A Funny Shade of Blue

So Far Off The Beaten Path

About two weeks ago, the lone tree that decorated our front yard fell, narrowly missing the house, specifically my room. It happened at night, during some rough wind and rain, and I remember hearing it fall, except that I thought it was thunder. Incredibly LOUD thunder, but thunder all the same.

It wasn’t until the next afternoon, when I was called in to work, that I noticed it. I had jumped into the car, and as I pulled past the mailbox, it caught my eye. It’s not an extremely large tree, and, in fact, I have no idea what KIND of tree it is. But, when I saw it my mind immediately recalled the “thunder” that woke me from a dead sleep and shook my room as if there had been an earthquake.

I called my Dad, who answered his cell phone laughing and said “Yeah, we saw it.” We discussed briefly how bizarre it was, and that hopefully the insurance company would cover the removal of the thing, otherwise we would have to spend an afternoon cutting it up and dragging it to the curb.

Last week the insurance company finally sent someone out, and, as it turns out, they DON’T cover that sort of thing. There was some slight damage to the house, though, since it had grazed the corner when it fell. At the very least it had knocked a few shingles off. The man asked if it would be okay to check out the the rest of the roof, and about an hour later he came down and told my father that it should have been replaced five years ago. So, while we were going to be stuck cutting up a tree, we were also going to get a new roof.

This Sunday, after church and a brief lunch, my Dad, my step-mother, Yael, myself and my brother-in-law, David spent about three hours turning a tree into firewood. It wasn’t pleasant, and thankfully my cousin, Daniel, had some extra tools handy to help us along, but I was surprised how little time it took to basically dismantle something that had seemingly stood solid for at least ten years. And, if we’d had more tools and a few more people, I doubt it would have taken half that amount of time.

To be fair, the thing had definitely seen better days before it collapsed into our yard. A few years ago it was struck by lightning and lost a rather big section of the upper limbs. And, when it fell, there were hardly any roots jutting from the end of it, though the roots you can see still in the ground make me think that at some point it had thrived there. So, it had been dying for awhile, we just couldn’t see it.

So, for the last three days three piles of dead wood have seen me off to work and greeted me as I returned home at night. I pass a decent sized hole where those pieces, those piles, once formed something greater, something substantial. Now, they’re waiting on the sidewalk to be picked up, and soon enough the hole will be filled in, and possibly a new tree (or trees) will be planted. By this time next year I’ll likely have forgotten the three hours work it took to cut it to pieces or that it was ever even there in the first place.

Naturally, this house looks exactly the same as it did before the tree fell, and even people who visit regularly might never have noticed the difference unless it was pointed out to them. But, regardless, there was this tree that we considered part of our house, and now it’s gone.

As goofy as it sounds, all of that has really had me thinking about the direction my life has taken these last few years. I suppose to a lot of people it seems the same, that I’m still the same guy I’ve always been. To some, specifically people and relationships I’ve left behind, I’m not the person they always thought I was, I’m unrecognizable. And some people see only this person I am now, thankfully never knowing who I was even three or four years ago.

It’s hard to pinpoint specifically where it started. Sometimes I think it was the end of a barely begun relationship a few years ago, sometimes I think it began three years ago with the absolute failure of the one long-term relationship I’ve had in my life and then sometimes I think it all started with totalling out my Mirage four years ago. But, I guess it doesn’t really matter where the road begins, only where it leads you to. And, man, was it ever a long road.

It was a frightening thing to wake up and realize that I no longer knew who I was. For lack of a better analogy, I’d planted so many trees in my front yard that I could no longer see my own house. And it seemed every day one or more of them threatened to snap in half and take part of me with it. It wasn’t a realization I came to lightly and it especially wasn’t one I enjoyed. My relationships were the only thing I had, without my friends or my girlfriend I truly believed I had nothing of any value. Even worse, NONE of those relationships were healthy, all of them were built on codependency and common misery.

So, eventually, and sometimes unknowingly, I began the arduous process of removing anything and everyone from my life that pulled me in that direction. Sometimes I could do it swiftly, pulling up the tree, roots and all, and sometimes I just had to keep trimming until eventually there was nothing left but a stump. Unfortunately there are only a few ways to remove a stump, the easiest probably being dynamite. Which tends to get messy.

I won’t say I’m proud of the way I handled any of it. I’m not a very confrontational person, and I’m also not one who believes anyone should change to please me. I never set out to hurt anyone intentionally, and to the few I did, they’ll never know how much I regret it. But, there’s no easy way to tell someone that they’ve become unrecognizable, and that, worse, they’ve somehow turned you into someone you never intended to be.

The road ended, I think, last year, last February in fact, when I totalled another car and came away completely unscathed. I hadn’t been so lucky with the Mirage. There I’d had pretty bad burns on both arms from the air bag and had part of my dash board driven into my right knee, with a pretty banged up left knee to go with it. Nothing severe, but I do still walk with a slight limp, which gets infinitely more noticeable in bad weather or when I’m extremely tired. But, I’m getting off track.

In February of 2010, as I sat around my room drowning my depression with my love of cinema, the last tree fell. Unlike the one that narrowly missed my house two weeks ago, this one didn’t make a sound. But, it did leave an empty hole, one that I was sure would never be filled in. And, maybe it won’t. The roots of that tree are still there, I trip over them all the time. When I do I’ll remember how it got there in the first place, smile, and go about my day. New relationships sprang out of the old ones, new friends were made both here and in other parts of the world, and I rediscovered an old one that somehow had just never really gotten off the ground. I guess these aren’t so much trees as, well, shrubs, to stick with the theme. But, shrubs are pretty and extremely easy to maintain, and they don’t often uproot or snap in two and take part of you with them. Shrubs are something I can handle.

My point, if I have one, is that there may not be any big, beautiful, leafy trees in my front yard any more, and it might need a new roof or a coat of paint, but I can see my house. Maybe for the first time in my entire life I see the person I want to be, I see myself.

Image by Mayboro

Song: Breakdown, Guns N Roses. Listen/Video/Lyrics. Download.

Dawning of a New Era: Little Boxes, Part 2

I don’t remember moving into the house in Windsor Park.

I remember the two bedrooms on the lower floor that belonged to my brother and I, as well as the den outside of them. I remember the bluish grey furniture and the television with the missing power button, the bathroom that Ryan and I shared, the laundry room and the small staircase that led up to the second floor to an even smaller hallway. I remember the kitchen, the living room, the master bedroom on the top floor, as well as the two other bedrooms that belonged to my sisters.

