Barry, Barnes, and Christmas Traditions

As with many around the world, the Christmas holidays bring moments to cherish with family. It’s been that way for my wife and me our entire lives. Fortunately, we all have the right political and religious beliefs, so there is little to no contention when we all gather together with my family in South Carolina or my wife’s clan in Texas. Just lots of laughter and food and drink and food and memories and food and photos and hugs and drink and pure joy. And food. 

With all of this family fun, it’s easy to reminisce of times when we were kids, and our kids were little kids, and soon I find myself longing for certain aspects of those days.

Along with the wonder and magic of Santa, there were unique Christmas traditions that involved our young children. There was the rule that no one would be granted entry into the den until I could check to make sure Santa had actually come and was not still stuck in our den since we had neither a chimney nor fireplace. Then came the delay tactics I’d implement once our kids came back-flipping into our room and onto our bed on Christmas morning – taking photos before Hurricane Christmasmorningkids made landfall; turning on music; making coffee, hot chocolate, orange juice, hot apple cider; polishing off any overlooked Santa snacks. My kids would add washing a load of laundry, changing the oil in the car, going for doughnuts…in New Orleans, watching the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Admittedly, the wait was painful. Finally, the kids had to line up youngest to oldest, which confused my son until my daughter was born, and enter the den in that order. These traditions actually came straight from my parents, which makes my 5k run while the kids wait to enter the den on Christmas morning legal.

One tradition in particular, though, that I miss today is reading Christmas stories to my young children. We’d gather on evenings just prior to the big day and I’d read “Twas the Night Before Christmas, Polar Express, Cajun Night Before Christmas (complete with my spot-on Cajun accent), Christmas Snow, Gullah Night Before Christmas (again with the lifelike accent), and others. My kids would listen, wide-eyed and engrossed in the stories, illustrations, and, of course, my animated storytelling. My wife would look on and wonder how she could have landed such a wonderful and talented husband, father to her children, and storyteller. That’s how I remember it.

When I try to read to my kids now, though, they…well…they run.

Away.

I thought a 20- and 18-year old would have more interest. Or at least more respect for their elders.

Courtesy of Goodreads.com

But no. To their credit, though, they do have important appointments on their busy schedules that just happen to coincide with my reading times – bathe the dog (which we don’t have), knit some socks, arrange the pantry, vacuum the pool (which we don’t have), milk the cows (which we don’t have), milk the goats (those either), milk the clock (which we actually have, but without udders).

This year, I figured it out. Choose a story they couldn’t resist! And, boy, did I have the story that they – my adult children – could not resist. Who doesn’t love Dave Barry, right? His humor and perspective are timeless and ageless. Perfect author. His stories are short and hilarious. Perfect style. And he has a Christmas book – The Shepherd, the Angel, and Walter the Christmas Miracle Dog. Perfect book. This will be a perfect renewal of a perfect Christmas tradition.

So we gathered one evening in the living room beside our Christmas tree, lights a-twinkling, ornaments shining brightly. A soft snow snuggled the ground in a blanket of white. Ma in her kerchief and I in my cap. Visions of sugarplums. Heat Miser was doing his song and dance on the TV. Shepherds were trekking across the front yard, following the star. Reindeer were on the roof. It was PERFECT!

We made it midway through chapter one and my wife was somewhat entertained. The kids, however, looked like they’d just spent fifteen minutes watching someone mash potatoes. Slightly pleasing at first, but torturous after the 3-minute mark.

This wasn’t going as planned.

I made an executive decision: Salvage the dream, continue reading another night.

The kids were thrilled with this plan. My wife was even in favor. I was starting to feel like Clark Griswold.

A few nights later, I attended Dave Barnes’ Christmas concert in Charlotte. Amazing show! At one point, the stage cleared and the crowd was treated to a reading of A Walk One Winter Night. I left with a renewed sense of storytelling and resolute to carry on our tradition.

I received an invitation to teach a senior adult Sunday school class at my church the following Sunday and immediately knew what I’d do. I purchased an ebook edition of A Walk One Winter Night and read it to the class, complete with a quiet Christmas piano accompaniment I put together on Spotify. It was different, but it was a huge success! Having received divine encouragement, I was more inspired than ever to show my family the pure joy to be discovered in listening to my reading of a Christmas story.

