If It Keeps On Raining The Levee's Going To Break

For several weeks it has been raining at my house. Nonstop, following you, hanging over your head wherever you go like a Charlie Brown cartoon, heavy downpour. We’ve known for seventeen years our oldest was going to graduate and there has been a nearly two decades countdown clock that has rapidly neared all zeros the last few weeks. Everything that has happened these last few weeks has been either a “this is the last time” or “from now on” type of moment. The rains came down and the floods came up.

Before I tell you about that, let me tell you about this. I was probably thirteen years old when I first fell in love with the drum beat from Led Zeppelin’s “When The Levee Breaks.” The strange thing is, I heard the drum beat before I ever heard the song. It was sampled by the Beastie Boys in their song “Rhymin’ & Stealin’” which me and my buddy Jode played a few million times. I would be sixteen years old before I heard the actual song. I was in the basement of a guy named Harvey when I heard it. His girlfriend and my girlfriend were sisters and we had gone to Harvey’s basement to play cards. At some point that night he put on the Led Zeppelin IV record and Robert Plant’s high pitched wail at the beginning of “Black Dog” flowed from the speakers and filled the room, literally stopping me in my tracks. What was this music? I remember loving the entire album, start to finish (still do), but I came to love that one song in particular. This was the first song I learned to play on drums (one of only three I ever learned). Funny thing is, for years I loved this song without having a clue what a levee was (until I visited New Orleans). Thanks to Katrina I will never forget what a levee is, or why if it keeps raining, they could break.

As strange as it may sound, I’ve thought about this song in an entirely new light lately. I haven’t written anything for over a month due to writers block. Well, that wall came crashing down tonight. It hasn’t been literally raining in my house, but I’ve been under a dark cloud of sadness realizing how quickly everything has passed with the oldest. For me its been like an hourglass. When the sand first begins to drain from the hourglass it is very slow and almost can’t be noticed. But when the sand is almost gone, it seems like it picks up speed. That has been the last few weeks of my life. It has seemingly accelerated at an alarming pace. I first noticed how much “rain” had been falling while at an Alan Jackson concert a few days ago. He sang the song “Remember When” and I could have sworn I heard thunder on that clear sky night. Then it was the Senior banquet at church. Awards night at school. His first day of work at a real, full time job. Senior chapel. Rain drops keep falling on my head.

Graduation night was a party for the graduates, but it felt almost like a funeral to me. Don’t misunderstand, I’m so proud of and happy for my son, but we’ve always been very close and spent tons of time together and I know that beginning now it will be different. Things will change. They will never be the same again. That became a stark reality today when we packed the car for a three week trip and he went to work. This was the rain drop that caused the flood and broke the levee. He hugged me, said goodbye, I love you, and I realized this would be the longest I have ever been without seeing my child. He walked out the front door and I walked to my room and cried. Believe me, it was a flood of emotion.

Funny thing is, God has a history of using floods to cleanse things for new beginnings, and He did just that for me today. When we got to Pulaski and unpacked the car, I told my dad I wanted to go for a ride in the truck on the farm. I don’t remember the last time I rode the farm and it just felt like something I needed to do. The youngest (who is fifteen and ready to get his drivers permit) suggested he drive. It sounded like a great idea to me. He and my dad hopped in the cab of the ’96 Chevy S10 that my dad has driven for seventeen years and I stood in the bed of the truck and leaned on the cab and we took off. My dad teaching the youngest how to drive a stick shift (and for the record he was way more patient with him than he was when teaching me) and me just along for the ride. Growing up we hated getting behind what we called “Sunday drivers” (people with no place to be, just slowly driving along taking in the sights), but tonight I relished being with one. April showers bring May flowers. 

I was nearly paralyzed by how gorgeous everything was. The hay was waist high. Everything was green. Everywhere I looked I saw clover, wild roses and daisies, purple and yellow flowers and the air was thick with the smell of honeysuckle in full bloom. It was as if Mother Nature had put on her best perfume. The dogs chased rabbits, bullfrogs were croaking and herons flew from the pond as we passed by. I walked down by the creek to watch the sunset over the hay field filled with freshly rolled bales. It was just what I needed. After the rain everything is fresh, clean and the blue skies and sunshine return.

Sure I thought about our four wheeler rides through those fields, the fencing we did in the pasture, the camping down by the creek, throwing football in the front yard, but this time the tears didn’t come. Instead I smiled and looked through the window at my dad, and my youngest learning to drive his truck, me in the back, three generations together, and I realized this is one of those moments that years from now I will wish I could relive. Only, now, I don’t have to wish because I am living it. So I stopped and soaked it all in. Uh, oh. It looks like rain.

