Podcasts about woba

If Nick Senzel stops selling out for this one aspect of hitting he will be an important part of a Cincinnati Reds playoff team in the near future. The Reds aren't completely out of contention as early as Phil Castellini believes and Rob Manfred doesn't think too highly of Castellini's comments. Also, why is wOBA an important statistic for understanding the value of a hitter? How do the Cincinnati Reds hitters from 2022 stack up using wOBA? We explain on today's Locked On Reds. Follow & Subscribe on all Podcast platforms… 

Matt Carpenter and his mustache are coming to San Diego! Well, maybe the full beard again. On this episode, Dominick DeRosa goes into how valuable Carpenter can be. Not only as a designated hitter, but in all parts of the field. DeRosa also goes deep into the analytics, bringing you the numbers that Carpenter produces; including a very impressive wOBA mark. If you enjoyed this episode, please leave a five-star review, as well as give the Twitter @GrandSlamPadres a follow to keep updated on the latest with your San Diego Padres.

Keep or Kut - Pete (@PeteBBaseball) and Chad (@chadyoung) pulled up the initial Steamer projections and found some numbers that surprised them. They also look at some of the first trades in the Keep or Kut listenener Ottoneu league. Join Pitcher List Plus and get an ad-free website and access to the Pitcher List Discord community, while supporting the podcast. Timestamps: 0:37 - Non-tenders and trades in MLB 3:57 - Starting Steamer surprises with an unexpected name popping up in the top 10 for PA, plus the importance of playing time projections 8:28 - The conservative nature of projections 10:05 - A surprising name has the 11th highest wOBA projection from Steamer - is Vinnie Pasquantino that good? 19:55 - Jake McCarthy a top 5 SB threat? 27:23 - And Trea Turner a career LOW in SB?? 34:20 - Are we ready to assume greatness from Fernando Tatis, Jr. again? 41:55 - Oneil Cruz to rein in the Ks but is that enough to make him a keeper? 46:57 - Of course Jacob deGrom is tops, are we ready to put Spencer Strider next? 51:12 - Camilo Doval second in saves? 54:57 - Trades that went down in the listener league 56:28 - $21 Freddy Peralta vs. $27 Seiya Suzuki 1:02:16 - $13 DJ LeMahieu for $15 Emmauel Clase Subscribe: Apple Podcasts | Spotify | Stitcher | TuneIn | Google Podcasts | RSS Connect: Twitter | keeporkut@gmail.com | Join PL+ Get PL+ and join our Discord: https://pitcherlist.com/plus Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Keep or Kut - Pete (@PeteBBaseball) and Chad (@chadyoung) pulled up the initial Steamer projections and found some numbers that surprised them. They also look at some of the first trades in the Keep or Kut listenener Ottoneu league. Join Pitcher List Plus and get an ad-free website and access to the Pitcher List Discord community, while supporting the podcast. Timestamps: 0:37 - Non-tenders and trades in MLB 3:57 - Starting Steamer surprises with an unexpected name popping up in the top 10 for PA, plus the importance of playing time projections 8:28 - The conservative nature of projections 10:05 - A surprising name has the 11th highest wOBA projection from Steamer - is Vinnie Pasquantino that good? 19:55 - Jake McCarthy a top 5 SB threat? 27:23 - And Trea Turner a career LOW in SB?? 34:20 - Are we ready to assume greatness from Fernando Tatis, Jr. again? 41:55 - Oneil Cruz to rein in the Ks but is that enough to make him a keeper? 46:57 - Of course Jacob deGrom is tops, are we ready to put Spencer Strider next? 51:12 - Camilo Doval second in saves? 54:57 - Trades that went down in the listener league 56:28 - $21 Freddy Peralta vs. $27 Seiya Suzuki 1:02:16 - $13 DJ LeMahieu for $15 Emmauel Clase Subscribe: Apple Podcasts | Spotify | Stitcher | TuneIn | Google Podcasts | RSS Connect: Twitter | keeporkut@gmail.com | Join PL+ Get PL+ and join our Discord: https://pitcherlist.com/plus Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Keep or Kut - Pete (@PeteBBaseball) and Chad (@chadyoung) continue down a list of players who they think will be hard to value going into 2023 drafts. This time around there are no pitchers, but quite a lot of outfielders. From the seemingly zapped power of Ronald Acuña Jr. to the extremely up-and-down season of Seiya Suzuki, Chad and Pete touch 'em all.  Join Pitcher List Plus and get an ad-free website and access to the Pitcher List Discord community, while supporting the podcast. Timestamps: 1:27 - Seiya Suzuki has had a roller coaster of a debut season. Regardless, Chad thinks that the final result is most likely reflective of what we should expect next season. Pete is holding out hope it could get better, but wants to see some improvement in that lineup.  12:03 - Tyler O'Neill was a major let down for folks this season. Chad found something odd about pitches in the heart of the plate, and Pete thinks the ban of the shift could help O'Neill after looking at his wOBA vs the shift in comparison to his wOBA with no shift.  28:40 - What happened to Ronald Acuña Jr.'s power? Him or Aaron Judge for 2023? 39:28 - Jesse Winker is turning 30, still can't hit lefties, and might be in a crowded outfield, so Pete thinks he is out on him. After doing some reading by author Michael Ajeto, Chad thinks Winker's issue could be mechanical. 46:53 - Pete is blaming any of his losses on Ketel Marte (completely unfairly, but man was he high on Marte!). Chad acknowledges the long period of time where Marte posted an elite wRC+, so maybe there is hope, but also wonders if the balls negatively impacted Marte. 54:35 - Chad and Pete want Joey Gallo to go some place that will be low-pressure and result in everyday at-bats.  1:02:03 - Taylor Ward's wRC+'s by month are crazy. Could his shoulder have prevented him from a monster season, making him a great buy in 2023 drafts? 1:05:45 - Is Oneil Cruz solving his strikeout issues, or are they still too shaky and the position too deep? Get PL+ and join our community: https://pitcherlist.com/plus

