Santa? Is that you?

The silent alarm sounded and I sat upright in my single bed. I was a little scared of what I had to now do, but I was also a little proud of the early warning system I’d developed that had allowed me to be accident free for more years than I could remember. At a full nine years of age I usually slept soundly through the night, but on this night, I had to pee.

Luckily the bathroom was right next to my room and I wouldn’t have to walk by that big scary painting in the living room; the one with the man and wife that stared back at me no matter where I stood in the room. My parents had laughed when I told them how it scared me, but at least they had been kind enough to move it out of the hallway…and to not tell my brothers why they had done so.

When my feet hit the cold December floor it crossed my mind to just jump back in bed and have an ‘accident’. Except for that watermelon incident last summer I really couldn’t remember the last time I’d wet the bed, but I was a big boy and I knew that my parents and Santa were keeping tabs on my progress. Santa! That’s right; it was Christmas Eve; how could I forget! Maybe I could endure the staring strangers long enough to check the living room and see if Santa had come. Maybe I would even catch him in the act!

The first thing I noticed when I entered the hallway was a dim light coming from the end of the house. I knew that Santa was magic, but he probably still needed a little light to do his work. I took a few steps and hesitated; would he be mad if I caught him? I would hate to do anything that might cause a reduction of my anticipated bounty. Before I could take another step I heard a muffled voice coming from the living room. I strained to listen because I knew what Santa’s voice sounded like; he usually called before I went to bed on Christmas Eve. Then I heard another voice. It was different from the first and much more feminine. Was Mrs. Claus with him?

When I heard my mother’s familiar giggle I realized that it was my parent’s voices I was hearing in the living room. Now there was nothing to be scared of I thought as I charged down the hall! Maybe they had even talked to Santa and made a few last minute suggestions. I could get an early start playing with my new toys!

When I entered the room they both fell silent. They wore the same embarrassed expression they had when I had come to their bed one night after a terrible nightmare; something is wrong. And here they were, standing in the living room playing with the toys Santa had brought for me! Sensing my disappointment, my father recovered quickly and scooped me up in his arms. He cleared a place on the sofa, pulled my mother to us and sat all three of us on the couch. Showered with comfort and kisses, they proceeded to explain a true story that changed the way I looked at life (and certainly Christmas) forever.

This is one of my favorite stories, but wish as I may, not an ounce of it is true. The Beaver and all six Brady’s probably learned this way, but I learned the truth about Santa the way most every other kid of my era did. I learned through ridicule, false information and embarrassment. I may have been a little angry at first, but I quickly realized that if I just played along, the gifts would keep coming in. Wink wink.

But the real value of this lesson is one that I have to remind myself of regularly as I age. I know that no medals are awarded for simply being right. I know that nothing positive comes from ‘calling out’ others on the little white lies that allow them to make it through a work week. I know that believing in something different does not necessarily make it wrong and that being mad about something you cannot change will ultimately stop the flow of gifts. I know now that there is a Santa Claus, and if you truly believe, he will come every day.

Groundhog Day

Anybody who has known me for very long knows that I have always had a fascination with animals lying dead by the road. Yes road kill! But before you picture me cooking up a long dead possum or raccoon, let me explain. The fascination revolves around the chance to look at these animals up close and personal without risking my health and safety. I would never dream of killing most of these animals myself, so if they are already dead…why not? It always kind of seemed like meeting a celebrity to me.

I come by this trait honestly. When I was a kid we often stopped and inspected road kill, and if it was something rare like a big rattlesnake or copperhead, we would take it home and save the skin. I still remember the look on the bag boy from A&P’s face when he opened the trunk on our VW Beetle only to stare in to the eyes of a quickly thawing road-killed bobcat! If I remember correctly that was the last time he hit on my mother. Let’s just say that not everyone shared (or understood) our fascination.

Over the years inspecting road kill gave me a great understanding of what lurked in the woods around our home. I could brag that I had identified and touched most of the wild animals native to middle Georgia. Sure they were dead, but I petted foxes, coyotes, skunks, wild hogs, and countless species of snakes, hawks and owls. This up close and personal inspection allowed me to make positive identifications in the field as well as those drive-by inspections done at 60 miles per hour on the way to school. “That was a grey fox” I would counter when one of my brothers said “poor dog” or just simply “awwwe”. Maybe DOT would hire me as an amateur biologist!