I remember the back yard and the front, the basement, the big wooden fort and the carport. I remember the front porch, the back porch, the steep back yard, the pine trees and the wooden fence.

I remember the broken window in my bedroom and the captain’s bed I slept on for most of the years I lived there. I remember the sliding closet doors and the cabinet television with the old Betamax hooked up to it.

But, I don’t remember moving in.

To be fair though, there’s not a lot I remember about the years I lived in that house, at least, not a lot of positive things. I think it’s called selective amnesia, where your brain blocks out all the negative events. Not that I was abused (unless you count hating the people you live with abuse…I was a teenager, I hated everyone, sue me) or really mistreated, it just wasn’t a particular happy time in my life. Which really sucks, because I lived there for about eight or nine years.

I do want to say that I don’t blame anyone. I’m not the type to look at the past and start pointing fingers, mainly because there’s always a few pointing back at myself. Choices were made, most of them I had no say in, and as I’ve said before, my philosophy will always be “Everything happens for a reason.” As a kid I couldn’t see those reasons; hell, some of them I STILL don’t understand, but I don’t assign blame to anyone. Partly because, as I said, I wasn’t exactly used or mistreated, just unhappy.

Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of things I remember during that time, and some of them are pretty positive. But, with the exception of one thing, I don’t think a single one happened in that house.

I wish I could remember the date, but I don’t. If I had to guess I’d say it was late 1995 or early 1996. I graduated in 1997 and had moved out at the beginning of that school year, so that sounds about right.

It was late at night, either a Friday or a Saturday, and for whatever reason I was alone in the house. By that I mean my step-father was probably sleeping, my Mom was doing the same or down playing at The Loft and my brother and sisters were somewhere else, possibly with my Dad. I’m not exactly sure WHY I wouldn’t have been with them, but I wasn’t. None of that’s really important anyway.

My brother and I had rooms on the lower floor, where what we called The Family Room was. Other than the master bedroom it was the only room in the house with cable. Showtime was having one of their free weekend previews, and they were premiering a movie I’d been dying to see for almost two years, The Shawshank Redemption.

I’d read the novella twice, once before I’d even known they were making a film and once after I’d seen “Now a Major Motion Picture” on the cover of one of the reprintings at Wal-Mart. It had been part of Stephen King’s Different Seasons collection, which I’d initially picked up so I could read the story The Body, which was adapted into the Rob Reiner film Stand By Me. (Interestingly enough, of the four novellas, three were adapted into films, these two and Apt Pupil. I don’t even remember what the fourth story was about.) I was a Stephen King nut in those days. His books were all I’d read, and I would devour them.

But, I guess all of that is beside the point. Showtime was going to be premiering The Shawshank Redemption, and I was going to get to watch it. Alone. No one to bother me, which is a rarity in a house of six people.

I was transfixed for the entirety of the film. I sat cross legged on the floor, elbows on my knees, leaning into the television for one-hundred forty two minutes. The only time I even moved was to get the blood flowing in my legs again.

Up until that moment my favorite film was St. Elmo’s Fire, with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles running a close second. Yes, even at 16 I was eclectic. I loved St. Elmo’s (and still do) because so much of the film seemed to live outside the frame, and that fascinated me to no end. There were jokes that only these six people understood, they talked about things that we never saw in the film, they were people that had lives BEFORE the cameras started rolling. And, as for the Turtles, well, it’s all in the title. How could I NOT love that movie.

But, Shawshank was different. It was visceral. Yes these people felt very real, very much alive, but it spoke to me past that. Shawshank was the film that made me see that not only could you use cinema to tell a story, it could become a metaphor for life. As much as I’d loved to read (if it wasn’t Stephen King it was comics) and watch movies, I’d never seen them as anything other than escapism and entertainment. This was neither.

Among other things, The Shawhsank Redemption is the story of a man imprisoned for actions he never committed, seemingly destined to live out his life under the thumb of people who would never care that he was innocent. But, in the midst of that nightmare a friendship is formed and hope, as the the book points out, springs eternal.

There is a scene, one of my favorites, where Andy, the main character, has had his last chance at freedom ripped away from him. He sits alone in the yard, staring intently at nothing, when Red comes to try and console him. Andy talks honestly, for the first time in the film, about the death of his wife. He tells Red that while he may not have killed her, he drove her into the arms of another man, that he put her into the situation that led to her death. He made choices that brought him to prison. He might as well have pulled that trigger, because he was guilty. Guilty of making the wrong decisions, or even the right ones. Everything he’d ever done in life led him to this moment, and this moment was all he would ever have, nothing was guaranteed. “Get busy living, or get busy dying.”

It’s not a motto I’ve adhered to, but it’s one that’s always stayed with me. At the end of the movie I sat in awe, crying. Not because it was sad (it isn’t, at least not at the end, I don’t care what anyone tells you), but because for the first time I understood my own life. I understood that no matter how bad I THOUGHT things were, they could be worse and that it doesn’t matter how you got here, only that here is where you are. There is no inescapable prison, even one of your own making.

I’ve seen the film dozens of times since that night, and it never fails to bring me to tears. Not everyone gets a happy ending, but the ones that do, they earn it, they fight for it, every single moment of it.

I don’t remember moving into the house in Windsor Park, but I do remember the night I realized I had to leave.

Song: Waiting, Green Day; Watch, Lyrics, Download

Round the Bend, She’ll Be Waitin’

Six years ago today I lost the most important person in my life, but instead of talking about how much she means to me or how much I miss her I thought I’d just tell you about her, my grandmother, Alice Craddock “Johnnie” Polk, or as we affectionately called her, Nanny.

(And for anyone curious about the above picture, it’s from Raising Arizona, which has nothing to with my grandmother, except that she once had the exact same couch they’re sitting on. A little piece of trivia I’ve always gotten a kick out of.)

First, above everything, she was a family woman. For her blood wasn’t just thicker than water, it was as good as gold. And if you knew her, well, that meant you were blood, no matter who your parents were. There was nothing she loved more than being surrounded by her family.

And, when we were together one of her favorite past times was laying cards, specifically Canasta. She was, with not an ounce of hyperbole, a master at the game. When we played doubles he preferred partner was my Aunt Jo Ann. Together they were annoyingly unbeatable, and I witnessed many a game that ended with not-so-pleasant words from one of my uncles or my Dad. But, If it wasn’t Canasta then it was usually a board game, probably Pollyanna. In fact, my ad went so far as to make a bigger board to allow for more than the traditional four players. While the box, dice and most of the original wooden men are long since gone, the original board (along with the makeshift) are still with us. In fact, they’re sitting in my father’s bedroom.

