Friendship

The Policy Has Been Revised

After an evening watching a disappointing football game, we went to bed at 10:30. To keep our commitment to our hockey boys, we turned the front porch light on so they could find their way home without taking out my roses along the front walkway. We have been doing this quite often lately. Friday night, they needed to watch the team they share the rink with play before heading out for food. Last night was also about food, but with a little more wardrobe involved.

Both of the junior hockey teams we have billeted for have a tradition of rookies dressing up as girls for a team dinner. The reason for putting considerable effort into shoes, dresses, wigs, and whatever else they can find is simple: the rookie who looks the best avoids paying his portion of the ridiculous food bill the veterans have intentionally inflated by ordering food they have no intention of eating. Our Alaska boy won this year. His $50 investment in a dress, shoes, and wig probably saved him about $300. The worst-dressed rookie pays double. The guys with beards apparently start the competition about three goals down.

Back to my pre-bed routine. For some reason, my nose decided to start bleeding. This wasn’t one of those casual little nosebleeds where you grab a tissue, wipe your nose, and get on with your life. This one earned the coveted two-tissue award. I asked Judy which towel I should use so I wouldn’t bloody up my hand towel. My white hot tub robe also received some unexpected splatter. Apparently, my nose had decided that bedtime was a good time to redecorate.

Judy’s response was very casual. I know why they call her “Dr. Mom” and not “Dr. Wife.” There was no frantic call for medical assistance, no dramatic assessment of my condition, and certainly no attempt to save my life. She basically let me bleed. To minimize any overnight leakage, I suggested grabbing an old towel to put over my pillow. She fully supported that plan. The usual “goodnight kiss” was answered with, “I don’t want to kiss you tonight.”

Nothing says “in sickness and in health” quite like your wife deciding that, for the moment, you are a communicable disease.

The next morning, with a strong desire to get my walk in before church and another 100-degree day waiting for us, I got up to find the towel on my pillow completely unblemished. Apparently, my nose had called it a night. I made the coffee and toasted some of Judy’s day-old, home-baked whole wheat bread, one of her evolving hobbies. There are worse ways to start the day, although I was beginning to wonder whether I was living with a doctor, a baker, or someone who was simply waiting for me to bleed out.

After my walk, I told Judy my nose seemed to be on the mend. I also expressed some concern about what had caused such an enthusiastic nosebleed. Her nosebleeds have all but stopped 5 years ago, so I was hoping mine would follow the same path. Maybe it was simply the heat, the low humidity, or some other weather-related nonsense that our bodies apparently feel obligated to complain about.

Of course, I couldn’t resist mentioning the possibility that my blood pressure was raging and that perhaps I was headed toward a stroke or some other exciting cardiovascular event. In the past, when I have brought up the possibility of dying from high blood pressure, Judy’s response has been, “If you go before me, I won’t remarry.”

It has always been one of those reassuring little marriage statements that somehow manages to be both loving and insulting. Apparently, though, the policy has been revised.

Knowing I was still fragile from the previous night’s trauma, Judy looked at me and said, “I have changed my mind. I think I will remarry.”

I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to discuss your replacement while the current model is still standing in front of you. But apparently, there is a grace period for these things.

The good news is that my nose seems to have returned to normal, and I have no reason to believe I’m about to fall over dead. I plan to be around for many more years. There is even a decent chance I will outlive Judy. After hearing her revised position on remarriage, I’m beginning to think that may not be the news she was hoping to hear.

But I was reminded of something this weekend: if you’re going to spend a lifetime dishing it out, you have to be willing to take it when the tables turn.

Even if the tables turn while you’re wearing a blood-speckled hot tub robe, sleeping with a towel over your pillow, and wondering whether your wife has already started browsing for your replacement.

Marriage is a beautiful thing.