The Communists Have Won

     I grew up at the tail end of the Cold War Era. For my children the greatest enemy and threat to America is Al Qaeda, the Taliban or radical Islam, but for my generation it was the Soviet Union, Communist Russia. This fact was reinforced through our pop culture. When the United States was invaded in the 1984 movie "Red Dawn", the Patrick Swayze and Charlie Sheen led group of high schoolers, the Calumet High Wolverines, it was by the Russians. Who did Rocky have to face in a boxing ring in Moscow? Ivan "I Must Break You" Drago and a bloodthirsty crowd of Soviets. When President Regan declared, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall", the Berlin Wall was torn down, the Iron Curtain fell and perestroika and glasnost swept the U.S.S.R. The Russians could not buy Pepsi, Levi's, Nike and watch MTV. The 80's hair metal band Scorpion even commemorated these changes with their hit song "Winds Of Change." Even Mikhail Gorbachev (or at least an actor portraying him) applauded Rocky Balboa's victory as the crowd chanted, "U.S.A. U.S.A." All of this was proof we won, right? Wrong. Let me explain.
     I, along with most all self respecting, God fearing, Southern men of my generation, lamented and vocally opposed the expansion, acceptance and indoctrination of soccer into our country. When we grew up there were no school soccer teams, youth leagues or MLS. We played soccer one week a year during P.E. (along with kickball and square dancing). Even then we didn't even have rules beyond kick it in the goal and only the goalie can touch the ball with his hands. That was part of the problem. We were predisposed to be suspicious of any sport that didn't allow you to use your hands. To make matters worse, the only thing we really knew about soccer is that foreigners (not the cool ones that sang "Jukebox Hero" and "I Wanna Know What Love Is") blasphemously referred to it as "futbol." This wasn't football. The NFL had Walter Payton, Joe Montana, Ronnie Lott, Bo Jackson, rough, tough, rugged men's men. That was football. Soccer had weirdos with hippie hair and braided beards, with names like Alexi Lalas and Pele. To make matters worse they wore sissy clothes. Their cleats were skinny, neon colored, feminine looking, unlike my blue collar steel spikes for baseball. The jerseys had more sponsorships and logos on them than a Jeff Gordon car. And the icing on the cake? It was BORING!!! These guys would run around for an hour and a half and never even score!?! Are you kidding me? When I saw soccer on TV it was: kick it this way for a minute, now kick it the other way for a minute, now back the other way again. Rinse. Repeat. For two hours. Add it all up and we had no choice but to see soccer as a communist plot to infiltrate and overthrow us.
     Much to our chagrin, we saw youth leagues pop up. School teams began soon after that. Then came MLS (Major League Soccer) and ESPN Deportes started showing highlights, then games, then ESPN (not ESPN2 or ESPNU) started showing it. Once EA Sports released FIFA video games we knew it was just a matter of time until our sons and daughters were wanting to play. I watched begrudgingly, my first soccer game ever less than two months ago. I had no idea what was going on and it was boring, but I watched it because my freshman and senior sons were on their school team and both started. Since then I have watched many more soccer matches, some in blazing heat, some in freezing cold, some in the rain and some a four hour drive from our house. Monday night I drove three hours by myself to watch a soccer game (it was a state tournament playoff game and potentially, my senior's final game). That's when it happened. I waved the white flag and surrendered to the communist plot.
     The atmosphere in the stadium was as hostile as any I've ever been in (football, baseball, basketball). A sheriff deputy REQUIRED us to sit on the visitors side instead of the bleachers. The team my son played was as rough, tough, mean and vulgar as any KGB interrogators in Siberia. My son's team went down 1-0 in the first five minutes of the game and it remained the same score until the final two minutes, despite a dozen shots on the opponents goal. This is when it happened. Our boys tied the game with less than two minutes to go. The ten or so fans on our side of the field erupted in cheers far louder than the many more fans on the other side, who were now eerily silent, but fighting mad. But not me. I jumped up out of my chair, screamed at the top of my lungs, high fives and hugged everyone in sight and cheered until I was hoarse. To make a really long story just a long story, GCS won the game in overtime on a penalty kick and my hoarse voice screamed again and hugged my son. My senior. My soccer player. We always knew it would be through the kids that the communists would get us. The other team cussed, took cheap shots and tried to start fights, but we won. You read that right.....WE. The communist soccer plot has succeeded. I genuinely, truly, as much as any football game, got super excited and enjoyed a soccer game. In the words of Rocky, "What I'm trying to say is, if I can change, and you can change, everybody can change!" I am a soccer fan. For Mother Russia, comrade.

If I Should Die Before I Wake....(Part 3)

     Now I lay me down to sleep.
     Kase, the world is a better place for your being in it. I have known a lot of people from a lot of places and I can honestly say you are the most pure and tenderhearted I have known. Your innocence is refreshing in a world of corruption. I have always loved that you had your entire life mapped out. I'm still not sure what I want to be when I grow up and yet you have it planned till retirement. That is what makes you amazing. You are going to do such great things in your lifetime. The world will be a little better place for you having been in it. You have always been one who likes to cuddle and snuggle and for a parent there is nothing greater. Strangers meet you and fall in love with you right away. Don't ever change. I admire the fact that you do not allow the world around you to influence you or dictate your decisions. You do what you know is right and pay no attention to what the world thinks. You will be an old man before you realize how rare that is. Seeing your personality blossom these last few years has been a joy to witness. One of my greatest sources of pride and joy in life is having two sons that I look at and think, "Even if you weren't my child, I would want to hang out with you." So many times I have been discouraged and frustrated and scared and thought I couldn't do it anymore, and then I would look at you and think to myself, "I cannot let this child down." I have wanted to be a better person because I lived with you and saw what an amazing person you are. You are a good influence on me. Don't ever change. I can't even put into words the joy you have brought to my life. If you did nothing else in life, know that there was at least one person on this earth who got out of bed everyday and was content to just be near you. Son I love you more than I can tell you and more than I can explain. You have been the source of so much joy in my life. You are going to fit in perfectly whenever you get to heaven and I imagine you will be bringing a lot of people with you. That is all I want in my life is to know that I will get to spend eternity with you. I love you.