She’d end every phone conversation with “Come see me when you can,” right after she just got through asking about everyone who wasn’t sitting in her living room at the moment. 

She also loved puzzles, and not just of the jigsaw variety. Crosswords were a favorite of hers, particularly the one in the back of the TV Guide. I’m actually glad she died before they switched to the new design, she would have hated it.

And game shows, man did she love game shows. On the opposite side of not having to endure the horrid new TV Guide, she also didn’t get to see the awesomeness that is The Game Show Network. I’m sure she’d have gladly spent her days flipping between it and the Weather Channel. God how I hated the Weather Channel.

There are a lot of advances in television and DVD that have happened in the last six years that made me think “Man, I wish Nanny had lived to see this.” She very much enjoyed her time with the television, especially procedural shows. I know, an old woman that love Matlock and Murder She Wrote, how original, but she REALLY loved her procedurals. She needed a mystery, a problem she could solve, a question to answer, which goes back to the puzzles and games too; she was analytical but not overly intellectual oddly enough. I think she really enjoyed being underestimated, that way she always knew she had the upper hand.

She also loved westerns, the hokier the better, something her and my Dad definitely have in common, and probably the one thing she adored that I just can’t get into. Whenever I walk into the kitchen and he’s watching some old black and white shoot ‘em up, I like to think she’s there with him, clapping along to the goofy out-of-place singing that shows up at the end. But, she did give me Rio Bravo, and for that, well, I’m eternally grateful.

She never drove a car in her life, or, at least she never was licensed to do so. Which meant that anywhere she needed to go, well, she had to be taken. And there wasn’t anywhere she liked to go more than the grocery store. Or, stores rather, because she couldn’t go to just one. You had to go where the sales were, so a trip to buy groceries was usually an all day thing.

She was an Atlanta Braves fan through and through. When I tell you she cheered the players on from her couch, I mean she LITERALLY cheered them on. Every single, every strike, every home run, every out, she clapped and let out a little “Yey-hay,” or at the very least patted her hands on her knees (something I catch myself doing quite often). Like everyone else around here, she also had a love-hate relationship with the Atlanta Falcons. More than anything I wish she’d have lived to see them make an honest run at the Super Bowl and win it (We won’t discuss 1998, it never happened), something they may just do this year.

She was spiritual, for sure, but she rarely attended church. She loved old hymns, The Old Rugged Cross being one of her favorites. It never fails to choke me up when they occasionally sing it at my church. In fact, most of my feelings/thoughts on religion are a direct result of her influence.

She wasn’t one for grudges, or, if she was I never knew it.

If you asked her if she wanted anything while you were out, more times than not the answer was “Get me something sweet.”

And she loved to talk. If you’d listen, she’d tell you stories all day. About her life, her family, anything. They say puzzles help keep your mind sharp as you enter old age, and I think she was probably a shining example of that. She could recount things as if they happened yesterday.

But as much as I enjoyed her stories, I think maybe her greatest trait was that she knew how to listen. No matter what was going on, no matter how bad things were, I could always talk to her. I could always tell her the truth of any situation, and without judgement or scorn, she would give you her honest opinion. It wasn’t always what I wanted to hear, but it was always the truth of the matter. She was unbelievably discerning, and in her absence that is something I always strive to be, though I often fail.

I’d like to say that I miss her every day and that I think about her often, but I don’t. Two of the greatest tragedies (and adages) in life: “Absence makes the heart grow fonder” and “Out of Sight, Out of Mind.” As the years without her pass, my memories and thoughts of her fade, but that just makes the moments when I DO think of her infinitely more affecting. There was a woman who meant so very much to me, and she’s gone, has been for awhile now. But, every so often I’ll see her in the corner of my eye, or hear her chuckling in the distance, and I’ll think to myself, “Come see men when you can.”

Music: My Rifle, My Pony and Me; Cindy

Thank U

It’s Thanksgiving, so as cliche as it may seem, I’m going to talk about what I’m grateful for:

My television; Seriously, it’s my biggest gateway to entertainment, and I love to be entertained. It doubles as my computer monitor, too. I’m not sure why I NEED a 32 inch computer monitor, but I have one.

A Golden Age of Cable Television; Speaking of entertainment…With shows like Boardwalk Empire, Terriers, Justified, Breaking Bad, Walking Dead, Doctor Who, Bored to Death, Eastbound & Down, Psych and The United States of Tara, cable has been easily surpassing what the networks throw out there. Add to those great niche/genre shows like Dexter, True Blood, Weeds, the recently cancelled Caprica, The League, Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Batman: The Brave and the Bold, Entourage, Children’s Hospital, Venture Bros. and The Increasingly Poor Decisions of Todd Margaret…well, who needs network TV? Glee excluded, of course.

My X-Box 360, for when I occasionally run out of TV shows to watch. And for plenty of fun with the kids.

My three iPods. Yes, three. And, I DO need/use all three of them.

The many, many podcasts I subscribe to. Especially Kevin Smith’s recently established Smodcast Podcast Network, Filmspotting, The SlashfilmCast, The Tobolowsky Files and The Forcecast. They keep me company on endless walks and miles of lonely roads.

Green Day. No joke. American Idiot and 21st Century Breakdown have been the soundtracks to my year. They’ve simultaneously kept my head in the clouds and my feet on the ground.

Sunday afternoons and the Atlanta Falcons.

Blu-Ray. It’s been my big discovery this year. Some of the things I’ve purchased looked worse than the original DVD’s, but overall it’s been an eye-opener. So much so that I now want a bigger TV, and an internet capable player.

My job. It’s not glamorous, but it allows me plenty of free time, it’s stress free and I like almost everyone there.

My car. I may not always treat it right, but it aways comes through in the end.

My Aunt Joy and Uncle Benny, whose generosity and faith is boundless. They are always an inspiration.

Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights. More specifically Angie Wade and Don Barefield and the classes they’re teaching. In the last few weeks and months they’ve been responsible for consistently challenging the things I believe. Most people of any faith would think that’s a bad thing, but it’s not.

The cinema. It constantly provides me with new perspective an experiences. The greatest moment of the year was easily my niece, Kaylee, leaning over to me our first viewing (there were three) of How to Train Your Dragon in 3D and whispering “I think this is the greatest movie I’ve ever seen.”

