, it was a combination of sweet feed, motor oil, cigarettes and hard work.
These were Men who only called each other by last names ( I didn’t know that one of my dad’s friends even had a first name until his funeral).

These were good men who loved their country and their families ( sometimes it was easier for them to communicate their love for their country than their family), in fact these men mostly communicated in the manly language of insult, they mercilessly put-down each other, because, after all, that’s what men do…right?

They referred to their wives as the “ball and chain” and “the old lady”.
They worked on old trucks, butchered rabbits and deer,
They spit, cursed, laughed, Talked about politics, football and muzzle loaders.

Innuendo flew around that garage like stained confetti. Women were objects of desire rather than dignity.

They were men…good men.

They had the best intentions.

They had good hearts.

They were fiercely loyal to each other.

My brother and I would stand in the corner, out of the way, soaking it all in.
I left that garage with the fragrance of pall-malls on my clothing and hair.

I left with the fragrance of misguided manhood on my soul.

Every boy wants to be a part of the man club.
We imitate…we take notes…we learn the rules.
It’s natural, sons were made to learn from fathers.
We were made to mimic…to imitate.
But, Maturity is learning to imitate heart instead of habit.
We can learn great things from the hearts of those who have gone before us.
But, We don’t have to repeat the habits.

From time to time, I see men my age stuck in the old familiar groove. They are masters in the linguistic art of insult, they live out of a place of insecurity. They compare and ruthlessly claw to get to the top of the heap.
It is easier to insult than invent.
There is a better way…

A new way to be man.

A way that knows and accepts yourself and refuses to play the game.
A way that elevates compassion over comparison as a man gauge.
A way that creates a safe place for everyone you love.
We need men who live for something bigger than themselves.

We need men who throw away the outdated ruler of manhood.

We need men who are passionate about their passions.
We need men whose words COVER instead of CUT…words that BUILD instead of BREAK.
We need a new man club.

Rewrites, redemption and my big, fat head.

Posted: January 14, 2015 in fizzy faith
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Back when my wife, Diana, and I were engaged, I found a picture of Her and a prom date. Diana looked beautiful. She had perfectly coiffed big ’80s hair. She was smiling. Her date was wearing a rented pastel tux and he looked a little nervous. His name was James. The only thing that I really knew about him was that he had really good taste in girls. I was a little bothered…okay…jealous, so I thought I would try to change the romantic picture…literally. This was before photoshop, so I grabbed some scissors and scotch tape. I cut out a picture of my smiling face and taped it on top of his. Suddenly, I was the guy in the picture! But, it just didn’t look right. For one thing, it wasn’t proportionate. My face was too big and he wasn’t built like me. I showed it to Diana. I was sure that she would be impressed by my act of creative love, and I could tell that she was by the way she rolled her eyes. To be fair, the redone photo was an unsettling image. My freakishly large head looked unnatural. That’s what happens when you try to rewrite history, you end up with a freakish misrepresentation. The thing was that you could peel my picture off and James was still there. Despite my efforts, He was still a part of the story. Rather than try to rewrite a part of Diana’s story, I should have rejoiced that I was the man who got to stand by her for the rest of the story.

We live in a photoshop world. If we don’t like something, we simply crop it out of the picture.
We are constantly trying to crop all the unpleasantness out of our stories.
We try to airbrush away all our blemishes.
We want to protect our image. We don’t want to offend.

But, it doesn’t seem like God is concerned with protecting His image.
The Bible is most uncropped book ever, it is brutally honest.
There are stories of liars, murderers, prostitutes, adulterers and screw ups. And those are the GOOD guys! It’s there, in all its ungutted and unfiltered glory.
The Bible isn’t really family friendly and the disturbing thing is that God didn’t try to fix that!
It’s pages are filled with more rule breakers than record breakers. Despite what we were told in Sunday school, the biblical patriarchs weren’t shiny, perfect, airbrushed flannel gram role models.
The Bible is the story of some broken people who didn’t stay broken…they are models of redemption.
Can you picture a nervous editor looking over the original transcript and saying to God: “let’s rethink this section, it might offend people…I’m not sure if the bible will go over well in the Bible Belt!”
“Let’s edit…let’s crop out the ugly.”
But, God doesn’t seem to be concerned with public relations, He is more interested in authentic relationship.
The Bible is raw and honest….
Combine the real with the redemptive and hope is born.
God doesn’t Photoshop, instead He gives us a brand new photo op.
We don’t get a rewrite of the past, BUT, We do get a brand new chapter today.
It seems like the bible is all about honest hope.
God says be honest about your yesterday and see what I can do with your tomorrow.
You can’t crop what has already happened, but you can create what is yet to be.
Live honest with hope.