If I Should Die Before I Wake... (Part 2)

     Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I want my family to know these things.......
     Reese, son, you just don't realize how much like your dad you really are. That is both a good and bad thing for both of us. I have always felt a special bond with you because we look alike, sound alike, act alike and certainly think alike. The moment they put you in my arms in the hospital you stole my heart and you've never given it back. When I look at you all I can see is how proud I am of you. Although you have made some of the same mistakes as me, I am constantly humbled by how much better of a person you are than me. I treasure the times we have spent together singing at the top of our lungs. I am amazed at how naturally talented you are in so many areas and how quickly you pick up new things. I have seen your heart and I know how tender it is. I love that you are always trying to be a better person and that if you fail it does not discourage you from trying again. In my mind I can still hear your voice when you were three years old and preaching or telling me a joke or reciting the Greek alphabet. I remember thinking, "How did I make something so smart and so amazing." I have told you a thousand times that I love you, but I know that you will never truly understand how much until you hold your own child. I have always been proud that you would hug me, kiss my cheek and say you love me in public, even in front of your friends. I'm glad to know that you aren't ashamed to show the people you love affection and not worry what anyone else thinks. I know you will do great things in your life. I don't mean rich or famous necessarily, but things that really matter. You will impact peoples lives in a positive way. You will make them glad to have known you. You will be a great father who is adored by his children. Know this, it has hurt to see you fail or make mistakes, but I have never, not even for a moment, been ashamed of you or anything you've done. I've only grieved at seeing your hurting. I am proud of you. I always have been. Thank you for making me a father because it is truly the greatest joy I've known in my life. I regret that I did not do as good of a job as I should have at raising you up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. I am sorry for my failures as a father. When you were born I was so young and knew nothing of raising a child and you paid the price for that. The only thing I want in life is to know that you hold faith in Christ in your own heart and that you are committed to serving Him. Be your own man, do what brings your joy, but do all in the name of the Lord. I can handle you growing up and moving out as long as I know in the end we will all be reunited again. I love you.

If I Should Die Before I Wake...

     I'm going to do something that I imagine most people will find morbid at worst, and unsettling at least. I also figure my wife and mother WILL NOT like that I raised this topic (as if speaking of it will bring it to pass). Granted, it is an unpleasant topic to raise, but I have a very pragmatic view of death. At present, I have conducted nearly 200 funerals. I have stood at the head of the casket, as families took their last earthly look at someone they loved, so, so many times. Those caskets have held mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, grandchildren, grandparents, siblings, children and any other relation you can imagine. They were old, young, midlife, teens, children, infants, healthy, sick, every demographic. They were natural causes, self inflicted, accidental, criminal, all manner of causes. This front row view of the brevity and frailty of life forced me to look it in the eye, contemplate it, and realize it on a regular basis.
     There have been periods in my life where I performed a funeral on an average of once a week and in one particular week I performed 8 in 7 days. At every funeral I performed there came a moment, usually when they were lowering the casket into the ground, when I thought to myself, "Someday, someone will be performing my funeral, comforting my family and watching them lower my body into the ground." To this day, if my phone rings very early in the morning or very late at night, I hold my breath in fear that I am about to be told that someone has died or is dying.
     I know I will die. I have accepted that fact, but that doesn't mean I'm not afraid. It's not death itself I fear, I know I will live eternally after Jesus raises me, but I have an, at times, overwhelming fear of leaving those I love. I know they will be fine and that the Lord will take care of them, but I fear leaving them on a bad day, after an argument or a period of time when we haven't had time for one another. I fear dying without them knowing things I want them to know, so I decided to make sure that can't happen.
     Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I want my family to know these things.......
     Jade, Whenever I watched romantic movies I always wondered to myself what did happily ever after look like beyond the kiss and music played and the closing credits rolled. I now know the answer to that question. It looks like our life together. Whenever I heard Ephesians 5 preached in the past (husbands love your wives as Christ loved the church....love your wife as yourself) I couldn't understand it until you. As long as you are with me I have everything I want and need. As long as you are happy I am happy and when you aren't, nothing can make me happy. You have made me a better person in every area of my life (friend, spouse, child, parent, preacher). You bring the best out of me because you make me want to be better for you, to be my best for you. You inspire me with your creativity, your sensitivity to the hurts and needs of others. When you walk up to me, put your arms around me and kiss me, there is nothing greater in this life. I admire you and your strength, your accomplishments, your dreams, your talents, your resiliency. You amaze me with your ability to recognize the needs of others, to be able to sense their pain, and then to have the desire to reach out to them and lift them up. Everything you do you succeed at. Your talents are many and diverse. I have been madly in love with you since I was a teenager and continue to be amazed at the fact that year after year I continue to find more and more things about you that I love so much. My greatest desire for you is that you learn to see yourself through my eyes....the perfect combination of inner and physical beauty. You are the greatest thing to ever happen to my life. You saved me, and, "even when I was flat broke, you made me feel like a million bucks, it's true, I was made for you."Thank you for giving yourself to me and for sharing your life with me. All I ask of you is that you promise me you will live your life faithful to Christ and make sure our boys do to, so that I can leave this world with the comfort and assurance I will see you again and I will be with you all forever. A love like ours is too great to just exist for a brief lifetime, it deserves to be eternal. I love you.

There are a few things you should learn to do before you leave on a trip away from home.

1) Take your wife out to dinner. She LOVES Steel Magnolias.