Speaking of, I’m exceptionally grateful for a set of nieces and a lone nephew who never fail to make me feel like the best Uncle in the world. They’re pretty darn great themselves. Jessie’s endless optimism, Kaylee’s boundless excitement for almost everything, Olivia’s determination, Kaysi’s unique view of life (“It can be a flower if it wants to.”), Jourdan’s ability to entertain, it’s like watching an old Vaudville act, Kayla’s craftiness and Eddie’s resilience, he’s like Charlie Brown sometimes, he knows Lucy’s gonna pull that football away at the last minute, but he still tries to kick it. There’s nothing I’d rather do than spend the day hanging out with the lot of them.

I’m thankful to have my sister back. She can be trouble, but honestly, this family was just boring without her. And Shane, for not only marrying the crazy girl, but bringing his two fantastic kids along with him. It’s spooky how easily they fit into this family.

Kelly and David, Ryan and Jamie, for never making me feel like the third wheel.

My Mom. A few months ago I’d had a bad day, I won’t go into why, but I called her to ask her about something completely unrelated. Before she even answered my question she asked “What’s wrong?” I’m not sure how she knows, but she always does, even over the phone. Also: She bought me a TV.

My Dad, who makes the best pancakes in the world. And Yael, his wife. Let’s just say if Cinderella had a step-mother as great as her, she’d have never wanted to leave home.

And finally, I’m glad to say I have THE greatest brother in the world. If the nieces and nephew make me feel like I’m the best then Avi has a way of making me feel like I’m the most important. He is my favorite person on the planet, and I feel no guilt about saying that at all.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Song: Thank U, Alanis Morissette. Listen/Watch, Lyrics, Download

Back in Black

Yesterday I sat in the kitchen with my Dad, my brother, Ryan, my brother-in-law, David, and one of my best friends in the world, Tom. We ate fried fish and chicken, french fries, hush puppies, biscuits and had more than a few drinks between the five of us. But, if anyone was drunk I’d venture to say it wasn’t from alcohol, it was from victory.

One of the first things I wrote for this blog was the phrase “I wholeheartedly believe Sundays are for Faith, Family and Falcons Football.” I didn’t make it to church yesterday morning, but I did thank God, repeatedly, for an amazing Falcons victory over the New Orleans Saints, and for the opportunity to watch it with my family. Or, half of them at least.

I’m not sure why I love football so much, but I know it’s in no small part due to my Dad’s love, and constant frustration with, the Atlanta Falcons. Until last year the team had never managed back-to-back winning seasons, despite being in the league for 43 years. They’ve managed nin playoff berths, three division championships and one Super Bowl appearence (in which they were trounced by the Denver Broncos), and started this season with an overall record of 275-400-6. That’s pretty pitiful, in case you were wondering.

In 2008 Mike Smith took over as head coach of the team and has managed a better winning percentage than any previous coach the team has had and took them to the playoffs. The enormous amount of talent the team has amassed on both sides of the ball was, of course, a big part of the equation. Owner Arthur Blank and Rich McKay are primarily to thank for that.

But, I guess all of that is beside the point. I don’t watch the Falcons for any of those reasons, and while I STARTED watching them because of my Dad, he’s not exactly the reason I continue to watch them. I guess, for me, it’s all about the shared experience. It’s a reason for us to be together.

There is nothing in my life I look forward to more than sitting around the kitchen table with the people I love. It’s the thing I love most in this world. And, the fact that this season there’s a few more joining the frey, that’s even better.

If the Birds win, well, I imagine we’ll spend the afternoon talking about how amazing they played or the lucky breaks they had. If they loose we’ll spend it lamenting their mistakes or blaming the refs. I’ll blow off some steam playing Rockband or Halo with the kids, or try and forget about it watching the babies do their baby thing. But, most importantly we’ll be together. I love Sundays.

Music: Back in Black by AC/DC. Listen/Watch/Lyrics

Mach 5

Five years for me could be summed up as: three cars, two jobs and one relationship; two computers, two laptops, several iPods, and maybe half a dozen phones; two televisions, a couple of DVD players and two alarm clocks; blonde hair, red hair, short and long; losing weight, gaining weight and wondering why I can’t seem to do either anymore; trips to Birmingham, trips to Montgomery and trips to Atlanta; friends lost and gained and lost again, three nieces and two sibling marriages.

When I think about all those things (and so many more) it seems like an eternity. But when I think about watching Avi grow up these last five years, it seems to have passed in the blink of an eye.

Born September 5th, 2005, the first time I held him he used the bathroom all over my arm, and I don’t mean he peed on me. These days we share a bathroom. Not because it’s the only one in the house, but because he thinks it’s my bathroom, and that apparently makes it THE bathroom to use.

I know it sounds a bit selfish, but that’s one of the things that I just love about him. The kid wants to know and be involved in everything I’m doing. If it’s mine, well it must be awesome. The movies on my shelves are usually more interesting than what he already has and my toys are cooler than his toys (to be fair, though, they totally are).

In the last five years I’ve taken him to my first (and probably only) monster truck show, seen countless movies (the most memorable of which, for me, is probably Speed Racer), attended football games, watched cartoons galore (mostly superhero stuff, of course), introduced him to Star Wars and Dragonball Z, and as of the last few months, begun teaching him how to play X-Box via Lego Harry Potter. We’ve spent many nights wrestling on the couch or in the floor, and afternoons throwing the ball around outside. But, it usually doesn’t matter what we’re doing, we’re having a good time.

It’s funny, I know there have been occasions where I’ve gotten so mad at him, when he’s done something that just irks me, or he’s lost parts to an action figure I let him play with, but I can’t think of a single thing right now. And, it doesn’t matter how terrible or exhausting my day has been, the excitement and energy he carries with him is so infectious that when I get home I can’t help but change my attitude. In fact, the long days where I don’t get to see him, I can tell a difference.

If you’d have told me six years ago that the one thing I was missing in life was a baby brother, I would never have believed it. But, it’s true. He was this giant piece of my puzzle that I didn’t know I needed until he came along. And he fits, perfectly.

Song: Speed Racer Theme; Watch

Little Boxes, Part 1:

“Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to.”

—John Ed Pearce

When I tell people I live at home, I say “live at home” as if this would be my home no matter where I lived. And, I suppose maybe it would be. But, it isn’t where I spent my childhood. I know my parents moved around a few times after my brother and I were born, but the first house I remember living in was right across the bridge in Phenix City, maybe a mile from the Chattahoochee River.