Finally, the moment came a few nights later when my audience was in that limbo between the end of a Christmas movie and bed. My captive audience was about to be captivated! No need to give them a choice, just jump right in. “Let’s finish our story!” I exclaimed and began chapter 2 of The Shepherd, the Angel, and Walter the Christmas Miracle Dog before anyone could escape.

My wife laughed at all the right times. When I reached a particularly sidesplitting scene as the family was leaving the church after the pageant, all four of us were laughing. Tears were streaming from my eyes because the moment was picture perfect…and the scene was really, really funny. This is what I had in mind. It was going swimmingly. The tradition would be reinstated with much fanfare! My kids would revolt if their father, the master book-reader, were to not offer a time of Christmas story-reading! “Read us a Christmas story, Dad!” would be their yuletide cry for years to come!

The story was short. After the first chapter, nearly half of the story was complete. So, the final reading took about 15 (or 45) minutes. When I read the last word, I closed the book dramatically, wiped my eyes, and waited for the applause and hugs of appreciation.

Instead, I received an awkward pause.

Finally, my wife said, “That was great, hon.”

She takes her role as the supportive wife seriously. That’s a good thing. She gets lots of opportunities.

That cracked the ice. Now the kids would feel comfortable expressing their adoration and amazement.

Crickets.

My wife went into emergency support mode. “Didn’t y’all think that was a funny story? Wasn’t it great?”

“Meh,” was my daughter’s shy reply, hoping not to hurt my feelings.

Then my son, with no regards for feelings whatsoever, brought it home with, “That was the longest chapter of my life.”

I was incredulous after receiving that gut punch.

How could literate beings not appreciate the magnitude of awesomeness that is my book reading? Especially when the subject of my reading is a Dave Barry book…about a dysfunctional Christmas pageant and a Christmas miracle dog named Walter?!?

Yet, my dreams were shattered. The perfect Christmas tradition had been wrecked by people who do not share my perspective. How dare they not think like I do? Don’t they realize that this is all about me?!?

--> Wait…what? 
Oh. 

Well, this is a little awkward. 

So, I guess Christmas is not all about me, huh? Yeah. Guess so. 

Merry Christmas, everyone!

The Secret Anniversary Scroll - Book of Walter

Historians have uncovered an inspiring manuscript that has been dubbed the Secret Anniversary Scroll. It apparently is a historical account of Walter, an unknown traveller who is blessed by God. Many historians consider the writing to be autobiographical.

This is an excerpt from the Book of Walter - Chapter 25. It appears to be in honor of his 25th wedding anniversary, which just so happens to fall on this date - October 1st.

-->

And it was, during the reign of Bushes, when George Herbert Walker sat upon the throne, the Lord looked down upon the arid land of his people. Yay, though it were no land flowing with milk and honey, the land did flow with crude oil and steak.

Indeed, the Almighty had blessed the land with longhorns, mesquite trees, pump jacks and prickly pears, brisket and beans. He looked down upon his creation and said, “It is good…especially the brisket.”

Then he looked upon Walt, a visitor to the land, and said, “It is not good. For it is my desire for Walt to have a companion. Plus, he needs somebody to keep him straight, the big dummy.”

And it was, in the darkest hour of the night, God sent down an angel to his young and fair servant Emily, descendant of a line of successful jock strap salesmen, with beauty like the bluebells that bloomed along the hill country. The angel blinded Emily and temporarily removed her sense of good judgement.

And it was, in that same evening, God spoke to Walt saying, “Verily I say unto thee, go and make Emily your wife. She shall neither see nor think straight for 40 days and 40 more plus 40. And throw the number 7 in there for good measure.”

Suddenly, the heavens opened, and parrots and coconuts reined down upon the land surrounding Walt and with a thunderous voice, God said, “Now is your chance. Don’t blow it, idiot!”

Walt did as commanded by the Lord, for occasionally he chose well.

Walt and Emily were married in God’s sight and much merriment occurred, for many across the land considered it a miracle that Walt would have a wife, much less one so lovely and wise as Emily. Those gathered at the wedding exclaimed, “This is a sign! God is with us! We shall no longer feel hopeless! For if Walt can marry, anyone can do thus.”