I want to be a cowboy baby!

Posted: January 12, 2015 in brain belches
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Growing up I wanted to be a cowboy.

Most of my heroes have always been Cowboys, with the hats and the stories to prove it.
Grandpa was a cowboy and horse trainer. He taught us how to ride and how to wear a Stetson hat. He taught us how to cuss and how to wrestle. Wrestling lessons consisted of him putting us in a headlock and not letting us loose until we shouted “CALF-ROPE!

There is something so cool about the cowboy life. You get to hang out with your buds and eat beef jerky and beans. You ride Mavericks, Sing songs and tell stories. You ride the range, rope and wrestle. You occasionally sit around a fire and celebrate bodily functions….AHHHH! The life of a cowboy.

The problem was there are certain things that might have killed my cowboy dreams.
I look kinda goofy in a big hat.
My one attempt at chewing tobacco ended very badly. I turned the shade of spinach and I threw up all over a storm shelter (to be fair, I was 7 years old).
I tried to ride a quarter horse once and I actually needed a step ladder to get on board. It seriously slows you down and kills your cowboy cred if you have to use a ladder to get on your horse. Fortunately, my grandpa had a Shetland pony named George. Shetland ponies are the compact cars of the horse kingdom. I spent many happy minutes riding the trails with George.
Big belt buckles scare me, I always think that if I bend over fast I might rupture my spleen.

I think the cowboy life is more than wearing boots and bandanas.
There are certain ideas that embody the spirit of the cowboy.
Ideas that anyone can rope…see what I did there?
The cowboy life is about uncontainable wildness. It is big, bold, untamed.
It is living unbound.
It’s a Life that is more about invention than convention. More about campfires than committees
It’s a daily search for new adventure.
It’s grabbing life by the throat and wrestling it to the ground until it shouts “CALF-ROPE”!
It’s all about Freedom and friendship.
I can still live the cowboy life even if I never wear a pair of wranglers.
It happens when I refuse to conform, compromise or compare.
I am myself no matter who is watching.
I ride wildly through the fields of grace and wonder.
I search out new adventures and tell better stories.
I live authentic…rustic…raw.
You with me?
Whoever you are…whatever you do…
COWBOY UP!
Live free.
Sing songs, tell stories.
Be the wildest, undiluted version of yourself!
Let’s Saddle up the Shetland ponies and ride like a strong breeze!

the fellowship of the burning heart.

Posted: January 9, 2015 in fizzy faith
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Tucked away in the 24th chapter of Luke is one of my favorite Bible stories. It is the story of two heart broken men walking down a dusty road. Jesus has been crucified and their dreams and expectations have died along with him. They are desperate to pack up their dead dreams and get as far as possible away from the scene of the crime. They just need to sort things out, so they take a walk. They are taking a seven mile hike from Jerusalem to a crazy little place called Emmaus. They are basically second string disciples, not Peter or any of the other headliners. They have lived on the fringe of the following, but it seems that God has a real soft spot for the second string…

Suddenly, they are joined by a third man who they don’t recognize. The stranger seems to be clueless about everything that has happened. But then the mystery man tells them that THEY are the ones who need to get a clue. He asks “why are your hearts so sluggish?” Then He starts giving them answers. Along with the answers comes recognition…a spark!

This is Jesus! And he is very much ALIVE!!! And he has set their hearts on fire!

“they asked each other, ‘were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the scriptures to us?” (Luke 24:32 TNIV)
God gives us heartburn! When we spend time with Jesus we are ignited! Sometimes when God shows up we might not recognize him, but, if we walk with Him, even accidentally, He will leave us ignited!
He is the source of the heat…
He is the light.
The fire is ignited as we walk and talk with Jesus.
The spark kills the sludge.
Our sluggish hearts come alive.
We are consumed by a holy fire.
Burn, baby, burn!
I also think that is the way that people are meant to find out about Christ.
We walk alongside them…we talk …our hearts burn…a spark is ignited.
We are carriers of the flame…
We are the fellowship of the burning heart.
Walk and talk with Jesus! Let him give you heartburn.