Apparently, We Had Plans

As a rule, my wife and I don’t plan to be gone every evening, with every day of the week becoming progressively more exciting and culminating in a series of weekend events worthy of numerous pictures and social media postings. We are more the “What series do you want to watch tonight?” people. So when the hockey boys had a “meet and greet” at a local restaurant where all the season ticket holders, billets (us), and boys were invited, we decided to sit this one out. I am not always looking for that particular hockey vibe. Fortunately, a couple from church had been talking about having us over for dinner for several weeks, after an earlier invitation was canceled because of illness. So, without actually thinking, “Let’s use this night to kill two birds with one stone,” that is pretty much what happened. We could have a pleasant evening with another couple, have conversations about things other than hockey, and do it in a house where, when my conversation meter reached capacity, I could theoretically just stare at something on the wall. Our boys knew what we were doing and had already decided whether they would grab their warmups at our house or at the restaurant. That cleared our dinner-prep schedule, so we made the ten-minute drive and arrived at 6:00.

Our hosts live on an acre, which immediately made the evening more interesting than anything I could have found on television. I went out back and talked with the husband while Judy and his wife had a good conversation inside. The highlight for me was the buffalo hide hanging in the garage that their daughter was tanning herself. It is eventually destined to become a rug in the middle of the living room, assuming it survives the tanning process. Before it gets there, however, it needs one more step that involves something called “smoking the hide.” I am not sure exactly what that entails, but I know enough about home projects to recognize the beginning of a sentence that ends with, “Well, that didn’t go quite as planned.” The husband seemed happy to support his daughter’s project, although he was less enthusiastic about his workshop being temporarily converted into a buffalo-processing facility. The deer hides they had done previously were apparently much easier. A buffalo, it turns out, brings considerably more hair and considerably more buffalo to the project. She had already been warned that Dad’s shop was no longer in the tanning business.

Dinner was chicken thighs with the bone in, risotto, and roasted broccoli, and it was really good. The hostess did mention, “It might be a little salty.” My immediate response was, “I’ve never had it before. It tastes fine.” The part of my brain that occasionally insists on honesty eventually agreed with her. The chicken gravy poured over the risotto did not exactly move us in the opposite direction, either. Still, it was a good meal with good color balance, and I ate two chicken thighs, so apparently I was not suffering. Had my mother-in-law cooked it, I probably would have been a little more honest. The hostess also reminded me of something I had apparently said when she asked at church how I would feel if she invited us to dinner. According to her, my response was, “Well, can you cook?” Apparently, she saw through my crusty exterior and decided to take the risk. She was rewarded with an enthusiastic second helping and only moderate criticism of the sodium content.

It was not the kind of meal we would normally make for the hockey boys, but that has less to do with the food than with the fact that I am already tired of eating the extra warmups they refuse to eat. The husband did his part by scraping everyone’s plates as he carried them toward the sink and eventually the dishwasher. I apologized for not being a chicken-skin eater. There was no obvious penalty, so I assume I remain welcome. Their fictional “upstairs maid” is the husband. In our house, the frequently vacationing “dish fairy” is Judy.

At some point during dinner, the conversation turned to marriage, and the hostess told us about the first thirteen years of theirs. They had made themselves crazy trying to come up with gifts for every minor and major holiday. She wanted good gifts, and he apparently had trouble determining what qualified as a good gift. By their thirteenth anniversary, they had reached the point where the whole thing had become more work than celebration. So they lived their thirteenth anniversary like any other day. They went about their business and didn’t even realize what day it was until they heard a “Congratulations” on their answering machine as the day was winding down. That was apparently the moment they realized they had spent thirteen years creating a tremendous amount of busyness for very little return. From that day forward, their marriage became a little saner. There is probably a lesson in there somewhere, although after thirty-five years of marriage, I am still suspicious of any lesson that involves buying fewer gifts.

Eventually, it was time to deal with the peach pie that had been sitting there staring at us from the dining area. The peach was good, and the ice cream was an excellent supporting actor. My only suggestion for future guests would be to ask how large a piece they want before cutting it. One-eighth of a large pie is not a serving. It is a commitment. Both Judy and I are good guests, so we cleaned our plates. That does not mean we were grateful for being made quite that full, but we did our part to maintain the illusion of good manners.