I can still remember the chalky feel of the white siding that covered the outside of the house. There isn’t too much I remember of the inside, just the old dresser in the room I shared with Ryan, and the tiny B&W television that sat atop it. In fact, he broke his leg once when he fell off a chair trying to fiddle with that same TV. Outside our room was a floor furnace where my sister, Kelly, once badly burned herself.

I remember the old floor model television that sat in the living room, and my Dad bringing home our very first VHS tape, Harry and the Hendersons. Except, we had one of those top-loading Betamax players. In fact, somewhere, I still have a copy of The Green Berets on Beta, though the player was buried at sea long, long ago.

I also have vague memories of a few Christmas’ in that living room. One where my brother and I awoke to find the entire place covered with little plastic cowboys and indians, complete with a small plastic stagecoach for them to rob. And I know my Uncle Glen dressed up as Santa at least once and visited us.

Outside the front door was a small porch with red, brick stairs that led to an almost smaller front yard. A long, steep driveway ran along side of the house. At least, I remember it being steep. But, that’s mainly because my Dad once left the four of us sitting in his truck without putting the emergency brake on. When he finally came back outside my brother and I were trying desperately to keep the vehicle from rolling backwards down the driveway and into the road.

At the upper end of the driveway there was a carport, though I don’t ever remember a car being parked in it. I’m pretty sure its primary purpose was to house all of the random junk that found its way into the family. In fact, the real memory I have of that thing was when my sister, Blake, sliced open her leg on the rusty chicken wire fence behind it.

Next to the carport was an old wooden shed, which never had a purpose at all as far as I know. Well, except to give our parents a reason to tell us NOT to play inside it. Or even around it. But, we didn’t listen. It’s amazing one of us never broke an arm or leg, but we used to climb up on the roof of that thing and jump off.

In front of the shed, to the left of the driveway, was where a majority of the yard was. Many a tag football game almost came to fist-a-cuffs there, and probably a few sessions of Simon Says or Freeze Tag as well. And, if you kept walking to the left you’d run into another “steep” hill with a “massive” tree that divided it into two halves. I put those two words in quotation marks because I’m almost certain that if I were to go back there today, nether one of those adjectives would be true. To this day though, I haven’t a clue what kind of tree that was. I do know that the first time I saw the Ents in Lord of the Rings I was immediately pulled back to those football games and our many misguided attempt to slide down the hill on old cardboard boxes.

My mother’s sister, Joy, and her family lived across the street from us. She had three kids, all boys. The oldest two, B.J. and Daniel were about the same age as my brother and I (B.J. is only a month younger, in fact). Then there was Anthony and his older brother Brian, the two oldest of my Mom’s brother Johnny, and when all six of us were in one place we had some of the best times. Eventually Michael, Joy’s youngest and Chad, Johnny’s youngest would join the fray, as would Blake.

A lot of it was spent exploring the woods behind my Aunts house, even though we were told repeatedly to stay away from them. I think maybe we’d just seen The Goonies one too many times and became convinced that we would discover a fortune of our own, or at least find stumble on to some grand adventure. And, though we didn’t realize it at the time, I think we found both.

I’ve said this previously, but my cousins, on both sides of the family, were always like brothers (and sisters, eventually; I’m looking at you Elizabeth, Tabitha and Nissa!). We played like brothers, we fought like brothers and we loved each other like brothers. And though we’ve all gone our own way to live our own lives, we’re still every bit as close as we always were. It’s not often we all get to be together at once, but even if it’s just a few of us the others are always there in spirit and in memory and it’s always a good time.

For me, that’s what the legacy of that house is, bonds forged, ones that time and distance have yet to sever.

Song: Little Boxes, written by Malvina Reynolds, covered by TONS of folks: Listen. Watch. Download. Lyrics.

Press it to the Floor

The first car I ever owned was a piece of junk. The less said about it the better. It got totalled, a week after I started driving, when it stalled mid-turn at an intersection and an idiot going entirely too fast didn’t see me and smashed into it. So begins my misfortune with automobiles.

That makes it sound as if I hate cars, when it’s exactly the opposite. I love cars. Or, rather, I love MY cars.

My second car was a 1997 Mitsubishi Mirage. She was purple and had a spoiler. When I replaced the engine she got almost 30 miles to the gallon in town. The interior was black with this odd cross-hatch design on the seats, but you could only see it on the backseat, I’d put seat covers with dragons on them over the front. I hooked up two blue light bars in the back; they were on switches so I could turn them on and off. I had a killer Clarion CD player with two tens hooked up in the trunk. I don’t remember what kind of amp I had, but I guess it really doesn’t matter. About a year or so after I replaced the engine a girl, who I knew weirdly enough, didn’t see me coming down River Road and made a left hand turn right in front of me.

Whenever I refer to “the accident,” that’s the one I’m talking about. It took forever for the insurance to settle, and it wasn’t enough, in my opinion. Beyond the pain I’m going to have for the rest of my life, that accident took away my baby. I loved that car. If there is such a thing as “personal” Heaven, mine will surely be cruising around in my Mirage, the stereo turned up as loud as it will go. The inside lit up like a big blue Christmas tree.

My third car, well, was never MY car. It belonged to one of my best friends in the world, Alan Daffin. It was a 1994 Buick LeSabre. It was mostly green, the paint had started to go before I ever drove it. It belonged to his mother at one time, then him, and since he never drove it he offered to let me. It only had about 60k miles on it, the A/C had a slow leak and, like I said, the paint was going, but boy did she ride smooth. The car had power EVERYTHING, and the most comfortable seats I’ve ever sat on, and a trunk big enough to hold three dead bodies. Not that I ever tested that one out.

Cue another idiot driving too fast on Armour Rd, he does a 360 across two lanes of traffic and plows into my front end. Just like that I’m car-less again, and this time it wasn’t even my car. But, I wasn’t hurt and neither was he, thank God, but it didn’t sting any less.

About six months ago I got my fourth car, another ‘97, a green Acura Integra, with too many miles on it. But, it was well taken care of, and besides replacing the battery and a few hiccups with the fuel system, she’s been good. She doesn’t like hot days, never wants to start right up, but eventually she gives in. Eventually I’ll get all her problems taken care of, I just hope there’s not another idiot driving too fast in our future.

I love my cars. I know, I’ve already said that, but it’s worth repeating. They’re probably the most productive relationships I’ve ever had. I don’t know a heck of a lot about them, outside of maybe changing a tire or checking the oil, but that’s okay because I know a man that does. If she’s not sounding too good, he’ll get her right. She rarely lets me down, and when she does there’s a damn good reason for it.

