short-story

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.

What Grandpa Did in Norman

My son-in-law had a saxophone recital this week. My future daughter-in-law is defending her doctoral dissertation. These are significant life moments, and the family is rallying around both of them with appropriate enthusiasm and support.

I was with the baby.

To be fair, Ellie’s other grandma was in town for the recital, and she graciously babysat Ellie during the day so I could have some Andy time. This left her with a clear conscience when I accepted the recital shift. All of us attended the dinner portion of the evening, which was the part I was looking forward to anyway. The pizza was good.

The recital was held at OU, which meant Ellie and I spent an hour roaming the halls of a building not designed with either of us in mind — me like a slightly confused mall Santa, her like someone who has never encountered a carpeted ramp and intends to fix that immediately.

We walked a lot. With Ellie, walking means holding both her hands while she does something between a march and a controlled fall. Her legs can’t quite keep up with the ambition, but viewed from the side, the illusion of running is convincing. She seems to enjoy it. The grandpa executing the maneuver gets winded faster than he’d like to admit, so we don’t overdo it.

One of the hockey boys had left a neon yellow golf ball in their room, and once I introduced it to Ellie, every white ball I’d ever collected on my walks became an afterthought. We found a carpeted ramp — one of those long, gentle slopes that make stairs optional — and developed a game. She’d release the ball from the top. I’d stand below and try to kick it gently back up toward her. She’d decide, with visible deliberation, whether to crawl up to meet it or scramble down after it.

At one point the ball rolled toward her from above and she spotted it over her left shoulder. Something clicked in her baby brain and she decided the correct response was to lead with her right leg, which required a small full-body flip. She didn’t intercept the ball. But she committed to the plan completely — a tiny, determined engineer working a problem she hadn’t quite solved yet.

I lost the golf ball somewhere in all of this. I ordered a six-pack of colored ones on Amazon that night.

When two college students passed by during our ramp experiments, I mentioned something about developing her eye for the putting game. They smiled the way young people smile at old men doing inexplicable things with babies. Politely. With their whole faces.

We found a bench and ate. Cheerios, and some apple-strawberry star-shaped things that dissolve before they become a choking hazard. I favored the method where the snack is secured between my lips and Ellie retrieves it with her fingers. As the session went on, her hands got progressively damper. Baby slime. Nothing toxic.

A man walking the hallway stopped and watched us for a moment. “First grandchild?” he asked. I confirmed. He nodded like he knew something. “She’s the one who’ll pick your nickname.” Then he kept walking.

I would like a nice nickname…

The motion-activated faucets in the bathroom are not designed for a man holding an infant with one hand. You do what you have to do.

When my wife texted that the recital was over, I handed Ellie off to her assembled fans and faded into the background, which is where I do my best work. By the time dinner wrapped up, we were four hours in and dangerously close to disrupting my pre-sleep routine. The pizza held up its end.

Today is the dissertation defense. I was encouraged to bring Ellie, but it only takes one wrong moment — one well-timed shriek during a committee question — to make that a memorable afternoon for the wrong reasons. She has worked too hard for that. And frankly, I’m not sure the room needs both Ellie and me in it. There may be some older professors present with limited social skills, but they’re not variables I can control.

Phase two of Grandpa Goes to Norman happens from home. Better snack inventory. Bibs within reach. No motion-activated anything. No college students watching me lose a golf ball.

And maybe, if I keep spoiling her at the current rate, she’ll give me a decent nickname.

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.

Old-School Fly Wars: A Swatterless Survival Guide

Since moving, my relationship with fly killing has taken a turn for the primitive. With my trusty fly swatter sitting in retirement (or lost in a moving box labeled “Misc”), I’ve had to return to the ancient, honorable art of manual fly extermination. Let’s review the current arsenal:

1. The Clap: Thunder in the Kitchen

This is the classic method—two hands, one fly, and a prayer. Does it work every time? Absolutely not.

  • Best used: When the fly is on an unobstructed surface, preferably somewhere elevated.
  • Technique: Approach from behind—their getaway car is always in reverse.
  • Success rate: Lower than my high school batting average, but occasionally glorious.
  • Note: If you miss, pretend you were applauding yourself for trying.

2. The Smash: Window to the Soul (of the Fly)

When a fly camps out on a window, the Smash is your go-to.

  • Needed: Napkin, tissue, or whatever paper product is within reach.
  • Method: Cover the fly, scrunch, and hope your hand-eye coordination hasn’t gone the way of your fly swatter.
  • Real-world example: Yesterday’s attempt resulted in a close call—the fly escaped with a story to tell at the next Fly AA meeting.
  • Disclaimer: All my rage is directed at “guy flies.” I like to think the lady flies are just lost on their way to a garden party.

3. The Grab: Picnic Table Panic

This move is for flat surfaces only: countertops, picnic tables, or any place where the fly can’t hide under your toaster.

  • Execution: Skim the surface, grab from behind, and listen for the telltale buzz of success.
  • Finishing move: If the fly is buzzing inside your hand, give a couple of shakes, then toss to the floor and quickly enforce the “no fly zone.”
  • Caution: May result in bystander confusion and/or admiration.

Swatter Status and the Flies’ Perspective

  • Fly swatter purchases: On indefinite hold, unless I stumble into a homeowner trade show or a hardware store offering a buy-one-get-one-free deal with a new plunger.
  • Reliability: Swatters are still king if the fly is parallel to the ground. My hands? Let’s call them “aspirational.”
  • House rules for flies: If you’re a fly who prefers dining while facing down, congratulations: you’ve found a safe haven.
  • Good news for flies: None of them read blogs.

Final Buzz

Until the fly population reaches DEFCON 1 or I cave and buy a new swatter, I’ll keep clapping, smashing, and grabbing—one primitive, questionably effective method at a time.
If you hear thunderous applause from the kitchen, it’s just me, celebrating the one that didn’t get away.