Others brought forth an argument claiming, “It is not so. Emily must have been blinded and out of her mind.”

To which the larger throng of people, who were still making merry, replied, “Oh shut up!”

And from that day forward, Emily and Walt were married.

Soon thereafter, Walt took his wife Emily, and travelled back to his homeland of palmetto trees and food from the sea, much to the dismay of Emily’s mother, whom Emily loved very much. Yet a covenant was made that whenever Emily desired to return to visit the Land of Brisket, she shall be given passage…unless basketball practice interfered with the dates.

Walt praised God for blessing him with in-laws who were absolutely awesome as well as a family who welcomed home their prodigal son (although they were actually more excited to bear witness to Emily, who was laden with child).

Emily bore a son and daughter to Walt. As the years passed, both children grew in favor with the Lord, spreading joy wherever they went through art and drumming, loving others and serving well. Many with whom they came in contact exclaimed in disbelief, “These are the offspring of Walt?”

To which came the reply from those who were wise, “Yay, do not forget that these are also offspring of Emily.”

And those who questioned were satisfied and said, “Oh yeah – you right.”

Walt was grateful to God for blessing him with his family, especially Emily, and after 25 years together, he sat down and scribed this account upon his MacBook Air for all to read and enjoy in the wonderment and incredulity of his blessings. Amen.

MMTT4S - Field Study of the Pelican, Seagull, and Fatted Tatted Puffy Pink Clueless Vacationer

Captain's Log: The end is near; Surfside Beach, SC

The on-site lab - tough digs

Field notes taken from observations in my on-site laboratory (a beach chair sitting in the sand a few steps from the Atlantic Ocean): 

Subject: Pelican
Observation: Amazing glider; Great taste in food - sushi; Enjoys company of other pelicans at times; Uncanny ability to ignore other birds, humans; although water landing is incredibly awkward, it works; habitat - floating on the ocean, gliding over the water and beach, perching on pier and dock pilings, pretty much anywhere there's fish.
Conclusion: If reincarnation turns out to be a thing and I can't come back as Will Smith, I'll take "pelican" please.



Subject: Seagull
Observation: Plentiful; seem to always be hungry; adept at snatching minnows, tiny crustaceans, Cheetos, and spent bottle rockets from both sand and waves; often disrespected by little girls running after them and bratty tween boys trying to tag them with sidearm shell slings; as a result, they must always be on their toes...er, webbed feet...and have the maneuverability in the air of Top Gun fighter pilots; habitat - wherever there is a body of water or Walmart parking lot.
Conclusion: the pigeon of the beach, which makes it better than a pigeon, but that doesn't say much. Still, spotting a seagull or hearing its cry takes you to a happy place. If you like the coast, that is.