See, when I got my Mirage I learned that my car was my freedom. If I have gas money and four good tires I can go anywhere I want. Granted, that’s never very far, but it’s usually far enough. There’s no bad situation I can’t leave and there isn’t a good time I can’t get to. And as long as I take care of her, she takes care of me.

In my car I’m the lead singer (and occasional drummer) of the world’s greatest cover band. We do everything from Sinatra to Eminem. In my car I get to have discussions about episodic television or debate the talents of Nic Cage. I get to listen to the stories of strangers I may never meet, people who make me laugh and cry, people I feel closer to than probably anyone else I know.

Every good idea I’ve had in the last ten years came to me while I was sitting in my car. Every bad one too, probably. I’ve had some of the best conversations while I was cruising around at night, talking to someone on speakerphone. I’ve also had some terrible fights, as well as several emotional breakdowns.

I love to ride with the windows down and the A/C on, and she never complains. My car never gets upset when I decide to go to Wal-Mart at 2 A.M. She never asks where we’re going or why. There’s no arguments as long as there’s open road.

As long as I have my car I have everything. It represents a freedom; a freedom to leave and a freedom to stay, and with her it does’t matter what I choose, she’s just along for the ride.

Song” Open Road Song, Eve 6. Listen. Lyrics. Download.

Everything’s Magic

Sometime in 1978 my parents found out they were having twins, and my brother and I were born March 18th the following year. In 1999, he was diagnosed with Hodgkins Lymphoma. In 1987 my parents got divorced, shortly after that my Dad and his two brothers started a janitorial business. Christmas of 1991 my Mother went to the hospital feeling extremely ill and didn’t come out for almost three months. A year earlier, in 1990, a tornado picked up my Grandmother’s trailer and flipped it on its side.

My Grandmother, Nannie, my Dad’s mom, the one who’s trailer got demolished by a tornado, she loved puzzles. Any kind of puzzle really, but specifically jigsaw puzzles. They were usually pictures of something in nature; a forest, the sun setting on a lake, fields of flowers. She usually picked them up at the dollar store, or occasionally K-Mart. And if she could find one with a covered bridge, a rustic house or a  an old barn, well, that was great, because it would break up the monotony of piecing together all those golden leaves, the ripples in the ponds and  endless blue skies.

 She’d open the box, placing the top part picture side down, and pull out a small handful of pieces. She’d sift through them, take out the pieces she needed and dump the rest into empty box top, like a miner picking the gold out of the mound of diamonds he’d just unearthed. If you asked her what she was doing, without looking up from her handful of precious stones, she’d tell you that she was sorting out the edges.

When the edges were put together she’d start the process all over again, separating the pieces into what they were. Leaves go over there, the barn goes over on the left and the sky goes up top. When there looked to be enough pieces in any given pile, she’d stop her sifting and start putting things together. If she got stuck and couldn’t make any headway, well, the piece she needed must still be in the box, so back to the mine she went.

Eventually, well, the entire kitchen table would be covered in little mounds of puzzle pieces. And if you wondered by you’d inexplicably get sucked in to helping. I spent many a night up late with various family members trying to sort out the leaves on the trees from the ones on the ground. And, if you happened to get most of the work done, that was fantastic, all she asked is that you save the last little bit for her. She liked to be the one to put that last piece into place, to see what beauty came out of all that time and work. It didn’t matter that there was a picture on the top of the box, or that she’d already chosen the puzzle because she knew how scenic and spectacular it looked.

What she knew, what very few others know, is that the picture on top of the box is just a picture, and that when you open it what you see are just a thousand odd shaped pieces of cardboard. But, when you take them out, when YOU take the time to place them together, to put them exactly where they go, that’s when they become something else entirely, that’s when you can see what it is you were able to create. From a thousand fragile chunks of paper you were given, you pieced together a work of art. And it all starts with sorting out the edges.

They’re pieces of the puzzle, probably the most important pieces, but not the only pieces. They aren’t even the only edges. Some edges are corner pieces, and if edges are the most important pieces, then corner pieces are certainly the most important edges. Those are what connect each edge with the next. Some edges are dull and boring, some are bright, and some are really confusing. And it doesn’t matter how pretty you know the picture in the middle is, until you lay down your edges you’ll never know where it stops or where it begins.

I repeat: Sometime in 1978 my parents found out they were having twins, and my brother and I were born March 18ththe following year. In 1999, 20 years later, he was diagnosed with Hodgkins Lymphoma. In 1987 my parents got divorced, shortly after my Dad starteda janitorial business with his two brothers. In 1990, a tornado picked up my Grandmother’s trailer and flipped it on its side. Christmas of 1991 my Mother went to the hospital feeling extremely ill and didn’t come out for three months.

These are edges. Not the only edges, but they are the edges I’ve chosen to focus on at this moment. Maybe because the parts of the puzzle that begin with them stand out so brilliantly.

I can’t say I’ve ever particularly loved the idea that I was a twin. I’m sure my brother feels the same. It usually brings on a barrage of stupid questions from people who meet you, it sucks always sharing a birthday with someone and, well, when you’re kids you’re parents do stupid things like buy you matching outfits. Still, I can’t imagine what it was like for my parents to be told they were having twins, so I guess I can forgive the outfits at least. Besides, my youngest sister came along and stole all the birthday thunder, being born one day before us on March 17th, St. Patrick’s Day. Her name is Kelly. At least she got stuck with the least original name out of the bunch.

I kid.

Like I was saying, I can’t imagine what it was like to find out that they were having twins, especially after they’d been married a few years and tried several times to get pregnant. In fact, my Aunt once told us they had considered adopting at one point. After the elation of just being pregnant wore off, knowing my parents, they quickly began wondering how in the hell they were going to raise two kids at one time. I mean, they’d only wanted the one.

Flash forward nine years and two more pregnancies, and what two people struggled to build is dissolved by a judge. The reasons why aren’t important, at least the reasons given aren’t, because those aren’t the real reasons. Trust me. Eventually they both re-marry, we stay with our Mom and her new husband, and everyone struggles to adjust to the new arrangement.

 My Dad and his brothers open their own business, Twin Cities Janitorial. They’d go around to business after closing and clean them, simple enough. We helped out on the weekends and during the summer, and it was fun for the most part. If nothing else it was an excuse to stay up late, spend time with my Dad’s side of the family (who comprised all of the businesses employees) and makes a few bucks to buy some comics and baseball cards.