2) You CAN buy her chocolates. Not too many bc she will have to work too hard at the gym.

3) ESSIE nail polish may be a good alternative, she is kind of into that right now........

4) DON'T buy her flowers, they die. Nobody likes that!!!!!! Pick her some. Still as romantic.

5) Make sure that when you leave, you kiss her good-bye.

6) Tell her you love her everyday that you are gone.

7) ALWAYS make her laugh!

8) Remember the time difference!!!!!!

9) Love her forever.

10) And NEVER,  I MEAN NEVER LEAVE YOUR BLOGSPOT OPEN FOR HER TO HACK.

Luvs to you.

Be Kind, Please Rewind

     The digital age has stripped us of an acquired skill that once was a very respected talent. I'm speaking of the lost art of stopping a fast forwarded tape at precisely the right moment. It could be an audio cassette or a VCR tape, but not everyone could master the technique of stopping it at just the right moment. Of course you could always use the counter, but that's about as much fun as doing math, and it took the feel and instinct out of it. Not to brag, but I was pretty good at stopping the fast forward. In those days when you popped in your copy of Poison's "Open Up And Say Ahh...." but you didn't want to listen to "Look But You Can't Touch" and "Fallen Angel", just "Every Rose Has It's Thorn", you didn't have a "skip to the next track button", you had to use the fast forward. After untold hours listening to tapes with songs I didn't like, I learned to listen to the sound of the unspooling tape to tell when a new song was qued up. Growing up I never dreamed this skill would be put to use (beyond a never a achieved dream of being a radio DJ), but it has.

     I've always heard the older generation talk about how fast life goes by, but I never could have imagined how fast. I can remember being young and feeling like life was in slow motion. A single hour (especially if it was spent in Mr. Hamlett's Geometry class) could seemingly last for days. My 12 hour shift at the Highway Department before a date that night with Her, seemed like it would never end. Not. Any. More. Eventually (I have a theory that it is when children are born) life switches from pause to fast forward. Looking at some pictures and postings on Facebook recently I realized my life is in fast forward.

     Here are a few examples from the past few months: She recently spent two weeks in Wisconsin with her little sister Amber, who was having her first baby. This is the same Amber who, it seems like just yesterday, snarled her 8 year old nose up at me when we met, giving me a "you aren't worthy of my big sister" look. The next thing I know she's a teenager, then a wife and now a mom!

     I feel like just yesterday Colby Webb was a bucktoothed, skinny little kid and then one night he shows up to my high school Bible class wearing baggy hip hop clothes and cement stiff six inch blonde spiked hair. Dozens of youth trips went by in a blur and now he's married.

     Then there's Clay & Mary Lauren Doggett. I can still see them sitting together for the first time in my VBS high school class. They were just beginning to "date." I don't remember their age, but they are early teenagers, and summer after summer I watched as they grew closer and closer at VBS and Bible camp, until a few years pass and I'm performing their wedding. Today she is a nurse, he is a sheriff deputy (two very grown up jobs) and their son just celebrated his 2nd birthday.

     From the same family there is also Leslie and Jake Hamby. I vividly remember the day she came into my Summer Bible school class, ran up to me and enthusiastically shouted, "Look Mr. Brandon I'm wearing makeup" (likely for the first time). Again, I have no idea how old she was, but I know she was young enough that the makeup didn't make her look older, but like a cute little girl playing dress up. Jake was a scrawny little boy that I've known his entire life and taught for many years. We have an album filled with Christmas cards of Jake and his brother and sister from the cradle till college. Last summer I stood in front of the now big strong engineer that Jake has become, as he exchanged vows with Leslie the nurse. Sometime this summer they will welcome their own baby girl.

     Even in my own family I can look at a picture of a ten year old me with all of my cousins, as I hold my newborn cousin Erica. When she was in high school she was the first person I baptized. Today she is a school teacher, married, with two children who are older than she was when that picture was taken.

     Most recently, I rode back from a soccer game with my old friend and fellow preacher, Keith. Sixteen years ago we began preaching school together. On Monday nights when our wives had class, Keith and I would get together to "study" (watch Monday Night Football) and tag team babysit our three sons. Reese and Benjamin were the same age at the time (two years old) and kept each other occupied, leaving me with just my newborn son Kase (who slept most of the time anyway). Riding back from this soccer game last week, Keith and I sat in the front seat, while our now senior sons, Reese and Benjamin, rode in the back. And that newborn Kase is now a freshman on the same soccer team. 

     Thankfully, I have a well honed skill of knowing just the right time to hit the button to stop the fast forward and just let it play. If you will excuse me, I need to slow my life down for a few minutes and just enjoy it.