I love this story so much that it inspired me to do two things:

1. get a tattoo

2. write a poem

The tattoo is on my arm. It’s a permanent reminder of the everlasting flame.

here’s the poem:

I bear on my body the mark…

the mark of the burning heart.

engraved in my skin and engraved still deeper into my heart

is the symbol of the eternal flame.

I have joined the most sacred of orders, the fellowship of the burning heart.

it is made up of those who have felt their hearts strangely warmed and failures forgiven. those who have touched God and found themselves forever changed and consumed by an unexplainable fire.

the broken heart is transformed into the burning heart.

though at first I didn’t recognize Him, in time I came to know the Christ as the only one who could set my life aflame. I have felt the heat of his presence.

fire is life…

I have been ignited…

I glow in the dark…

I bear on my body the mark…

the mark of the burning heart.

Dip and divine distractions.

Posted: January 8, 2015 in fizzy faith
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I am a big fan of party food and one of my faves is the seven layer dip. You dip your chip into the thick, spicy explosion of goodness. You don’t know what you are going to get….Cheese or bean dip?…Sour cream or black olives? I like some layers more than others…I love cheese! Bean dip makes me dance. I’ve never been a fan of the olive.

In the Gospel of Mark chapter 5 there is an incredible story. It is like a big 7 layer dip with hurt, hope, confusion, distraction, healing, death and resurrection.

Jesus is surrounded by party people. It is a massive crowd pushing in on Him. A desperate man pushes through the crowd and falls at Jesus’s feet. He is an important man named Jairus. He is a leader in the synagogue, but that doesn’t matter now, because he is also a daddy. And, his 12 year old daughter is sick…real sick…about to die. He begs Jesus to do something…PLEASE…FOR THE LOVE OF GOD…DO SOMETHING!! He believes and prays a prayer of hope: “Just place Your hands on her. I know that if You do, she will live.” Jesus smiles a kind smile, a knowing smile, and He starts traveling home with Jairus. Time is of the essence, so Jairus does his best to hurry God through the crowd. But, there’s problem…a divine distraction.

There’s a woman who has suffered continuous bleeding for 12 years, the entire life of the little girl. this is the kind of thing that made her ritually unclean and a social outcast. she has spent all her money trying to get better and she had only gotten worse. She has heard all the talk about this Jesus. So she takes a huge risk, the untouchable one pushes through the crowd to touch the miracle man. She sneaks up behind Him…it’s not easy, there’s a desperate looking man trying to hurry him down the road. But, she is desperate too and this is her last resort. She reaches out her hand and touches His cloak.

BOOM!!!

The nanosecond that she makes contact with Jesus she is healed!!! Immersed in a flood of wholeness.

Here’s where it gets crazy…okay crazier. Jesus is immersed in a flood of humanity. He is a being pushed on every side. But he recognized her touch. He stopped. Everyone stopped. He looked around. And he asked: “Who just touched My robe?” awkward…uneasy silence….his disciples are wondering if he has finally lost it. “ummm…Jesus, there are about a bazillion people touching You. What do You mean, Who touched Me?”

I think Jesus just grinned and glanced around with a look of holy mischief. The woman fell at his feet. Busted! She was shaking with fear and amazement.

I think Jesus knew who touched Him…I think He wanted the woman to know who touched her.

He took the time to listen to her story.

This has to be killing Jairus…MY DAUGHTER IS DYING and you are taking time to listen to this lady’s story?! Imagine the frustration that he felt as Jesus is distracted by the needs of others! Can you relate? I can! I have prayed and I’m waiting for an answer. But, God seems to be distracted by helping other people. What is he thinking!?

While Jesus is wrapping things up with the lady, Jairus gets word… Your daughter is dead.

It’s over…

We were so close…

If only…

If only God had behaved the way I expected.

Jesus looks him in the eye and says: “It’s all right. Don’t be afraid; just…believe.”

They get to the house and things are messy. There is loud mourning. Some genuinely crushed family members and friends. But there are Some people just looking to be a part of something. People are attracted to drama like mosquitoes to a bug zapper and there is a large crowd assembled, after all Jairus is an important man.