The most contentious portion of the evening came when we started talking about books and television shows. I mentioned that I thought the character of Reacher on Amazon was basically a shallow gorilla. The hostess did not take that particularly well. I also mentioned that Lee Child, the author of the Reacher books, has talked publicly about smoking marijuana while writing. Judging by the reaction from our hosts, this was apparently not information I needed to bring to the table. I felt the elbow from Judy even though she wasn’t sitting next to me. I explained that I thought the characters often make a poor transition from books to television, which did not improve my standing. Eventually, I agreed to read the first two Reacher books and report back. Judy did not identify any other major problems with my performance that evening, so apparently the invisible elbows were doing their job.

Just as the Reacher impasse appeared to be settling down, we got a text from the hockey boys. Two of their teammates were coming over to use the hot tub. Since it was almost 9:00 and four hockey players plus a hot tub creates a mathematical equation I did not want to solve, we decided it was time to say our goodbyes. It had been a good evening. Our first “date” with this couple had been a hockey game in late winter, and the follow-up was much more relaxed and insightful. Between their camping schedule and the arrival of the twins, it may be 2027 before we manage another one. At least we now know where we stand on buffalo hides, pie portions, and Reacher.

When we got home, the four hockey boys settled into our back porch area between the hot tub and the fire pit and proceeded to hang out for another hour and a half. At one point, I had to tease the boy from Michigan. “So, if I go to Michigan, do I need to set the clock back an hour and a second?” He seemed a little frustrated with the question and, more importantly, with the fact that this was even a topic of conversation. I eventually left him with this: “We can squabble about Ohio State and Michigan, but have no doubt I will be cheering for you when you have your Warriors jersey on.” Apparently, there are limits to my loyalty, but they are not quite as narrow as my opinions on college football.

As Judy and I did our pre-sleep reading, the boys continued their animated conversation on the patio. With our bedroom right next door, sleep and four late-teenage hockey players were never going to coexist peacefully. A little after 10:30, Judy turned off her light and commented, “It is about time they end the party.” And it did. Somehow, her womanly will continues to force us males to submit to her wishes, even when she is lying in bed and the males in question are several feet away on a patio. I am not sure how this works. I just know it does.

For a night that was supposed to be our low-end-of-the-excitement-spectrum evening, it turned out to be a pretty busy one. We had dinner with friends, learned about buffalo tanning, debated the proper amount of pie, offended someone over Reacher, argued about Michigan, and hosted four hockey boys late into the evening. And somewhere in all of that, there was a reminder that adults and late teenagers (i.e. young adults) who are not related to each other can actually live together, laugh together, jab at each other, and occasionally even learn something from one another.

The boys will keep playing hockey, eating breakfast with us on the Fridays of home weekends, arguing about sports, and figuring out how to live with a bunch of other guys. They will eventually move on to different teams, different cities, different jobs, and whatever comes next in their lives. The friendships they are forming now may end up being more important than anything happening on the ice. Learning how to share a house, give each other space, work through differences, and still enjoy being together is part of growing up that doesn’t show up on a hockey schedule.

For Judy and me, there is something pretty special about getting to watch that happen up close. We didn’t set out to become the parents of a bunch of unrelated teenage hockey players, and I’m still not entirely sure how we ended up with four of them on our back porch at 10:30 on a Thursday night. But these are the kinds of evenings that tend to become memories long after the hot tub has been drained, the breakfast dishes have been put away, and the boys have moved on to whatever comes next. Maybe that’s the real benefit of having a house that occasionally feels a little too full. Sometimes the best parts of life are the things you never planned for.

35 Years and the Keys on the Table

My wife and I hit 35 years of marriage yesterday, which feels less like “against all odds” and more like, “Well, if we both managed not to die yet, this checks out.”

We said “Happy Anniversary” yesterday morning with the same casual energy you use when you say, “Hey, we’re out of milk.” Not because it doesn’t matter—because it’s so baked into daily life it’s almost ordinary now. Slightly surprised we both lived this long? Sure. But once we cleared that hurdle, the anniversary part felt attainable.

In less than two weeks, our son gets married. Watching him prepare has made me realize how wildly underprepared I was at the starting line. Back then, I was still trying to untangle my father’s death five years earlier—carrying a grief I didn’t fully know how to name, let alone process.

My son is walking into this differently. He and his bride did real counseling—discussed expectations, conflict styles, cultural differences, and finances. The counselor was raising issues my son hadn’t even considered yet. They have a follow-up appointment scheduled after the wedding, which is the relationship equivalent of actually reading the warranty instead of tossing it in the trash. That sounds less like young love and more like two adults who want this thing to work and are willing to admit they might need help to keep it working.