Fast Times At Giles County High

     She only spoke one word, "Brandon", but it was enough for me to know that something was wrong. Although she was 500 miles away, I could instantly hear the sadness in her voice through the phone. Her next sentence confirmed what I feared. My mother had called to give me the bad news, my cousin, Greg Hood, had died a few hours earlier. The first thought that raced through my mind was how long it had been since I last saw Greg. To the best of my recollection, I last saw him outside of Home Depot. I was walking out and he was walking in and we stopped for a few minutes to catch up. That was it. Just a moment. My next thought was how sad it was that this was our last moment, and it had been so brief, and a few years ago.
     Our first moment (that I have evidence of) was around October of 1976. Greg was born in October 1975 and I was born two months later. It was around our 1st birthday and we sat in Big Mama's (our grandmother) floor in diapers and shared a cake. Over the next decade and a half we had few moments, mostly playing, along with a dozen or more other cousins and kids at Big Mama's during summer break. Truth is, we weren't all that close when we were little because we didn't get to see each other much. But man did we ever get excited when we knew Greg and Johnny (his little brother) were coming to Big Mama's. All of that would change when we got to high school.
     My greatest memory of Greg begins the summer before my senior year. We worked together at the Highway Department on a 12 hour shift so we spent a lot of time together. The funny thing is, after work we hung out too. It was on one of those nights at the end of summer that he, along with about a dozen other friends, went to watch a meteor shower. That night was the first date I went on with the girl would become my wife. A few nights later he would again join us, and a group of friends, to tell ghost stories in an old Civil War era cemetery in the woods behind my grandmother's house. That was the night I first held Her hand. A few nights later this group gathered again at Greg's grandmother's house. This would be the night She and I would have our first kiss. Then there was the time, up on the hill of Dr. Fitts farm, behind my grandmother's house, when Greg caught himself on fire and burned off his eyebrows (my grandmother probably just read that and learned that I was there that night). Then there was the time at his grandmother's on Anthony Hill when, well, never mind (what you put on the internet stays there forever). As far as I can remember, he never called me by my actual name, but "Goaty", which was a nickname I got working at the highway department.
     It is strange, I had forgotten almost all of those memories until a few days ago when I was walking into Winn Dixie and saw a guy walking in who looked just like Greg. I literally stopped in my tracks as the floodgate of memories burst, filling my mind with funny, crazy stories. When Greg's funeral was conducted I was 500 miles away. It made me sad that I couldn't be there to say goodbye to my cousin and friend, with whom I shared some of my best memories in life. So, I decided to write this tribute to him as my own personal memorial service.
     I always felt like Greg was born in the wrong generation and I wonder if he felt that way too. Greg didn't exactly identify himself with the jocks (although he did play football) or the preps as much as he did with Elvis, James Dean and Jim Morrison. I can still remember, and have the yearbook pictures to prove it, that he practically channeled those icons of the fifties and sixties. I don't know if there was a social circle that identified Greg in high school, yet he seemed to move among all of them, having friends of all kinds. Greg embodied the personality of the Sean Penn character "Jeff Spicoli" from Fast Times At Ridgemont High. He always had a big smile on his face, was always looking to have a good time, never wanted to hurt anyone and never took like or himself too seriously.

Toddlers & Tiaras Vs. Lads To Leaders

     I recently learned that I live within two hours of Honey Boo Boo Child. If you haven't heard of her, she is the breakout "reality star" from TLC's "Toddlers & Tiaras." Before I go any further there is a bit of backstory that you need to know.
     For seven years I was the M.C. of the Fairest of the Fair/Miss Giles County beauty pageant. The behind the scenes experience created a bizarre fascination with pageants. Any time I come across Toddlers & Tiaras I have to watch for at least a couple of minutes. It has a rubbernecking at a car crash kind of effect on me. Sadly, this show is a snapshot of pretty much everything that is wrong in America. Spoiled children raised to believe they are royalty, the objectification of women when they are still little girls, materialism unchecked ($5,000 for a six year olds pageant dress), spray tans, color contacts, fake teeth, disrespect to parents, screaming, crying, kicking fits when a child doesn't get her way, parents who scream and cuss when kids don't perform well or win. When I catch five minutes of this show, which is all I can stomach, I am so disturbed at the current state and future of our country. But then I attend a Lads To Leaders convention (for more information on LTL, visit http://www.lads-to-leaders.org) and hope returns.
     In contrast with Toddlers & Tiaras, at L2L I saw: kids who lost competitions hug, shake hands and congratulate their competition for winning; total strangers cheer and scream like crazy for children they don't even know; congregations chanting the name of kids who finished in 3rd place; girls winning competitions, not because of their beauty, but because they delivered a speech from the Bible, led a group in song, created a church website or wrote a spiritual song; guys who didn't get a trophy because of athletic ability, but because they memorized 100 Bible verses, participated in a debate or scored high on a Scripture test. I saw boys and girls who showed poise, grace, courage, confidence, discipline, intelligence, commitment and hard work. And it wasn't just a few. All told it was 20,000 spread over 6 cities. Can you imagine the potential good this many young people can bring to our country? An entire generation of future leaders is being cultivated and it has restored my faith and hope in what can be in our nation. From 5 to 18, these boys and girls did their best and that was something to behold and something to be celebrated......just not with tiaras.