Keep or Kut - Pete (@PeteBBaseball) and Chad (@chadyoung) continue down a list of players who they think will be hard to value going into 2023 drafts. This time around there are no pitchers, but quite a lot of outfielders. From the seemingly zapped power of Ronald Acuña Jr. to the extremely up-and-down season of Seiya Suzuki, Chad and Pete touch 'em all.  Join Pitcher List Plus and get an ad-free website and access to the Pitcher List Discord community, while supporting the podcast. Timestamps: 1:27 - Seiya Suzuki has had a roller coaster of a debut season. Regardless, Chad thinks that the final result is most likely reflective of what we should expect next season. Pete is holding out hope it could get better, but wants to see some improvement in that lineup.  12:03 - Tyler O'Neill was a major let down for folks this season. Chad found something odd about pitches in the heart of the plate, and Pete thinks the ban of the shift could help O'Neill after looking at his wOBA vs the shift in comparison to his wOBA with no shift.  28:40 - What happened to Ronald Acuña Jr.'s power? Him or Aaron Judge for 2023? 39:28 - Jesse Winker is turning 30, still can't hit lefties, and might be in a crowded outfield, so Pete thinks he is out on him. After doing some reading by author Michael Ajeto, Chad thinks Winker's issue could be mechanical. 46:53 - Pete is blaming any of his losses on Ketel Marte (completely unfairly, but man was he high on Marte!). Chad acknowledges the long period of time where Marte posted an elite wRC+, so maybe there is hope, but also wonders if the balls negatively impacted Marte. 54:35 - Chad and Pete want Joey Gallo to go some place that will be low-pressure and result in everyday at-bats.  1:02:03 - Taylor Ward's wRC+'s by month are crazy. Could his shoulder have prevented him from a monster season, making him a great buy in 2023 drafts? 1:05:45 - Is Oneil Cruz solving his strikeout issues, or are they still too shaky and the position too deep? Get PL+ and join our Discord: https://pitcherlist.com/plus

BEERS: We review beers from three brands that have connections to the pod: Narragansett, Sam Adams, and Braven. Will tries “Good Luck,” a collaboration between ‘Gansett and our friends at Sam Adams. It's a malt liquor that's aimed at honoring their shared history, and it lived up to expectations. Jake puts pen to paper and backs up the high praise he shared last week for Bushwick, given to us by our friend Brendan O'Donnell of Newport Craft. Could it truly be the perfect summer beer? BUSINESS: A pretty slow news week has us mulling over all kinds of topics. In Singapore, a brewery is experimenting with treating sewage water to make beer, becoming one of the first of its kind in the entire world. We debate if we would trust drinking beer if we knew where the water really came from. Also, in a shocking move, Robinhood announced it will lay off 23% of its employees…what's the motive for Vlad Tenev? BALLS (30:14): Sam Basel does it all; the King of A-10 Twitter, College Hoops guru, and Mets loyalist. Today he hops on with us to talk all things MLB with the trade deadline making waves this week. We discuss the Mets and their failure to make any noteworthy moves, and the Yankees making improvements in the outfield & the starting rotation. We each declare winners and losers: spoiler, they might not just be teams! We're proud to present Manscaped as our latest partner! What guy wouldn't want The Right Tools for The Job?! Head over to manscaped.com/house, or use the code HOUSE at checkout for 20% off AND free shipping on your order. Thanks for listening! Remember to hit the follow button on Spotify, and leave us a review on Apple Podcasts. Join the conversation on Twitter and Instagram --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/beersbusinessandballs/support

Nimmo shows off his improvement as a Center Fielder, JD Davis for Wilmer Flores? How ridiculous have some advanced stats gotten? Hour 3.