Our premarital counseling involved a pastor named Maynard. I believe there were one or two sessions. Judy doesn’t remember anything life-altering, and my memory is basically: we met, he talked, we nodded, somehow we’re married. We made it 35 years, so either Maynard was a quiet genius or we survived on stubbornness and grace. I’ve never met another Maynard since, which tells me either the world could use a few more of them—or it wisely decided one was enough.

Our wedding itself was less “special moments” and more controlled chaos.

We didn’t have a choreographed dance. Most of the reception was speed-walking table to table, shaking hands like we were running for office and the polls closed at midnight. I barely remember any of it, but we hired a videographer who documented the whole thing like wildlife footage, so apparently we were there.

What I do remember—because people will not let this story die—is the keys.

During the toast, one of Judy’s bridesmaids stepped to the microphone, started out normal, then veered into chaos. She announced that Judy had apparently shared her apartment key with many different men over the years, and before we officially began married life, it was only right for those keys to be returned. Any male who had one was invited to come forward.

We thought it was a cute joke. One key, maybe two, a laugh and move on.

Instead: wave after wave of men and boys walked up. My brother worked at a truck rental company and had access to approximately every unused key in North America, which helped the prank scale well beyond reason. By the end, there were 50-plus keys on the table.

Then my grandfather shuffled up, dropped his key down, looked at Judy, and said, “Really hate to give this one up.”

He had a knack for the perfectly-timed ornery comment. The laughter was loud—and that’s the moment the whole reception was building toward, even if none of us knew it at the time.

The limo, for the record, abandoned us. Photos ran long, the driver had another appointment, and we rolled up to our own reception crammed into the back of a bridesmaid’s car. The schedule for the afternoon weddings creeping into the morning ones.

Now we’re helping plan their wedding, which means fielding ideas from people like me.

My wife started listing our son’s history of hobbies for her speech, and the list kept growing—frisbee golf, photography, coffee perfection, baking the perfect cookie, 3-D printing, and a brief affair with improv classes. So I suggested: why not do an improv skit at the wedding instead of a dance?

They actually tried it. The prompt word was “cabbage”—apparently that’s how improv starts. Our son launched into miming eating cabbage, got about three lines in, and decided this was not how he wanted to be remembered on his wedding day. Too much pressure. Not enough guarantee he wouldn’t end up performing indigestion in front of both families.

My wife got new material for her speech. And we got a preview of how this couple is going to handle parental suggestions for the next several decades: consider it, try it on, then set it down and back away when it doesn’t fit. That alone gives me hope.

Which brings me back to yesterday, and this 35-year mark.

Neither of us is the same person we were when we walked down that aisle hoping the limo would stay. There’s been loss. Quiet fights—not the loud kind, but the ones where the real problem was all the words we didn’t say until much later. Decisions one of us made that the other swallowed with a tight jaw. Health seasons and money seasons, a few blessings we both know we didn’t earn.

We didn’t always have our priorities sorted. We’re getting better at asking which choices will still matter five years from now, and letting that answer steer.

Retirement is out there on the horizon, getting bigger. I’m looking forward to stepping through that door and seeing what’s on the other side—maybe a little slower, maybe with more doctor’s appointments, but still us. The journey has been good. The companion has been better.

And if somewhere down the road, our son looks at his wife the way I still look at mine—half amused, half amazed he got this lucky—I’ll consider that proof we did at least a few things right.

Not because we had it figured out. Just because love stuck around long enough to grow up with us.

The Scouting Report

My wife plans our vacations. I show up. She books the excursions, maps the sea days, and treats the whole operation like a project with deliverables. I am the deliverable. So when she said we needed to scout Bricktown Brewery before Thursday’s call with the event coordinator, I understood my assignment.

Getting out the door first required a small act of theater. Our daughter was coming to pick up Ellie, but she had to walk the dog first. To be ready the moment she arrived, I had to get myself changed, which meant deploying every distraction technique available to a grandfather who did not want to be late. No closets were involved. Barely.