Gettin' My Hair Did

I hate massages, but I love haircuts. What a day at the spa does for my wife, and most of her friends, a simple haircut does for me. And for me, it all began at J.C.'s Barber Shop in my hometown. For most of my early life J.C. (who is my uncle) cut my hair. As of this writing he is still cutting hair in the same little one room building, across the street from Johnson's Foodtown, for over 50 years now, and he's got it down to a science. About the only thing that has changed in all of those years is the cost of a haircut, which gradually increased a dollar or two every 5 to 10 years. I can remember driving by several times on Saturday while you were in town running errands and checking each time to see if the parking lot had thinned out indicating you wouldn't have a long wait. I can remember having to climb up in his little leather booster chair that was made to look just like the regular barber chair, and him still having to use the manual hand pump lever to boost me a little higher. I can just as vividly remember being virtually paralyzed with fear as he warned my mamma, in as syrupy of a southern drawl as any John Grisham character, to make sure I sat still because, "I wouldn't want to slip and cut this boys ear off." I didn't want that either, especially since he claimed to have a jar where he kept all the little boys ears he cut off because of their wiggling. I can still remember the sound of the vacuum system connected to his clippers (still the only one I've ever seen) which prevented the little clipped hairs from getting all over you during the haircut. (You don't think this is a big deal until you go to a barber in Memphis, your first week ever living anywhere other than your hometown, and having him use a Shop Vac to suction all the hair off your face, neck and head when he's done....TRUE STORY!). There were always deer heads hanging on the wall, sometimes other animals too, along with polaroids of deer, turkey or fish that had been caught or killed by his customers. His wall was a grown man's equivalent to a mamma's refrigerator where pieces of pride were put on display for all to see. I can still remember the mystery of the blue or green liquid he soaked the combs in (I still don't know if that was Kool Aid or antifreeze).I can still smell the air, a mixture of talcum powder, aftershave, musk and Brille cream along with sweat and oil from the farmers and factory workers who stopped in while they were "in town" to get a quick trim. I loved getting a glass bottle Sun Drop from the old fashioned drink machine while I waited (you know the kind with the small glass door on the right where you would pull the bottle out horizontally?), and then put it in the wood crate return box when I was done. I learned a lot about life listening to the stories, lies, jokes and politics the old men discussed while I waited for my turn in the chair. I can still hear the sticatto, "Ah-Ah-Ah" laugh (reminiscent of the Count from Sesame Street) as loud as a siren that J.C. would bellow after telling you a joke. He seems to instinctively be able to read each patron to know exactly how much to talk and how much to listen. Some guys want a conversation, others want to listen to stories, some want to talk (barbers are a lot like therapists), others want to sit in silence (this may be the only place they get peace and quiet). This is the barbers equivalent to a doctors bedside manor. Some have got it, others don't. Some have it but can't give a good haircut, so when you find one like J.C. who can do both, you've found a pearl you better treasure. I can remember turning sixteen and going in there for the first time by myself. I got and paid for my own haircut, with no mamma to tell him how it needed to be done. I don't know if I've ever felt more like a man than in that moment. It was as if I had been initiated into a club, crossed over a rite of passage and everyone in there was silently consenting, "You're one of us now." And I remember beaming with joy the first time I went back in and brought my son to get a haircut and helped him climb up into that little leather booster chair and with every pump of that hand lever my pride swelled bigger and bigger. And I grinned as he warned me to make sure my son sat still because, "I wouldn't want to slip and cut this boys ear off", and then saw my boy's eyes widen in terror. I still smile at the thought of four generations of Britton men sitting in that chair as my uncle J.C. did what he did, dozens of times a day, for 50 years. I loved the simplicity of it all. No appointments needed, just come in, wait your turn, take a seat, "A little off the sides, the back, the top" was all the instruction he needed, and then let the man do his work. He was like a sculptor only his tools were shears and scissors. Then with a light dusting of his soft hair brush to clean off any hair the vacuum missed, and you were on your way, looking, and feeling like a million bucks. I loved the consistency of a trip to J.C.'s. You always knew what you were going to get. Years would go by and my hair in photographs would always stay the same because he always got it right. And you don't realize how important that is until you have to go somewhere else and they don't get it right. I always loved, and still do, going to J.C.'s for a haircut (although I confess I snuck down to Haygood's City Barber Shop occasionally to get shaved with the hot towel, warm shaving cream and straight razor, followed by the powder....you have not lived as a man until you have experienced this....the closest thing to pampering a man is allowed to enjoy and still retain his man card, short of being petted by his mamma). To this day the buzzing of clippers soothes and calms me and has on occasion put me to sleep. I have no idea how long he plans to continue, but I'm glad that his son Keith has been cutting two chairs down from him for I know nearly 30 years, so even when uncle J.C. holsters his scissors and clippers cousin Keith will continue the tradition. Don't go to J.C.'s looking to get manscaped or manicures. Go there to celebrate one of the simple pleasures of being a man....a good haircut.

My Life: The Musical (Once He Finds Us)

Have you ever stopped to consider that the absolute first qualification for becoming a Christian is not that you believe Jesus Christ is the Son of God (that is actually step #2), but to be a sinner? If you have no sin you are not lost and therefore do not need to be saved through Christ. Christianity is a religion for sinners. And while no disrespect is intended toward Paul when he describes himself as the "chief of sinners" (1 Timothy 1:15), I would argue that I am at least a Deputy Chief of sinners. I do my best to be slow to judge concerning others because I know first hand that no matter how low you go He can lift you high enough to sit with Him in heavenly places (Ephesians 2:6) and that if you don't watch your step you can fall back just as low (1 Corinthians 10:12). There is often a thin line between Saturday night and Sunday morning (to quote Jimmy Buffett). If this is the soundtrack to my life, then this cut is a Gospel song. The song is "Once He Finds Us" and is written and performed by Todd Snider. Todd Snider is a self described hippie, and although he and I would find ourselves on opposite sides of many issues, one thing we can sing in perfect harmony is this song. I don’t know how I found Jesus I don’t care now he’s in my heart And once he finds us He never leaves us No matter how far we fall apart I used to wonder what I was missing I used to think that I was missing things Now the words of calmer voices Sound like angels bowing strings He was there when nobody else was He was there when the work was thin He was there when my father left us I am here now to work for him With the exception of the line about my father leaving us (which he has never done), when I hear this song in my mind I see a video montage of my life on a loop. When I "found Jesus" (or did He find me?), I wasn't honestly looking. If anything, I accidentally (providentially?) bumped into Him. Regardless, He saved me, my marriage, my life, my family. And in the years since, my life has fallen apart several times and yet here He still is, putting the pieces back together, just like He promised He would ("He hath anointed me to....heal the brokenhearted" Luke 4:18). I have sat alone with Him when I saw my job disappear, despite having a new wife, a new baby and a new house, only to see Him appear with the answers and solutions. She has heard me say a dozen times, while looking back on our twenty years, "How did we get here?" Truth is, I don't know how I found Jesus, and I don't care now, He's in my heart. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cp6ShA-Fd0I (for some reason it isn't letting me embed the video, but if you want to see it, copy the youtube link above and paste it in your web browser. It's worth a watch).