Sal and Eric from Ronkonkoma have an issue with the advanced stat of wOBA and how forced it and other advanced stats have been on baseball fans.

Keep or Kut - Pete (@PeteBBaseball) and Chad (@ChadYoung) are back after a week off, and looking at some surprising top performers. Who is legit? Who is a sell high? And who were the best bats in the month of June?  Join Pitcher List Plus and get an ad-free website and access to the Pitcher List Discord community, while supporting the podcast. Timestamps 1:39 - Will the swing and miss catch up to Christopher Morel? 7:28 - Does Nico Hoerner do enough? 13:04 - How much power does Isaac Paredes really have? 22:36 - Is this the real Jarren Duran? 31:12 - What has changed for Jose Urquidy? 39:16 - How high should you go for Cristian Javier? 48:40 - Why did we lump together Merrill Kelly and Tyler Wells? 56:05 - The top 15 wOBA in June, among qualified hitters, including discussion of Brandon Drury, Alejandro Kirk, Jake Cronenworth, and more. Get PL+ and join our Discord: https://pitcherlist.com/plus

Keep or Kut - Pete (@PeteBBaseball) and Chad (@ChadYoung) are back after a week off, and looking at some surprising top performers. Who is legit? Who is a sell high? And who were the best bats in the month of June?  Join Pitcher List Plus and get an ad-free website and access to the Pitcher List Discord community, while supporting the podcast. Timestamps 1:39 - Will the swing and miss catch up to Christopher Morel? 7:28 - Does Nico Hoerner do enough? 13:04 - How much power does Isaac Paredes really have? 22:36 - Is this the real Jarren Duran? 31:12 - What has changed for Jose Urquidy? 39:16 - How high should you go for Cristian Javier? 48:40 - Why did we lump together Merrill Kelly and Tyler Wells? 56:05 - The top 15 wOBA in June, among qualified hitters, including discussion of Brandon Drury, Alejandro Kirk, Jake Cronenworth, and more. Get PL+ and join our community: https://pitcherlist.com/plus

On todays loaded show the boys dive deep into their analytics minds and learn and discuss sabermetrics. They focus on wOBA and FIP, but what the impact these different data points can make on how we judge MLB players.    *Episode Breakdown* Who closes it out and wins the NBA Finals? (4:50) Lakers hire their new coach (9:37) Learning Sabermetrics and what wOBA measures and how it is useful in an MLB discussion (19:40)  What is FIP and why should we be paying attention to it? (49:37)    Follow on Instagram, Tiktok and Twitter @pitcherpetpod

Dugout Study Hall - Expert layman Matt Goodwin (@TheCorkedMatt) and Pitcher List's own Daniel Port (@DanielJPort) talk about some news and notes, pitch location metrics, and data modeling. Help us out with a FIVE STAR RATING and a REVIEW wherever you listen and ENJOY! Daniel's PitchCon 2022 Presentation Go to birddogs.com and use promo code PITCHERLIST for a free Birddogs hat with your pair of Birddogs. Subscribe: Apple | Spotify | Google | Stitcher | Amazon | TuneIn | Radio.com | Deezer Join PL+ and support the podcast, get an Ad-Free Website, and access to our Discord community! Timestamps: Meet Daniel Port! (01:21) Off the Books: News and Notes (06:29) MadBum big mad over sticky stuff check Kelsie Whitmore makes history  Aaron Judge: good guy Wainwright/Yadi make battery history Daniel's OLR + Other Pitch Location Metrics (24:55) Other Metrics and Data Modeling (51:15) Players mentioned: Merrill Kelly, Nestor Cortes Jr. Stats mentioned: ERA, AVG, OBP, wOBA, xBA, WAR,  Correlation/Causation, Linear Models, Predictive/Baysian models Note: Episode recorded on 05/05/22 Get PL+ and join our Discord: https://pitcherlist.com/plus