Downtown OKC at 5:00 is not gridlock, but it’s a reminder the city has grown. We made it in about 25 minutes from the south side, including the obligatory backup at our subdivision. On the drive, I thought about what my other son said when he was up for the wedding shower: “Oklahoma is like a scaled-down Texas.” I get it. Texas is crowded and very sure of itself, and I miss parts of it. Not that part.

Parking across the street ran nearly $17 for two hours. Convenient, noted, never recommending it to family members who drove 12 hours and already think Oklahoma is a flyover state.

The windows of the brewery were covered in Thunder graphics. OKC up 1-0 on the Lakers, the city doing its collective thing. Depending how the series goes, there might even be a home game that weekend—but even without that, late May in Oklahoma is always worth celebrating for the simple fact that tornado season is almost over.

Inside, we were seated immediately. We asked about specials. Our waiter had just received a text that apparently required his full attention, so we got something between an answer and a guess. We ordered chicken sandwiches anyway—hers with slaw, mine Nashville hot—and moved on.

While waiting on our food, my wife went upstairs to inspect the event space. Her checklist: could 8-9 tables fit comfortably, and would there be a microphone for announcements? The microphone question matters. She’s the polished one. If you want clean and professional, you hand it to her. If you want a slip of the tongue and at least one rabbit trail the audience has to wade through, you hand it to me. I’ll be involved if necessary. She knows this about me.

She came back down with photos. Plenty of room. Then came the menu conversation—proteins, vegetarian options for about 10% of the crowd, which menu pages to photograph before the call. She took pictures of everything. I suggested tenders. She didn’t reject the idea.

We paid with a gift card from one of our hockey boys. I can’t remember if it was after we helped him through totaling his car or after Judy wrote his college recommendation letter—probably the letter. Her recommendations are tight and punchy. Mine tend to wander into the fourth paragraph before making the point, which is why she writes them and I don’t.

On the way out, she made her notes for Thursday’s call. Cheaper parking options. Menu decisions. Headcount confirmed. As we drove home, we noticed how close the river walk was to the parking lot—a possible quiet end to the night before the wedding, weather and family chaos permitting.

Somewhere under Mother’s Day and our son’s birthday, our anniversary will pass this weekend without much ceremony. But tonight we had a meal together in a city we’ve grown to love, watching Judy do the thing she does—prepared, thorough, thinking three steps ahead—and I thought about how all that early penny-pinching gave us this. A good town. Kids nearby. A son getting married.

Thirty-five years. I genuinely don’t know how we got here, and I’m not entirely sure why she stayed. She says it isn’t pity. I’m going with sense of humor. It’s the only explanation that holds up.

The Knight Takes a Different Street

If you read last week’s post, you know I wandered into two strangers’ yard, dispensed unsolicited landscaping advice, and left feeling like I’d done something useful. I also gave them hockey tickets, because apparently I was in a generous mood and hadn’t yet learned my lesson.

The tickets didn’t work out.

I was at the grocery store Saturday afternoon when she called. Their HOA had issued an ultimatum — something involving condemnation proceedings, HOA jail, or possibly being forced to live in their dispensary. I’m fuzzy on the exact bylaws. The panic, however, was real, and the solution was an emergency run to Tulsa for a trailer full of sod. She felt terrible about the tickets and wanted to make sure it was okay if someone else used them. I told her, of course, and that she was being more conscientious about free tickets than I ever would have been. Her guilt was running at a much deeper level than the situation required.

Knowing one of them has a bad back, a sod run sounded like a terrible idea. But they had a plan, and me adding unsolicited opinions to their plate wasn’t going to serve any purpose. Good on them for having a plan at all.

What I didn’t know was that the universe had already logged my next move.

Easter evening, I went for a walk — solo, audiobook loaded, no agenda. My son and his fiancée went a different direction. I made a small adjustment to my route. I now understand this as my first mistake.

I turned onto their street just as they were staring down the second of two pallets in the trailer. Four pallets total, two days of work — this was just a fraction of the pain, and they were already operating on fumes. I had options. A tactical retreat was available. Reversing my path before eye contact was made remained technically possible.

I did not take my options.