I imagine, Jesus, once again with a look of holy mischief, clearing his throat, rolling up his sleeves and saying: “ Why are you making all this noise? The child isn’t dead. She’s just sleeping.”

Mourning quickly becomes ridicule and unbelief.

Jairus is crushed and confused, but he is hanging on to something that Jesus said…one word…BELIEVE.

He said it after healing a woman who had been sick the entire time his baby had been alive.

Jesus runs out the posers, so that only three of his disciples, Jairus, and Mrs. Jairus were left inside with Him.

Jesus took the child’s hand and said “Little girl, it’s time to wake up.”

Immediately the 12-year-old girl opened her eyes, immersed in a flood of life!

Jesus tells her parents give her something to eat. I love that! He grins and says I gave her life…you give her something to eat!

So what do we learn from this multi dimensional story of the multi tasking miracle worker?

Maybe…it’s that just because Jesus is working on somebody else’s stuff doesn’t mean that he’s not working on mine.

Maybe…it’s that the way Jesus works with me is completely different from the way he works with others…so stop comparing.

Maybe…it’s that when we are at our lowest we should hang on to one word…BELIEVE.

Maybe…it’s that Jesus makes all things NEW, but He gets to define NEW.

I don’t know, but I do know that Relationships are about layers, even a relationship with God…we will like and understand some layers more than others.

Don’t let that stop you from dipping in…it’s even okay to double dip.

Get immersed in a flood of seven layered goodness

what i learned from front yard football…

Posted: January 7, 2015 in brain belches
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I am an American kid.

I was raised on fried food and football.

I have a lot of really sweet memories that smell like football.

I remember a bitter cold winter night, my Dad, brother and me, huddled in a pick up truck, listening to the last few minutes of the Super Bowl on an AM radio.

I remember sitting on metal bleachers eating steaming Frito-chili pie (I know, it’s an Oklahoma thing!) at home football games.

I remember falling in love with America’s team. When I was in 3rd grade, I decided the Dallas Cowboys were my team too. They have been ever since. I stuck with them through the good years and the bad years. You learn that haters are gonna hate, but you got to stick with your team. That’s what you do.

My personal dreams of football glory were lived out in our front yard. Growing up, We had a huge front yard that was an almost perfect football field. On most fall Saturdays we would gather…a rag tag collection of neighborhood NFL wannabes, We would choose teams and draw elaborate plays in the dirt.

We were completely serious about our fun! It wasn’t pretty, we fumbled and stumbled. It wasn’t about perfection, It was all about play.

We didn’t have nice uniforms or pads. We played in t-shirts, jeans and Chuck Taylors. We got dirty.

Sometimes kids got mad, hopefully it wasn’t the kid who owned the ball.

We learned that it was more about heart than ability, my brother was the youngest player but also the scrappiest.

We learned how to (and how not to) play through pain. I remember the same kid got hurt every game and went home crying. We adjusted and kept playing. It was a rough game.

Sometimes the game hurts, you learn to get up and carry on. Most hurts were solved with a little break and a Dixie cup full of warm tropical punch Kool-Aid.

On that note, we had a bird house on a very tall metal pole right in the center of our front yard. Inevitably someone would run into the birdhouse. They knew it was there, my Dad didn’t move it. It was a big, unyielding, permanent fixture in our football field. Most of the time it wasn’t a problem, but if you forgot it was there, and hit it at the right angle, it would jack you up! You gotta watch out for the bird houses in life. We all have bird houses in our lives, things that could jack us up. The lesson is simple…know that they are there and avoid them.

But, I think the single biggest thing I learned in the front yard was where I fit.

I couldn’t catch or throw, I wasn’t fast…

but I DO have a very low center of gravity.

Because of that I could stay on my feet when people were trying to tackle me.

Our quarterback, usually my friend Jimmy, would hand me the ball and shout “RUN!” And I would.

I was more grunt than graceful.

the truth was you couldn’t really call what I was doing running…

I was really just moving in the right direction…that was enough…life is more about just moving in the right direction than speed.

I realized I could run…okay…move in the right direction with 3 or 4 guys hanging on my neck. They would desperately try to bring me down but they couldn’t!

It was awesome!