Subject: Human beach goer (scientifically labeled as "Fatted Tatted Puffy Pink Clueless Vacationer")
Observation: Obese. Yet, somehow, that doesn't stop them from wearing skimpy swimsuits. They love body graffiti, especially the young adult females. They seem to have experienced numerous permanent reminders of temporary feelings. Young adult males seem to have lost all body hair that would, otherwise, naturally adorn chests, legs, arms. Except for those of the species that have an extreme amount of back hair. In those cases, no hair has been removed from any visible location on the subject. These may actually be coastal bears and not humans. The sun prompts various reactions in the subjects. Some of these are widespread. For instance, the vast majority seem to engage in a sort of sun-worshipping activity of prostrating themselves on large towels or seated in short chairs exposing themselves to the sun for hours. Curiously, many of these subjects retreat beneath colorful umbrellas for periods of time, as though the sun is displeased with them and has banished them from its sight. This ritual is repeated daily causing a change in subjects' skin tone from pasty white to fire engine red. This is one way to distinguish the FTPPC Vacationer from the indigenous Perma-tan Burrowing Local. The Local has a discerning dark tan hue that permeates all dermal layers due to a lifetime usage of SPF4 or below. Plus, the Local usually doesn't appear during the summer months except at just before dusk, for a few minutes at sunrise, and on Saturday mornings during the great Vacationer migratory shift. During the summer months, Locals hunker down in their domiciles, only venturing out when necessary, blending in with the Vacationers as inconspicuously as possible. Vacationers also participate in numerous activities when not reclining motionless. Certain subjects, typically the younger and older of the group, are obviously fascinated with seashells and cannot seem to collect enough of them. Some subjects are more competitive and participate in various types of games. The more creative types mold sculptures from the sand. The younger of these subjects have an affinity for medieval architecture. For some strange reason, a few subjects allow themselves to be buried up to their necks in the sand. They even find this enjoyable. On rare occasions, an elderly male treasure hunter will emerge wearing a headset and holding a contraption that he'll wave back and forth across the sand while walking down the beach. When the apparatus indicates an object has been located, the treasure seeker will dig down and will victoriously unearth rusty Corona bottle caps, lensless sunglass frames, roofing nails, Chuck E. Cheese arcade coins, and fake Rolex watch bands. The subjects take to the water as well. Many seem completely out of place and find their footing to be uneasy at best. From time to time, sun-worshipers wade thigh deep or kneel down in shallower water and unsuccessfully attempt to camouflage the fact that they are relieving themselves in public. The children spend more time in the water than their adult counterparts. Often, they will take along various flotation devices called rafts, boogie boards, inner tubes, and other inflatables and will ride the waves, or completely wipe out, tumbling over and over as though caught in the spin cycle of a gigantic salt water washing machine while their board rockets skyward in the opposite direction. In addition, while engaging in the sunning ritual previously mentioned, a large majority of Vacationers drink copious amounts of alcohol, which leads to entertaining versions of activities like football toss, which ends with one participant running at break-neck speed towards the oncoming waves with the intent of making a glorious diving catch. It's called break-neck speed for a reason, by the way. I think the ocean enjoys playing the role of defensive back at times like these, because it is very good at it. The result usually involves the intended receiver being knocked head over heels by a breaking wave as the ball splashes a few feet beyond. Occasionally, the receiver gets taken out by a squad of boogie boarding 9-year olds, a preschooler refilling her sand bucket, and a grandmother who never saw the inebriated sprinter because she had suddenly bent over to pick up yet another scallop shell, causing a massive pileup, lots of tears, a lost shell, a broken boogie board, and an incomplete pass. Interestingly, the vast majority of Vacationers have some instinctual alarm that alerts them when it's time to evacuate the beach front and temporarily head indoors. Usually somewhere between 4 and 5 PM. It's like some seaside shift bell rings in some strange frequency only audible to their kind. In largely unsuccessful efforts to wash away a day of sun, sand, and suds, many Vacationers change outfits and flood local seafood mega buffets where they engage in crab leg pile-building, more alcohol consuming, and crying (at least the worn-out kids and granddads picking up the checks). Vacationers travel by foot (clad in either high top untied basketball shoes or slide sandals - both paired with black socks), rental one-speed bicycle, slow golf cart on major roads, Harley Davidson, parasail, and towable banana boat. The ritual repeats every day for a week, and then the flock returns home. After a brief period of sanity, a new flock replaces the old and participates in the same weekly activities.
Habitat: On the beach between the hours of 9 AM and 5 PM, seafood restaurants and bars afterwards; strangely, some Vacationers, who have traveled to the coast mind you, spend hours in and around swimming pools.
Conclusion: An invasive species that provides the local economy with an existence-enabling injection of money and the local populace with hours of unintended entertainment. Much like having a colonoscopy, eating a veggie burger, and paying full price to see a movie based on a DC Comics character - is it worth it? Well, maybe.

Saturday morning clearing

...in both directions!

Personal notes: While conducting my study, I found my favorite time in the lab was when I had few to no subjects to study - sunrise, twilight, and Saturday morning. Our Buffett song that corresponds to my published findings is titled "When the Coast is Clear" - definitely the refrain of an indigenous Local! It can be found on the Floridays album, one of my favorites.



Aloha, amigos!