But even the truest of pleasures has a way of fading over time. After years of poking these deceased creatures with a stick I was beginning to think I had seen it all, and the number of times we actually stopped decreased. It had to be something we couldn’t identify or something really special. Of course my wife-to-be knew of this fascination, and while I can’t positively say she enjoyed stopping and viewing the carnage, she did a good job of at least playing along. It wasn’t long before she could tell the difference between a red fox and a grey one at almost 80 miles per hour! Looks like I had chosen a good one.

So as I approach my wedding anniversary of twenty four years, I am reminded of one of the most unusual road kill identifications of my illustrious career. We were married on February 4^th, and while I won’t say that the groundhog’s search for his shadow had any influence on our destination, we chose to head to the cold mountains of North Georgia anyway. In spite of the frigid weather we had a wonderful time and I somehow managed to keep my eyes on the road; tougher than it sounds for a guy like me traveling through an exotic location with potentially unidentified species of animals unable to safely cross the road.

We had almost made it to flat and familiar ground when we zoomed by a reddish, immobile lump lying a few feet off of the side of the road. “Was that a grey fox?” my wife asked as I applied the brakes and pulled on to the shoulder of the road. I had been wondering the same thing, but I was delighted that she was the one that brought it up. Nothing kills a honeymoon quite like loading a dead animal into the back of the truck beside a busy road! The joy of adding a new animal to my long list of positively identified road kill quickly faded as I realized the irony this one. His prediction of six more weeks of winter was incorrect…he only managed four days!

Semesters

The last few months at my household can best be described as “trying”.  Throw in two major holidays and a job change on top of a semester at school that was not going my daughter’s way and you have a really good recipe for the perfect storm. I think all three of us felt like we were the one carrying the entire load, and while I know this was not the case, if you feel that way does it really matter?

Fortunately the new year has started off much better. Of course I have I have to qualify this statement with the fact that it is Winter; the arm pit of seasons. I don’t necessarily lose my will to live during this time, but my want often suffers! But we finally got that new semester the three of us had been holding our collective breaths for. A fresh start. One can only say “hold on, it’s almost over” so many times before they too begin to lose hope, but often this is the only option. We practice our breathing lessons.

We all live our lives trying to make it over that next hump. Friday’s paycheck, the big test or the boss’s vacation…if I can just hang on until…Fortunately school, like the four seasons, is broken up in to manageable clips. Even a lizard in search a hot rock like me gets tired of sweating! Change keeps us both fresh and on our toes. The only activity more fun than decorating for Christmas is packing things up and enjoying a Spartan household, for about a week. Happiness comes in semesters.

Really isn’t everything temporary? The things we love don’t last forever, and would we truly love them if they did? If Santa came every night we eventually would become so tired of baking cookies that we might slip him a store-bought one every now and then *gasp*. The danger lies in forgetting that the bad times are temporary as well.

So don’t quit your job or leave your spouse just yet; neither of those operate on the semester system, and really they are not the things we need to change anyway. Math will pass, that demanding client will cycle and eventually the air will warm. It may not happen tomorrow, but there is always next semester.

It's not far...

My older brother moved around a lot in his almost thirty year military career, and while this offered me the opportunity to enjoy a few low cost trips to some cool cities, we really didn't see each other much. When he ended up a few hours away in Opelika Alabama the entire family was ecstatic! I don’t mind air travel, but it’s complicated and expensive; just being able to get in the car and visit for the weekend was a huge bonus.

But one of the first things I realized when I struck out on my first visit there was that the trip from Milledgeville to Opelika was also complicated. Turn here…drive a few miles on this two lane…look for this turn…there is no sign, but there’s a big tree…It wasn't that bad, but it wasn't like taking the interstate to Atlanta either. When I mentioned the trip to a friend he explained it to me in true Southern fashion, “it’s not that far, but there really is no good way to get there”. Exactly!

This was a more than a few years ago now and I will say that with the addition of the Fall Line Freeway the trip is certainly much easier. The new highway is four lanes, divided by a grassy median, with speed limits in some sections of sixty five miles per hour!  Progress, finished just in time for my brother to move away!