My team mates celebrated my innate ability to stand up.

There are a few benefits to being the same height and width.

I can’t fully explain the feelings of achievement and belonging that I felt when my team celebrated me finding my place.

It was soul Gatorade.

It was life.

AHHHH!!! the sweetness of finding your sweet spot.

Know your role and play it.

Don’t compare yourselves to others.

Don’t keep track of how many times other people get the ball.

There is only one quarterback on the field…but he’s not on the field by himself!

Find your sweet spot.

Now, several decades later, I, like most chubby, middle age guys, live out my football dreams second hand. I put on a jersey and I talk about “OUR” team going all the way…this could be “OUR” year!

But, I remember the lessons that I learned. I play, I watch out for bird houses and most important, I know who I am.

I know what I can do and what I can’t.

I also know there is nothing better on a cold day than a steaming styrofoam cup of frito-chili pie!

Go Cowboys!

the story of a boy, a dad and a car.

Posted: January 5, 2015 in brain belches
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It was a really good day…until it wasn’t.

It was the summer of 1981.
My Dad was teaching me how to drive.
Dad had just gotten a 1974 Ford Maverick. He restored it and had it painted and pinstriped. It was a beautiful chunk of shiny metal. He was really proud. It was a beautiful, reasonably fast car. He had recaptured a part of the youth that he had forfeited in the name of responsibility. You have to understand, my Dad was a very practical man who drove practical vehicles. He usually drove pick up trucks with gun racks. This was his big mid-life splurge. It was the closest thing he ever had to a sports car.
He took me driving on a Summer afternoon. At first, he was driving. We were just taking a lazy drive. We drove through our neighborhood and over by my Grandma’s house.
then, He pulled over and threw me the keys…to HIS MAVERICK! I adjusted the seat as far up as it could go. Then I took off. I was a little nervous, but I was doing it. I was focused and I even used the turn signals once. It was going good. My Dad was in a really good mood. We stopped at Hi-View Mini-Mart and we each got a cold glass bottle of Pepsi. We were cruising through the back roads with the windows down and an Alabama song playing on the radio. It was a perfect summer afternoon. Dad punched me in the arm and grunted, “you are doing alright, boy.”
It was the closest that I felt to my Dad in a while.

It was a really good day, then in one moment EVERYthing changed!

We were almost home…

I was turning into our long gravel driveway and…well…I guess, I might have over compensated a bit…Instead of the driveway…I was headed straight toward the barbed wire fence that ran parallel to it…in HIS MAVERICK!
Seriously!
We all have moments where we honestly don’t know what happened.
HOLY CRAP moments.
I was disconnected from all reason and road safety and I punched it.
It was an ugly blur that seemed to be moving in fast forward and slow motion all at the same time.
There were metal fence posts and chunks of dirt and grass flying through the air.
It was all accompanied by some unbelievably ugly scraping noises.
For some God forsaken reason…I…just…couldn’t…stop.
I had one foot pressed down on the gas and one pressed down on the brake.
It was a surreal moment of stupidity.
The car finally came to a stop.
I had taken out about 25 feet of barbed wire.
I wanted to throw up or run away.
I slowly looked over at my Father…
His face had turned a shade of pink that I had never seen him wear before.
His eyebrows were twitching and his nostrils were flaring.
It looked like his forehead was about to explode.
He glared at me and got out of the car. He stomped around looking at the mangled fence and the horribly disfigured sports car.
Then he shouted one four letter word that pretty much summed up the whole situation.
My Mom, who had witnessed the whole ugly ordeal from the dining room window, hurried out with two glasses of sweet tea. (Sweet tea has supernatural soothing powers…Mom recognized this as a situation in need of soothing.) I’m pretty sure my siblings were making my funeral plans.

I walked out to our hay barn and cried for hours. I had screwed up. My Irish setter, Pat, put his head in my lap and let me know that I was gonna be alright. Sometimes, only a good dog understands your pain.
Then, my Dad and me fixed the fence together, because that is what you do. We didn’t talk much…we just fixed a broken fence.
Eventually Dad could look at me again without making that strange wheezing noise in his throat.
We got through it.
It became a story…a story that EVERYbody who came over to our house the next 2 years heard. “Hey…you see my boy over there…let me tell you what he did…”

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