Image courtesy of Amazon.com

MMTT4S - Scorching Sand, Drip Castles, UV Rays, and Inflatable Canvas Bronc Busting

Captain's Log: Started 23 July 2019, ended 6 August 2019; Beachside

Surfside Beach is just north of Garden City and just south of Myrtle Beach and east of land and west of the sea. It sits in the middle of South Carolina's Grand Strand. And it is grand indeed. This is a home for me. Spending my summers here at my grandparent's ocean front house, named Surf Pearl, etched salt air on my skin and injected salt water in my veins. I became a beach bum as soon as I could walk. In fact, Granny held my hand as I chased the waves back and forth, squealing with a mix of delight and trepidation as the foamy water rushed to grab my toes. As I grew, the beach became the ultimate summer experience. My siblings and I perfected beach playtime, the result of lots of practice spanning weeks at a time. 

Have you ever built a drip castle? We built lots of 'em. It's like a sand castle, but doesn't require tools - a sort-of poor kid's castle. You use wet sand and you let it drip from your fingers as you shape lumpy spires and walls. I think the movie set of Mordor in Lord of the Rings was modeled after one of my drip castles. Buckets and shovels are for the less adept.

My brothers and I would mount our trusty, albeit skin-eating, canvas rafts as we bested the ocean wave rodeo. These rafts were made of some space age denim that would repel salt water, shells, and shark attacks. No cheap plastic rafts for us. No sir. Dad was only buying rafts once every ten years and these were the puppies to make that span. Every night, our legs were chafed and nipples worn completely off. That, combined with the sunburn that tends to accompany the combo of 8 hours of sun exposure and no sunscreen, made showers straight up torture. The nightly ritual of painful washing was followed by the Solarcaine lineup, when Mom would douse our glowing red shoulders, tummies, and feet with that inexplicable spray that burned, cooled, and rubberized within about 5 seconds. The window unit in our bedroom was a welcome relief when we went to bed. By the time we awoke, though, we were buried under our covers as the room was an igloo. Had a timelapse camera been installed in the upper corner of our room, it would have revealed the bizarre migration of the Red-backed Whipper Snapper - going from completely on top of the sheets and blankets in only a pair of pajama shorts to total burial beneath all nearby coverings, including clothes, towels, pillows, curtains, and anything else within reach. We'd have burrowed down into the mattress had we been able. Oddly enough, the layer of ice that tried to encapsulate our bodies would immediately melt from the heat radiating from our sunburns. Amazing how nature works, huh?

We logged hundreds of miles walking to, and out onto, the Surfside pier. This occurred at least twice daily. After all, you could only bronco bust waves for so long and drip castle building was quite taxing on our creativity. I'll never forget walking across those old beams and their wet wooden smell. The surface temperature on that pier was a couple of degrees from being too hot for bare feet. That meant that bare feet were fine in our minds. Always on the lookout for discarded fish hooks and casting pier anglers, we'd go from rail to rail to watch the crusty old salts try to land a keeper. I remember how peaceful it was when we reached the end of the pier. The roar of the waves was a distant hum. No squeals, yells, and the general murmur of a crowd could be heard out there. The occasional lap of a wave against a piling or the call from a seagull were the only sounds to accompany the views of darker waters and endless vistas that stretched for 180 degrees. I often long to be there in that unique tranquility. Our trek to the end of the pier and back always increased in speed, though, as the heat on our feet finally started to register in our brains. I guess salt water veins may numb the body's nerves.

Speaking of heat - the scorching bright white sand that led up to the pier always presented a problem. Akin to the "the floor is hot lava" game, the white sand predicament was a challenge that could not be overcome, and it was real. Eventually, we'd just decide to make a run for it, usually after soaking our feet at the water's edge. I think the presoak kept a layer or two of skin on our feet. Otherwise, we'd have been walking on bones by the time we reached the pier - quite possibly our knee bones. This sand was a few degrees from becoming glass and is the hottest known naturally occurring substance known to man. Hotter than lava. Hotter than fish grease. Hotter than black vinyl car seats in August, but just barely. By about the third day, the bottom of our feet would peel. Off. In small wisps of skin chips. I guess our feet were prepping for the next day's battle, like sending in wave after wave of battalions, hoping at some point the war would end and peace would once again reign in Soleland. Our skin reproductive capabilities were truly tested during the summer.

Somehow, overnight our burns would become bronze glows, the soles of our feet would rejuvenate, our chaffed groins would heal, and our nipples would regrow - just in time to recreate the whole debilitating process the very next day. A pattern that repeated incessantly throughout the summer.

It's what we did as kids. And it was glorious.