I ended up on a short section of this beautiful highway yesterday as I ventured from Milledgeville to Gordon. I understand that the ultimate goal of connecting two of Georgia’s larger cites (Columbus with Augusta) is not yet realized, but I have to confess that I didn't pass a single car on this highway coming or going. It’s somewhat of a joke to a few area residents, and a sore spot to several others. It chopped a few surface streets in half and blazed through some of the most beautiful property in Georgia. One of the affected areas was a property I hunted for many years.

Construction on this leg of the new road lasted for several years. I must confess that while the work was going on the hunting, if not improved, was a little more enjoyable. The big machines opened up areas where you could see farther than you could shoot and I often watched animals of all kinds cross the newly graded roadbed. But each morning as I sat perched in a tree high above the ground watching the sunrise, I knew that my days here were numbered. Did I think the new highway was a good idea? I guess after my years of traveling the ‘pig paths’ to Columbus I would be a hypocrite to say no, but why did it have to blaze through my favorite hunting spot? The answer is simple…it’s not far, but there is really no good way to get there!

Almost!

When I was a little boy my brothers and I watched every minute of Sunday NFL football that our single channel would allow. If we were lucky, or someone climbed on the roof and turned the antenna, this meant two games; if we were not, we either had to go outside and play football ourselves or watch a well-worn version of Bye Bye Birdie; a channel 13 favorite! Yes, I was raised in the caveman years of television.

Winter Sunday afternoons consisted of three little boys wearing any clothing item football related, draped over the furniture trying to find a way to stay focused for the four hours it took to decide the outcome of a football game. Often we would get up right in the middle of the action and go outside a throw the ball around. Of course we were practicing our ball handling skills, but the most important skill was learning to make a football move without the appearance of really trying! What you did was not as important as what you looked like while you were doing it! “It’s better to look good than to feel good and darling you look marvelous”…well, kind of, I know what Billy Crystal was trying to say!

Of course I have never been able to shake this idea of being cool completely, I am a male. But as I get older one of the things I've realized is that these professional athletes were trying to appear flippant partly to cover just how much pain that last amazing play, and really the entire season before it, inflicted! I now understand what my father meant when (after an awesome tackle) his first word was “Ouch” instead of “Yay”! Turns out missing work and missing school are two entirely different missings!

But of course there were valuable lessons hidden in this “be cool” training we practiced every day. I learned to approach every situation as though I belonged in it; I learned confidence. I learned that playing through the pain could mean working at a job I dislike while I waited for the one I really wanted to open up. I learned to not sound the alarm when a friend wanted help with a problem that terrified me.

But in spite of my fifty years of practice, this morning I almost slipped. As I attempted to place the massive 20 lb. bag of dog food on the self-check counter at Walmart, my lower back decided I should not. The look on my face as I frantically searched for a shopping buggy to carry the load to my car was obvious to the older cashier standing a few feet away and she politely asked me if I needed some help! “No thanks” I managed, “I just thought for a second I had lost my wallet!” Almost!

Naming the beast

I remember giving my car a cleaning that day that was even more thorough than the almost hourly one I gave it most every other day. It was my seventeenth birthday and I was taking my girlfriend out to eat at a nice restaurant thirty miles up the road in Macon. While it is hard to imagine my fifteen year old daughter navigating the distance and traffic of a town larger than the little one we call home, it was no big deal for me; I had been banging my father’s old Dodge truck through the woods for many years at this point and I was a confident pilot.

The evening began normally as we launched our late afternoon trip to the big city. My girlfriend and I had been dating for at least a year, so the conversation was light and relaxed; we were both looking forward to a big dinner and a romantic evening. I admit that I considered every evening with her special, but I had plans for an extra special one. It was my birthday!

A few miles short of the halfway point I noticed a small car up ahead that seemed to be both in our lane and headed directly toward us. The car was at least a half a mile in front of us, and while I expected them to correct the problem before we collided, I sat up a little straighter and prepared for disaster. Everything happened very quickly at this point, and while I did manage to avoid the disaster, the driver of the small car did not. At the last second I veered into the left lane as it struck a large culvert on my side of the road!

I had come to almost a complete stop at this point, so a quick shift into reverse and I was staring through the passenger window at a crumpled Volkswagen that I felt sure contained a deceased driver; nobody could have survived that impact! I feel sure no more than a few seconds elapsed before the driver climbed out of the shattered window, but it seemed like several hours and multiple indecisions. What should I do?