“I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I left you to finish this by yourself.” They tried to wave me off. I borrowed some gloves and got to work.

The first several rows went fine. I loaded the hand cart; they wheeled it over and unloaded; and then, I grabbed a couple of loose rolls in the meantime. We chatted. I asked if their friends ended up liking the game. They didn’t go either. The tickets had now failed two sets of people in one evening, which felt like a record. They kept thanking me, and since the only adequate response was to actually finish the pallet, I stayed focused on that.

Sod operates on a cruel law of physics. The pallets used a standard Lego stacking principle — two rows of five left to right, two rows of five up and down — and the lower I went, the heavier each roll became. This may have been the physics. It may have been me. I didn’t investigate too closely. The trailer walls felt like they were narrowing. The ceiling felt lower than it had been. I was taking longer breaths between rolls, doing a controlled squat my knees were filing complaints about, and wrestling each roll into position so it wouldn’t unravel on me before I could get a grip.

By the last two rows, I’d stopped pretending to be efficient. I just shoved them to the back lip of the trailer so they’d be easier to reach. I told myself this was strategy. I let that stand.

When the last roll came out, it about killed me. The good kind, I think.

I asked if they needed help with the pallet itself. They did not. They thanked me at a volume and sincerity level that was probably appropriate to the situation and possibly flattering to my ego. I started the walk home.

My clothes were dirtier than an Easter stroll should produce. My gait had become something I’d describe as a waddle, which my “muss-kulls” — what I call my muscles when they’re tired, overused, and acting thick — were working to correct one awkward step at a time.

Judy looked at my socks when I came in. “What happened? Are you okay?”

I told her none of it was blood. I told her I’d rather be known as someone who helps than someone who watches. I believe that. I also believe there’s a line between good neighbor and slightly creepy yard stalker. Unloading sod for people I’ve shaken hands with exactly once is, at minimum, unusual.

Their landscaping nightmare isn’t close to finished. They still have to till the dead grass, put down topsoil, grade the whole thing, and actually lay the sod. But my work in their yard is done. I know a route adjustment that’ll save me considerable time and laundry. Should the knight in me feel the pull to rescue the maidens again, I’ll choose a different street — just to remove the temptation.

A man has to know his limits. Especially on Easter.

Amateurs

We hit every red light on the way home from the last regular-season hockey game. Every single one. It was nearly 10:00 on a Saturday night, and the lights had not gotten the memo

My wife, in a tone that does not brook dissent: “What incompetent traffic engineers.”

This is not an unusual comment from her. We both share the impulse, actually. I come at it with sarcasm. She comes at it with how she would fix the problem. Neither approach accomplishes much, but both get to the root of who we are. I default to humor. She sees a problem and intuitively knows how to solve it.

If she could clone herself, she’d dispatch a copy to every corner of society plagued by inefficiency. We’ve had car-ride conversations where she single-handedly fixed healthcare, immigration, and the tax code before we reached the driveway. I realize the world is a lesser place for having only one of her — but if there were an army of her fixing the planet, I’d still only be married to the original. I can barely keep up as it is.

So I couldn’t let her traffic comment go without a small test. “We’re good at making brisket in the oven but not on the smoker,” I said. “Does that make us incompetent?”

Her reply, patient and obvious: “No, dear husband. We are smoking amateurs. We are not incompetent.”

This is the woman I love. Her humor is surgical. It doesn’t land with the same splash as mine, but it challenges me every time — and it’s a daily reminder that I don’t have a corner on wit in this household.

She had also handed both of us an escape hatch before Easter Sunday arrived.

We’ve attempted brisket on the smoker three or more times this hockey season. None of them were shoe leather exactly, but they involved more chewing than I prefer. Yesterday we swallowed our pride, pulled out the oven bag, and went with the hard-to-fail method. Six-plus hours, then a little time in the crockpot while we’re at church.

We may be amateurs in the backyard. At the table today, we’re professionals.

Apology Accepted, Access Denied

I saw this phrase during my morning scroll, and it made me pause. As a Christian, I lean into the forgiving part. The “access denied” part is harder to admit, but I’ve made peace with it — mostly.