I'll take it over video games and cell phones any day.

Image courtesy of Amazon.com

Since you've accompanied me on this long ride on memory wave, I'll reward you with a Buffett tune. "Floridays" is the title track from Jimmy's 1986 album and it reflects a desire to get away to the coast and, possibly, the good ol' days - before life's responsibilities produced the hectic busy-ness that it seems to do for most of us. Once again, the escapist's pursuit. While Buffett has done quite well preaching "the gospel from the coast," those "blue skies and ultraviolet rays" of his Floridays have enticed me my entire life, way before I'd ever heard of Jimmy Buffett. Even though he mentions Florida and a spot "on the corner of 'Walk' and 'Don't Walk' somewhere on US1," these Floridays really apply to any days on the coast. So, today's tropical tune offers a version of the heartfelt refrain that glides through my mind when I long for the beach, often the beach of my youth.

Aloha, amigos!

MMTT4S - I've Seen More Than I Can Recall

Captain’s Log: Summertime; As Willie says, “On the road, again.”

Aloha, amigos!

Miss me?

That’s what I thought. Of course you did. You see, in my Walter Mitty-esque brain, thousands of you have been wondering where my irregularly scheduled blog has been lately. Many of you are worried that I may have taken ill or gotten eaten by a shark. Some of you are panicked at the thought of carrying on much longer without my words of wisdom. A few of you are walking around in an audio-less stupor, not knowing what Jimmy Buffett song you should listen to.  To the masses of my readers, please accept my humble apology. I’ve been busy.

Having a restful and rejuvenating summer doesn’t register in my mind. When I’m greeted by colleagues with a greeting of, “I hope you’re well-rested and revitalized after the summer break,” I just stare back and try to mouth a reply, but nothing comes out.

I liken my time off to my hall closet – I try to cram as much into it as possible.

During the summer, I keep my “need to’s” to a minimum, completely ignore my “should’s,” and focus on my “want to’s” while carefully considering my “able to’s.”

That means I engage my gypsy soul by hitting the road.

Surfside Beach

DCI in Atlanta

Upon our recent return from Texas, I’ve been to Surfside Beach with my wife, son, and parents for a getaway; to Atlanta with my wife and son to see an amazing display of talent at the Drum Corps International Southeastern Regional Championships; to Wrightsville Beach with my wife to spend some time on the beach and water there with some dear friends; to Atlanta (again) with my fam to catch a Braves game and visit the College Football Hall of Fame; and back to Surfside tonight with my family to close out the summer (shhhh – don’t remind me). Those are my “want to’s” that have been influenced by my “able to’s.” In between, I’ve visited Bat Cave and Lake Murray to clean houses. Those are my “need to’s,” which help provide my “able to’s.”

Wrightsville Beach

Go Bravos!

In any case, I’ve been on the move and I love it. I’m not a homebody, that’s for sure. While I don’t return rested and relaxed, I do experience a change in attitude – no daily grind, no same ol’ scenery, no chores that I’ve put off for far too long. Life is just better out and about.

Image courtesy of Amazon.com

Today’s tropical tune is “Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes” – a Jimmy Buffett classic. It’s one of those non-negotiables at his concerts – songs that must be played to prevent a Parrot Head riot. It was originally released in 1977on his fantastic album by the same title. The song sticks to Buffett’s autobiographical formula that has worked well for him for years. The same formula that has created the Buffett persona that has driven the whole Margaritaville mystique and escapist empire. Although my own latitudes unfortunately haven’t varied much this summer (thanks to my “able to’s”) my summer location has been on a constant shift. This continual state of being on the go gets only a few moments of reprieve and reflection. And that’s fine with me. Like the song says, “…yesterday’s over my shoulder. So, I can’t look back for too long. There’s just too much to see waiting in front of me, and I know that I can’t go wrong.” Well, I can certainly go wrong, and often do, but that doesn’t stop me. Like, Buffett, who has been a worldwide troubadour since day one of his career, the relentless journeys satisfy some innate traveling jones of mine, produce more smiles and laughter, and, yet, seem a bit senseless to some. But, as Jimmy sings, “If we weren’t all crazy, we would go insane.”

Truth.

Aloha, amigos!

Corso's replacements