What happened next has haunted me off and on for most of my life. When the screaming blood-soaked driver flopped on the trunk of my car I just sat there; I froze. Another driver had stopped to help at this point, and when he grabbed the hysterical woman, I pulled my car up a few feet and out of the road. I did manage to roll my window down and tell the Good Samaritan that I would drive to a store down the road and call an ambulance, but what I really wanted was to get away.

If it makes any difference, the driver of the wrecked car was fine. I know this because I drove to the local police station the next day and inquired. A small cut on her forehead had drenched her face and shirt with blood, but she was otherwise unharmed. I was relieved for her, but I admit that this did little to settle the uneasiness I felt for having failed her when she needed me most. I remember my girlfriend being gracious in her attempts at consolation, but this did little for me and it was really the beginning of the end of our relationship...and the confidence of a seventeen year old.

I could have gone the rest of my life without telling this story from so long ago; it is certainly not something I’m proud of and few have heard it. But this morning as my daughter and I walked the dog I decided to begin with her. No one likes to give tragedies a name; if you speak of them you invite them. If you slip you must knock wood.

But I want us both to be prepared. It breaks my heart to tell my baby what I think she should do when (God forbid) the shooting starts, but what if I never mentioned it? Do I believe that any amount of preparation will change the outcome of how one reacts when it really matters? I don’t know and I hope I never have to find out again. But as of today at least it has a name.

Damaged?

I’m sure somewhere out there in this vast country I call home there is a man that actually looks forward to the ending of daylight saving time; maybe one day I will meet him. I probably wouldn't have much in common with this mystery man because I hate it! The days are naturally getting shorter anyway… aren't we going about this backward? I feel like it gets dark right after lunch and I’m ready for bed at 7:30!

Today I decided to try and fool Mother Nature and actually do something outside after work. I had stopped by Lowes earlier in the day to purchase a few bags of cow manure (you can now purchase land one bag at a time) for my winter garden, but I would have to hurry if I wanted to get it spread before dark. I know this is not much of a job, but with so little time and a dog that had been penned up all day vying for my attention, I knew it was going to be close.

I dropped the truck’s tailgate and as I pulled the wagon closer I noticed one of the tires was flat. Now I would have to either lug the bags to my garden or take the time to find my little compressor and inflate the tire! Things were certainly not going as planned and they were compounded by a fifty pound dog-child that wanted to be absolutely sure that her evening walk was not forgotten. I swear this dog will attempt to sniff the hammer in full swing, but that is a story for another day. The easy answer was to simply lug the individual bags to the garden!

After dropping off the first bag I headed back to the truck for the others. It is not uncommon for my energetic dog to streak past me when I work outside (or inside for that matter), but I noticed that it was not me that held her interest. With ears pinned flat against her head, I watched as she rocketed toward the street! It was at this point I noticed that her focus was a young woman; walking stick in hand…ears sealed with head phones…new to the neighborhood…walking past my driveway! I knew my screams would go unheard; the walker was listening to music and everybody knows that a dog’s ears close off when they run at sixty miles an hour;  I screamed anyway.

Naturally neither heard me and in the blink of an eye, Sunshine (my streak of white lightning) had reached the walker. She screamed as the dog cut in front of her and placed both front feet on her chest! Luckily the walker’s first reaction was to remove the ear phones (not swing the stick) and unplugged she could now hear my pleas. I can only imagine how fast her heart was beating as she looked at the retreating dog and struggled to say “that is one friendly dog!” Welcome to the neighborhood.

I have to say that I consider myself lucky; the lady was nice about everything and nobody was injured. Sunshine, on the other hand, received a piece of my mind that I could tell she didn't fully understand. Of course some of the browbeating I gave her was for the walker to hear, but once she was out of earshot I started to feel a little guilty. I know this is unacceptable behavior and someone could have been hurt, but how does one explain this to a dog whose only intention was to spread some love?

This dog spent most of her two years in what really amounts to an orphanage. I don’t want to give the impression that I think the care and attention given her at ARF was anything less than stellar, but it will never be the same as a real home. I have to know that as she watched other dogs come and go hope was hard to hold on to. While she had many friends, she never had a family of her own. But as damaged as she may be, her natural reaction to a stranger was one of love and happiness, not fear and mistrust. Innocent until proven guilty; thank you Sunshine!