In 1990, in the middle of the night, a Tornado ripped through parts of Columbus and Phenix City. It did a lot of damage to the entire area, but the only thing I remember is the sight of my Grandmother’s home lying completely on its side. Everything she had in the world was either destroyed or in an awful state of disarray. It’s an image that haunts me to this day.

A year and a half later, 1991, my Mom was in and out of the hospital and by Christmas, her birthday (Yes, born on Christmas day and named Gloria. Her parents were as inventive as mine) she looked like those people you see in horror movies. The ones that get bitten, right before they turn into the monsters; pale, slow moving, dreary eyed. Eventually she went to the hospital and they discovered her appendix had burst, but it had been encased by a growth around it and the poison was slowly leaking out into her body, essentially killing her a little bit at a time. My Mom was, in fact, a member of the walking dead, she was a zombie. I know, I make light of it, but it really was a terrifying experience, and she spent two months in the hospital recovering.

Sometime in 1998/1999 my brother noticed a lump in between his neck and his shoulder. It kept getting bigger, and eventually he went to the emergency room, had tests run and was finally diagnosed with Hodgkins Lymphoma. Months and months of chemo treatments all-but killed his body, and they definitely choked out his desire to live through it all. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t work, most days he could barely get out of bed. When a nurse warned against another doctor-ordered round of chemo, he found another place to get treated: Emory University, outside of Atlanta, a few hours north of our home town. A few months later he walked out completely cured and has never had a recurrence.

Edges. Parts of the puzzle where we see beginnings and endings, where things meld together without any reason or rhyme. The strongest pieces of the puzzle, maybe, but, like I said, they’re not the only pieces.

When that tornado hit my Grandmother’s trailer there was no one in it. There was no one even near it. Why? Because my Dad and his brothers opened a janitorial business that operated primarily between the hours on midnight and eight in the morning. We were all out working, including my Grandmother.

The man my Mother married after the divorce, he co-signed the papers to secure a loan for her new trailer, where she lived until, many, many years later she moved to Oklahoma with two of her sons. In fact, there’s a very good chance that had my parents still been together my Dad may have never started that business at all. And, had they’d stayed married, my Mother probably wouldn’t have gone to the hospital, no matter how sick she was. For them money was always tight, and hospital bills on top of the bills they already owed, there’s a chance she would have talked her self out of it, or that maybe no one would have been there to talk her into it.

But, before any of that happened, in 1978 my parents found out they were having twins. In March of 1979 they were told a Cesarean Section was needed because an umbilical chord was wrapped around my neck, and a traditional birth would probably result in my death. On March 18th, 1979, at 2:23 P.M. two people who just wanted one baby became the parents of two.

I imagine there were many nights where they both wondered “Why twins?” Especially during the first few months. Double the annoyance of one crying baby and add in the health problems we both had early on and I can only think that my Mom and Dad spent many a sleepless night just wondering “Why?”

It took twenty years to get an answer.

When my brother made it to Emory they ran any number of tests on him, I’m sure. Unfortunately I didn’t get to go with him or spend a lot of time up there during his stay, so there’s not a lot of it I’m privy too. They probably went over the various options for curing him and eventually came to two big ones: bone marrow transplant and stem cell transplant. With either he was going to need a healthy donor, and, of course they recommend starting within the family. When the words “twin brother” came up that was pretty much the end of the conversation.

I got tested. I was, of course, a match, and I was healthy. Stem cell transplant it was. I took shots in my stomach to boost my cell count which also caused my body to produce more bone marrow. All of it was explained to me, none of it I understood. I’m not a dummy, but I’m also not a doctor. By the last day I think I understood about the bone marrow though. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt a pain like that in my life, it was like my bones were breaking from the inside out. And, had it not been so crippling, when the nurse told me I should have been given something for the pain (after I was repeatedly told not to take ANYTHING) I would have found someone to blame and strangled them. But I couldn’t even move, much less physically assault someone. Besides, one single day of enormous pain was nothing compared to year my brother had.

The day before they hooked me up to whatever machine was going to syphon the stuff out of me, we went to a nearby electronics store. The room I was in had a VCR, so I wanted to buy some videos to watch. I was going to be stuck in a bed for hours on end, unable to move, so, dammit, I wanted to be entertained.

The only two I remember buying were Mallrats and O Brother, Where Art Thou? Up until a few years ago I still had those same copies, though I don’t think I ever played them after that day. The only thing I really remember is being cold. People would come in and out of the room, but unless they were Ryan (my brother) I really didn’t want to see them. Occasionally he’d come in and sit, we’d watch part of a movie and either he’d have to go or I’d drift off. It still feels like parts of a dream, like I was never really there.

And, it worked, he was cured. But, forgive me for sounding crude, that it worked wasn’t the best part. Maybe at the time, but I wouldn’t get to meet the absolute best part until almost seven years later.

See, after the rounds and rounds of chemo and tests and finally being cured, they told Ryan he’d never have children. He and his girlfriend at the time drifted apart (I’m not sure if that was one of the dividing lines or not, so forgive me if anything sounds implied) and eventually he began dating a close friend of our sister’s, Jamie. Jamie already had a daughter, Kayla, whom Ryan absolutely loves. They used to sit together in his bedroom and watch Tweety Bird cartoons. She doesn’t remember it, but I do, and I know he does. So, a family was born. He couldn’t have kids, so he was blessed with one.

But, it turns out, he could.

In 2007 the tiny bottle of insanity that is Kaysi Madison Polk was unleashed onto this world. And I take an enormous amount of unwarranted pride in that. My Mother had a C-Section because I needed to live, I lived because twenty years later I was going to be asked to do something important, because he needed to live. He needed to live because the world would be a much duller place without a Kaysi Madison.

I’ve taken a lot of flak for saying, about Kaysi, “No one can make me smile the way she can,” but it’s true. I think it’s a joke when people say things like “I love them the same” about other people, when what they mean is “I love them equally.” Be it kids, parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends; you should never love any one person the same as you love another. We’re all individuals and we all deserve to be loved individually. And I love Kaysi as an individual, because I’m not sure there’s ever been another one like her. She is a miracle.

Kaysi is probably the closest I’ll ever get to becoming a father, and I’m perfectly fine with that. She is my twin brother’s daughter. When I look at her I see where 31 years of shared birthdays was worth it. Knowing that I was a stepping stone in a road that would eventually lead to her birth…Like I said, an enormous amount of unwarranted pride.