Dear Taylor Swift,

Let me begin by saying, in the interest of full disclosure, that I am not a fan. However, I acknowledge your obvious talent as both a performer and songwriter. There have been a few of your songs that I actually like very much (Mean, which I think is a brilliant response to your critics, of whom, I am one; and also Fifteen which I think captures the age perfectly, and although I hate to admit it as a middle aged man, but We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together is addictive). I've actually seen you live in concert, thanks to a son who wanted to take a young lady, who considered herself your biggest fan, to see you in Nashville. Not my thing, but you put on a good show. I also applaud you in how you have made the transition from teen sensation to grown woman without selling your body and sexuality to do it, unlike most of your predecessors and peers (I'm talking to you Britney, Christina, Miley and Selena). You are very successful and I wish you even more, but would you allow me to give you a little advice from a grey beard? You are in the news as much for your dating as you are for your music. I realize when you are famous everything you do is news (Britney Spears was recently in the news for her grocery list while shopping; as a side note, if you consider Britney Spears buying groceries news, you really need to reevaluate your life), but you need to see how you have participated in the feeding frenzy. You have dated a number of celebrity guys during your career and a lot of people have made fun of this. I have a theory why these relationships haven't lasted, which I will keep to myself for now. While not excusing the mean spirited vitriol cast upon you, you might benefit from recognizing how you have been guilty of the same things. You have developed a reputation for exposing the shortcomings, faults and failures of your ex boyfriends in songs. While I realize songwriting is a powerful way of expressing emotions, yours are generally so autobiographical that the only emotion conveyed is vengeance. Without calling them by name you so clearly identify them that it becomes a public shaming. Granted, they may have acted like jerks and hurt you, but at least what they did was in private, between the two of you, where it would stay if you didn't use your bully pulpit of packed arenas, music television and top 40 country/pop radio to make very public what would have been private dirty laundry. When you do this you lose the ability to claim that you are being picked on by the media, message boards and comedians. At least you have a venue to fight back, whereas the objects of your song lyrics can't, at least not without being seen as a jerk. I realize you have no reason to listen to an anonymous, middle aged man, but I think you're a great kid, er, young woman, that has been a good role model for young girls in so many ways. I just hate to see you set the tone for young ladies without your talent and resources to follow and be hurt in the process. You see, in the hallways, classrooms, message boards, Facebook pages and tweets of their peers, it will be open season from the bullies on these young ladies. And they won't have a legal team, manager and publicist to help fight their battles. I hope this advice is taken as it was intended to be given, with kindness and good will. Keep writing hits, selling records, making millions, winning awards, packing arenas and dating boys (although I would advise you get away from celebrities and look for a real, normal down to earth guy) until you find the right one. P.S. I hope you don't write a song about this.

The Name Game

Years ago She and I read a book on marriage that suggested spouses actually speak one another's names when addressing each other. Don't just refer to him/her, the book said, as: honey, darling, sweetie, baby, sugar or big stupid head (what She would sometimes call me affectionately as part of an inside joke), but say their name. There is power in a name (if you don't believe that then you must not have even gotten in trouble and had your mother call you by your full name). I love hearing my name come out of Her mouth. Although, when she writes about me, she simply refers to me as "B" which I absolutely love for some reason that even I'm not quite sure of. When writing, I refer to my wife as She or Her and my boys as the Oldest and Po. But names do matter. That's why in the early 80's a weight loss product was released, but failed miserably due to an unfortunate name coupled with bad timing. You have likely seen many ads for Dexatrim, but never AYDS diet chocolates. Now, all of this was written to get to the real point of my blog: I love names! I have a list of names in my phone right now. What are they for? Either I'll convince Her to convert our family into the Duggers (19&Counting) or else they will have to become names for pets. I just love names. Picking the names for our boys was one of my favorite things. I had a few original ideas (Wrigley) which She vetoed, and we even had a name picked out until the week before the Oldest was born (Tucker). I scoured through one of those 1,0001 baby name books (which now are like 1,000,001 baby names) before we went with one that we stumbled across in a Golf Digest. I love names. So here is my list of names I love and where they come from. Pet names: Tujague (pronounced "two-Jack", it's the name of a restaurant in Nola), speaking of which, I also love the name Nola for obvious reasons. Also there is Tipitina (a famous music venue in, you guessed it, New Orleans, which derives it's name from a Professor Longhair song by the same name), Boudin (a Cajun sausage pronounced "Boo-Dan", just because I love to say it), Orpheus and Endymion (two of my favorite Mardi Gras krewes), and finally there is Akasha (fictional Egyptian queen from a favorite book). I think when the boys grow up and leave the house She and I will just get a bunch of dogs so that I can use up all of the names I like. I do also like a lot of names for people too, but I don't anticipate having the privilege of naming any more children. But if I did, it would likely be Lola, Marley and Talulah for girls. Maybe that will be the names of my granddaughters and I can pile them in the truck with all the dogs, Tujague (the black lab), Nola (a teacup chihuahua for Her), Tipitina (an Australian shepherd), Boudin (a mutt), Orpheus (a chocolate lab), Endymion (a teddy bear dog) and finally Akasha (my Siberian Husky), and go riding dirt roads and smelling honey suckle. I fully realize this is likely the most bizarre, random, throw away blog I've ever written, but for whatever reason this is what was ricocheting around my brain today and you just happened to get caught in the crossfire.