I met Jerry (not his real name) through my online business, back when I was cobbling together a living after a post-9/11 layoff and the birth of our 4th child. He was sharp, helpful, and seemed to want what I wanted. That last part turned out to be the problem.

Jerry was one of those people.

Over nearly two decades, Jerry talked me into several business ventures. Some I was smart enough to avoid. Others, I wasn’t. The pattern was always the same — he’d find the angle that sounded like it worked for both of us, and I’d believe him, because he was genuinely convincing. My wife saw it before I did. She usually does.

The last venture was the one that finally clarified things. He connected me with a job through a supplier he knew — Jerry was the manager, and Jerry’s unacknowledged nephew was the chief of operations. The nepotism ran its course, and I was the first to go. Within a week, Jerry called and suggested lunch. He managed to seem apologetic about the fact that he’d had me fired. He also handed me paperwork to sign away my right to unemployment.

My wife didn’t let that stand.

I collected every dollar. I never saw Jerry again.

Looking back, the warnings were there early. Another supplier told me Jerry had dealt with him dirty. I filed it away and kept going. That’s the thing about a skilled manipulator — he doesn’t come at you all at once. He’s a master of the long game. He stays in light contact, patient, until you have something he needs. Then he’s your best friend again.

The hardest part to admit is that I liked him. He was warm and funny and made you feel like the smartest guy in the room for listening to him. I thought I was lucky to have someone like that in my corner. I wasn’t lucky. I was useful.

Now I get occasional Facebook updates. If a customer emails about an order Jerry once fulfilled, I write him a short note. He sends curt replies. That’s what twenty years looks like when one person was paying attention, and the other one wasn’t.

In my mind, the most unbelievable part of the story is that Jerry is now a pastor.

I’ll be honest — I’ve thought about showing up at his church. Not to make a scene. Just to see whether the man preaching from the front is the same one who handed me that paperwork. He has the skills for ministry. He also had the skills for everything else.

But poking around in someone’s life after a three-year gap feels like reopening a wound that’s healed clean. Whatever apology passed between us was probably silent and probably mutual. We moved on. I genuinely hope he’s doing good work now.

I even hope we spend eternity together. I just don’t need to spend any more of my time on earth with him.

The Cougar

At the local mall, there is a Chick Fil-A.  While all jobs have their down sides, an upside at this job is both of my sons could work together.  As a parent, this kept us from having to add another car to quickly to our entourage of vehicles.  And, it gave the boys time together.  It was interesting to hear their stories of the “name of the day” (We would need to guess what name came up the most times as the name to call when the order was ready on that day.) or we would listen to the whiny customer of the day story.  (The one I remember most  distinctly is the person who wanted them to double cook chicken – not a normal menu item.  And, when the chicken was not overcooked to his satisfaction after they tried twice, he returned it and wanted a full refund.)  Occasionally, there would be the story of a regular customer who thought my boys were nearly as special as I do.

Enter the cougar….

While their relationship started with her being a little snarky with my son when he was working the register at Chick Fil-A, they now have had a post Chick Fil-A relationship for nearly a year.  Please understand, this is not the normal “cougar” relationship. She exceeds his age by probably 40 years.  And, although she is married, she seems to like to be social with my little cub.  She makes him tea and offers him a few snacks as they meet and discuss his recent accomplishments and/or activities.

The relationship has included a few phone calls while he is at school.  When he is home for breaks, he tries to fit a visit in.  The past visit involved him taking his camera to show off the pictures from our recent trip.  Although some details are sketchy, it seems she is very complimentary of his ambition and the direction he is taking with his life.  I have warned him to not be surprised if she attempts to introduce him to any of her daughters or granddaughters.  (This would remove the cougar title and have it replaced with “matchmaker”.  Since it is a family joke, the “cougar” title is likely to stick regardless of the pseudo-grandmother/grandson relationship.)

As with our recent trip, Jeff does very well talking to adults of all levels.  He has told me she is Catholic.  If his relationship with his “cougar” friend gives him an opportunity to show what his relationship is with our Heavenly Father, that is a good thing.  If his older friend sees how my son’s relationship with God is different than her own, then it is a better thing.  And, if at the end of the relationship, my son has practice talking to future mother-in-laws OR grandmother in-laws, then it certainly will not be time wasted….I think every son-in-law has room for improvement in this area.