But, still, all of those things are just pieces of an even bigger puzzle. One I can’t see.

When I used to pick up Blake, my oldest sister, in Birmingham and bring her back here to Columbus I’d always try to tell her that things happen for a reason. And I was right. Everything that led her to Birmingham eventually brought her back here. And in October of this year, God willing, she’ll walk down the aisle with one of the many miracles of her life.

The sins you commit, or the sins others commit against you, may, in fact, be part of the edge of the puzzle. They can be infuriating and time consuming to find, and sometimes you have to put some pieces off to the side for awhile, but once those edges are there, it makes it a lot easier to put together what belongs in between them. And, in the end, when all the pieces are in place, when you see how they’re all connected, you realize the signifigance of the whole will always be greater and more beautiful than that of its parts.

Song: Everything’s Magic, Angels & Airwaves. Listen. Download. Lyrics. Video.

Edit: Blame it on a all the drugs and alcohol, but they apparently started the janitorial business BEFORE the divorce. I’m of course kidding about the drugs and alcohol, I don’t blame them for anything.

Destined For Anything At All

I’m not exactly sure why, but my life, and the way I have chosen to live it, is the repeated subject of conversations, even ones I’m not particpating in.

As of March, 2010, I’m 31 years old. I’m single. I live with my Dad, Step-Mother and baby brother, Avi. I work a nothing job. I never went to college. I’m single. I never married. And, I don’t have kids. (I said “I’m single” twice because it’s the one that gets thrown at me the most.)

These are the things people choose to focus on.

For the most part I ignore it, and 90% of the time the people prying mean no harm, usually they just want me to be happy. To do that, they think I need:

A high paying job. A wife. A home of my own. Children.

And, yes, all of those things can be quite nice. I won’t argue that making more money, owning property, having a loving family of my own to come home to after a hard days work, paid vacations, health insurance, two cars in the garage…all the things we have ascribed to the American Dream, they might all be wonderful, but there in lies my problem.

The American Dream is the pursuit of happiness. Literally it is “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.” Now, being born into this country I’ve got the first two down, it’s the third one that always threw me.

If you go up to anyone on the street and ask them what it is they need to be happy, a majority would likely rattle off one of the things I named before, and I’m sure you’d have a few that would name a certain device or piece of electronics, and then you’d have they ones that would bring up their body types and maybe a few that would bring up religion or politics. Rarely though, you’d run across someone who’d give you the right answer. Nothing.

Because, happiness isn’t money, it isn’t a relationship, it isn’t thin, it isn’t tall, it isn’t right, it isn’t left, it isn’t church and it isn’t things. It’s a choice. That’s a fact it’s taken me 30 years to understand.

I don’t say that to belittle anyone who has all of those things; you might very well BE happy. To which I say, good on you. Finding happiness is an amazing thing, and a difficult one at times, so I would never think to begrudge anyone theirs.

The problem is, we want everyone to fit into a mold. These are the things we’ve been told that we need, so these are the things we seek out, and if you’re not seeking them out, if you’re not fitting into the mold, there must be something wrong with you.

You’re not married? You don’t have kids? You must be gay. You don’t have a 9-5 making 50k a year?  You live with your parents? You must be a loser or an idiot. Or both. You’re overweight? You didn’t go to college? You must be lazy.

I’m none of those things (okay, I’m a bit lazy, I’ll cop to that one), and I will not be defined by people who don’t know me or refuse to see past their own hang-ups. I will not be told what I need to do to be content. No, I’m not a perfect human being, far from it, but I’m a happy one, and that’s not something I can say about a lot of people I know.

When people look at me, look at my life, they see what they want to see. An unsuccessful loser, an overweight, lonely guy with low self esteem, a loner, a geek. On the other end of the spectrum there are the people (usually little old ladies at church or members of my family) that tell me how great I am, I’m so good with kids, I’d be a great husband and father, I’m funny, blah, blah, blah. And, at times, I guess I am or could be all of those things. But right now, I’m happy being me. I’m happy being the person they don’t, or can’t see.

I live with my parents because I love them, I love being here for my brother, I love getting to be part of his life every single day. I work a nothing job because it affords me plenty of time to spend with my family. I also get to watch a lot of movies and television and play video games and write. Juvenile things at times, but ones I’m very passionate about, most especially film (and the writing about it). I also work where I do because I’m by myself a majority of the day, I get to listen to plenty of podcasts discussing, yup, films. I didn’t go to college for a variety of reasons, none of which I’ll go into now. I’m fat because I like food. I don’t have kids because, well, I’m not married. And, I’m not married because I haven’t found the person I’m supposed to marry yet. And trying to force myself to change any of those things would lead to me being unhappy. I know, I’ve done it.

I spend a lot of time with my baby brother, nieces and nephew. I usually spend it doing the most ridiculous things; like jumping in puddles, dancing like a fool, riding around in the car singing at the top of my lungs, picking them up and flying them around the room, answering an insane amount of questions, taking them to the movies, to football games, playing Rockband. There are things I get to do, moments I get to experience that no one else can.

Kaylee leaning over during How to Train Your Dragon and proclaiming “This is the greatest movie I have ever seen.” Buying Kayla her own football jersey to wear on Sundays. Standing outside my Aunt’s house with Kaysi, Olivia and Jourdan, the four of us screaming at an “airpane” as it passed overhead. Avi’s face when he saw his very first monster truck in person. Watching the sky, lightning jumping from cloud to cloud as I drove Eddie home. Taking the four older ones (Jessie, Eddie, Kaylee and Kayla) BACK to see How to Train Your Dragon, hell Jourdan spent most of her first theatre experience asleep on my chest (It was Speed Racer). And that’s just the kids.

There’s my Dad and I yelling back and forth as we watched Lost in different rooms of the house, hour long conversations with my twin brother about the merits of Back to the Future Part II, working with my youngest sister, getting to spend time together with her, something we never got to do as kids really, driving my oldest sister back and forth from Birmingham the few months she was there, lengthy discussions with my Mother about, well, everything.

All moments and experiences that I’d probably have been missed were I living any other life.

Joseph Campbell once wrote “If you follow your bliss, you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living. Wherever you are—if you are following your bliss, you are enjoying that refreshment, that life within you, all the time.”

Follow your bliss. Stop defining happiness as things you need and choose to find it in what you have.

Song: Waiting, Green Day. Listen. Download. Lyrics. Video.