"My Life": The Musical (Wiser Time)

If you have done even just a cursory reading of my blog, you quickly realized that music is a very important part of it. I love music so much that I often annoy my family by speaking in song lyrics (I will often answer questions or make comments that are actually song lyrics when they fit the conversation or reference a song/band when something someone says is actually a song lyric, i.e. - If someone said, "Do you have the time" I would interrupt and finish their sentence, "to listen to me whine, about nothing and everything all at once", quoting Green Day's "Basket Case." This previous habit, I am told, can be very annoying, but also lots of fun). Music is always playing in our home so it stands to reason that I would write about it a lot. I have written (and will continue) to write about songs I cannot sing. I have written about songs that were stuck in my head at the moment. And now, I am going to start writing about songs that would be found on the soundtrack of my life. I tell Her all the time that I wish real life came with a soundtrack, that music you hear in the background of key scenes from television and movies. Well, it doesn't, but that doesn't mean I can't make my life a musical. Through my blog I am going to set my life story to music. Beginning with this post, and hopefully in many future posts, I will be writing about songs that, to me, identify perfectly with "where I was at" and what I was feeling at the moment. For the last few weeks I've been jotting down songs as they've come on the radio (for the under 25 generation, "radio" was where we listened to our music before the invention of iTunes, Spotify, Pandora and Grooveshark). I have compiled quite a long list, which should provide me with lots to write about (which has been a problem for awhile because I have been struggling with writer's block). Anyway, without further delay, I will "put the needle on the record" (and as M.A.R.R.S. said) "pump up the volume and "let the music play" (a nod to 80's artist Shannon). Two facts about my life: #1 - I do A LOT of traveling, and #2 - The Black Crowes is my favorite band. (Side note, although I don't really edit my work, as the run on sentences, misplaced modifiers, split infinitives and dangling participles prove, and my writing would be best described as verbal/conversational as opposed to textual/literary, I spent ten minutes debating if that last sentence should have been is or are; The Black Crowes is my favorite band or The Black Crowes are my favorite band? Although the word Crowes is plural, the band is singular, so I went with is, thanks Mrs. Long and her fifth grade English grammar class for that one). Alright, "back to the lecture at hand" (you hardcore music fans probably caught that ;). I travel, I love The Black Crowes. The Oldest asks me all the time which Black Crowes song is my favorite and I never can give a definitive answer, but I do know whenever I am traveling, the answer is "Wiser Time." The brothers Robinson wrote this song as a description of life on the road, and there are days where I feel like this song is playing in the background, and not just in my head or on my stereo as I travel down the interstate from one stop to the next. The lyrics are as follows: No time left now for shame Horizon behind me, no more pain Windswept stars blink and smile Another song, another mile You read the line every time Ask me about crime in my mind Ask me why another read song Funny but I bet you never left home Chorus: On a good day, it's not every day We can part the sea And on a bad day, it's not every day Glory beyond our reach Seconds until sunrise Tired but wiser for the time Lightning 30 miles away Three thousand more in two days So why is it that this song helps to tell my story? A few lines really connect with me powerfully. "Horizon behind me, no more pain" (my family has heard me say dozens of times concerning mistakes and pain and problems, "Breathe in, breathe out, move on). "Another song, another mile" (song after song is what passes the mindless miles that pile up traveling the interstate). "Ask me why another road song, funny but I bet you never left home" (simply put, to understand the power of "road songs" you are going to have to spend some time away from home. You can't miss a place you never leave). "30 seconds till sunrise" (I do much of my driving early in the morning to avoid traffic which allows me to watch a lot of sunsets), "tired but wiser for the time" (traveling is exhausting but I have learned so much about myself on those long trips by myself). "Lightning 30 miles away, 3,000 more in two days" (Just like a storm just keeps on passing through, and although it is slow moving it will be a long way off shortly because it never stops moving, I do the same). Perhaps my favorite part of the song is the chorus, which actually has nothing to do in my mind with traveling, but everything to do with Her. "On a good day, I know it's not everyday, we can part the sea, and on a bad day, I know it's not everyday, glory beyond our reach" (I think the songwriters, who are brothers known for their tempestuous relationship, are, I believe, writing about themselves, I couldn't have said it better about us. When we have a good day, and no it's not everyday, although it is most days, we can work miracles, there's nothing we can't do together. And when we have a bad day, and thankfully those aren't everyday, not even many days, we are still close enough to perfect to see it, even if it is slightly beyond our grasp that day). This was way longer than I intended, and perhaps more informative than you were interested, but this song has to be on the soundtrack of my life, and I hope it brings a little music to yours. In case you are interested in hearing it, here is the video.