The Incident

As we wound down a very full day of softball, we were tired. The girls had played 3 games. We were challenged to think of small talk to keep the parents of the other girls chatty, and we had to watch both the good and bad innings pass by while attempting to cheer enthusiastically for both.  It was a long day and we realized some areas of our lives may have received less than adequate attention.

This became quite evident later that evening. My wife received a text from one of our friends who have twin children the same age as our son and who also attend the same college. The wife’s text read, “where were you tonight?”  After a slightly confused look from my wife, the words penetrated the days haze. A few weeks before, these friends had asked us to attend a charity event. They had bought a table’s worth of tickets. Without thinking, my wife had accepted their invitation. After pulling her thoughts together, my wife did text back and apologize. She was very short on providing the details as to why we weren’t there.

The next day was Sunday, so as we almost always do, we attended church. Once my wife saw this couple sitting behind us a few rows did she find the need to caution me, “Don’t let them know you didn’t know about the dinner we were invited to.” As the service continued, I had my best, “We are so sorry line” all worked out. When we walked out after the service, we looked for the couple. My wife went back in and tried to see if they were still talking. They must have left early. Our need to give a personal apology was unmet.

Typically, we would not feel as guilty as we do.  This family has been so good to our son at school. When they visit their kids at school, they will typically include our son when they go out to eat.   . Even while going to high school together, they made extra effort to invite our son to interesting things. As I write this, I truly hope our visit to see our son at college can allow us a chance to take their son out to eat as well. Our hole may not be as deep as it feels, but doing something nice for their son might will help fill in the “guilt” hole we are carrying around.

The Propeller

Tonight, getting a walk was a bonus.  I was at my daughters softball tournament most of the day.  I left them with a 3 hour break between their last win and their final game for the championship.  (Please don’t judge me as a parent for not staying for the whole day.  I am an addict and had to get my walk on.)

As with most walks, this one was almost entirely unmemorable…..until the home stretch.  As I went into the last half of the final mile, I saw a couple of familiar bodies coming toward me.  (This is not the only time we have crossed paths.  The crossings have been almost as frequent on the front end of my first mile as the back end of the last mile.)  They admitted once the “crossing” occurred they thought it was my stride coming at them.  Once I was convinced it was them, I put my arms out in a symbolic hug combo shoulder shrug.  Translated:  “It’s you?!”

I have seen these folks in a variety of different modes.  They have passed me in their car as I walked thru their neighborhood.  They have been seen pushing their granddaughters while walking their well-behaved leashless dog.  On a nice Sunday following a big rain, the husband was seen pulling uncut grass from “our” side of the fence and feeding them to the grateful longhorns on the other side of the barbed barrier.  I have seen them walking their dog with two others rescued dogs.  They were paid to walk the two rescued dogs by one of their neighbors.  They tried to tolerate the dog-hating, blue-eyed, wolf-like dog, but his owners decided they really only felt obligated to rescue one dog.  Now, they only walk their dog and NO rescue dogs.

What greeted me tonight was not new to the trail, but it certainly was new to my friends.  The male of this duo has been known to have a bad back and a bad knee.  To keep his wife company and to minimize the pain, he was sited straddling his bicycle.  While he may have got some “normal” riding in, his primary mode was propeller-mode.  With his legs extended, he was doing a pushing off move with his legs while balancing on the bike.  It allowed him to roughly maintain the same pace as his wife with the option to race ahead to catch any purse snatchers who may have wandered into our otherwise low crime park.

We did talk for a few minutes before parting.  We talked about the network (also Amazon and Netflix) shows we were proud and not so proud to be fans of.  They encouraged me as I parent my kids (Their kids are older….note the granddaughter comment above), and they let me know I am probably not the first parent to make a mistake or twelve on their kids.  Lastly, we just gave each other a little encouragement from someone we don’t share a home with  (Admittingly, they are much better encouragers than I am.  The wife is such a nice person.  She quickly flips every flaw into a reason to be optimistic.)

As the time came to move along, we said our goodbyes.  The husband propelled himself as he stayed near his wife.  And, I smiled broadly thanking God for the people he sneaks into my life.