Dugout Study Hall - Expert layman Matt Goodwin (@TheCorkedMatt) and Pitcher List's own Daniel Port (@DanielJPort) talk about some news and notes, pitch location metrics, and data modeling. Help us out with a FIVE STAR RATING and a REVIEW wherever you listen and ENJOY! Daniel's PitchCon 2022 Presentation Go to birddogs.com and use promo code PITCHERLIST for a free Birddogs hat with your pair of Birddogs. Subscribe: Apple | Spotify | Google | Stitcher | Amazon | TuneIn | Radio.com | Deezer Join PL+ and support the podcast, get an Ad-Free Website, and access to our Discord community! Timestamps: Meet Daniel Port! (01:21) Off the Books: News and Notes (06:29) MadBum big mad over sticky stuff check Kelsie Whitmore makes history  Aaron Judge: good guy Wainwright/Yadi make battery history Daniel's OLR + Other Pitch Location Metrics (24:55) Other Metrics and Data Modeling (51:15) Players mentioned: Merrill Kelly, Nestor Cortes Jr. Stats mentioned: ERA, AVG, OBP, wOBA, xBA, WAR,  Correlation/Causation, Linear Models, Predictive/Baysian models Note: Episode recorded on 05/05/22

Luis Robert hit .338/.378/.567 across 68 games with a .946 OPS, 157 wRC+, and a .399 wOBA for the White Sox in 2021. Nik Gaur of SoxOn35th.com joins us to explain it was Robert's performance after his injury that has people believing he could challenge for the MVP. Listen to what changes Nik saw and if it translates to long-term success. We're also waiting to see when Craig Kimbrel will be traded, just like everyone else. Brought to you by Family Waterproofing Solutions! Listen. Subscribe. Share. Call 708-459-8406 and leave your comments and questions for the next episode! Chris Lanuti and his buddy Ed Siebert sit at his 9-foot homemade oak bar in a basement on the South Side of Chicago to discuss his favorite team - The Chicago White Sox. Subscribe now on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, EVERYWHERE podcasts can be found and ALWAYS at SoxInTheBasement.com! Vote for the best guest of the offseason as we award our $1000 Guest Bounty at the end of March! VOTE HERE!

Everybody is awkward at thirteen and unsure how to feel, think, or even comprehend what matters and why it counts. Some kids have issues talking to a cute classmate, while others have limited social skills altogether. No one ever explains there is no right or wrong way to approach life, and how we experience every breath should be up to each of us and no one else. Some people cry at a funeral while others may not shed a single tear, and there may even be that person who can't help but laugh in the middle of a miserable circumstance. None of those emotions are wrong or even correct; they're just real, and that's enough. My greatest struggle as a teenager is connecting. All of my old friends from Cumberland Heights found their circle, and I'm searching for something, anything. Who knows why everyone scatters when they slip into middle school, but they do, and there's no way to stop it. Montgomery Central is like a different planet, and I'm lost somewhere floating above the atmosphere, attempting to conserve my oxygen. Luckily I've managed to remain close to my buddy Scott. We became friends when my mom watched him and his sister after school for a while. It worked out in the first place because I was thrown into an unavoidable situation with him. We didn't exactly hit it off, but things ultimately worked out because I saw Scott each day. Making new friends is terrifying. Summer break is underway, and Scott invited me to a sleepover. It's fun going to his house because the air conditioning is excellent, and he has an Atari. Taking turns is supposed to work out under most conditions, but not so much for me regarding his game console. He'll play Frogger, Pitfall, and Asteroids for an eternity, and when it's finally my time, it's over in seconds. It could be the absolute most frustrating thing in the universe aside from meeting new people. More than likely, we'll sleep out in the camper tonight so we can sneak off somewhere and explore. Sometimes he'll stay at my house, and we'll throw a tent up behind the barn and camp. These little maneuvers keep us from getting caught when we're supposed to be sleeping. Our parents can't hear the sound of a door opening at midnight if we're already outside. Scott's house is only two or three miles away, so the bike ride doesn't take long at all. When I turn off Mellon Road onto Bend Road, I can coast the rest. Going back isn't as much fun, but I'll worry about that tomorrow. After zipping down the driveway, Scott greets me outside with some news. "Come on in, Chris. I want you to meet someone," he says as my excitement immediately morphs into fear."Who am I meeting?""You know Mike from school. He's staying the night with us."Is he kidding! He can't just spring this on me like that. I didn't even have time to psych myself up for this. I'm doomed. "Sounds good, Scott." After a brief introduction, the first thing we do is break out the Atari. Now I'm forced to take turns with two superior players; on top of that, I don't even know this guy. What a nightmare. This weekend has the potential to end tragically, and there is nothing I can do about it. My last friend all of a sudden has a new best pal, and I'll end up in a straight jacket confiding to myself about how I'm such a loser. I could go missing one day and won't even warrant a photo on the back of a milk carton because no one even knew I existed. We sat in the den for the remainder of the afternoon until supper. Both of them grow closer while I observe from a distance even though we're no more than a couple of feet apart. Scott's parents took over the room after we ate and his little sister was off doing little sister stuff. It was dark anyway and time to make camp outside. "Can we go yet?" I asked our group of three."No, we can't go. My parents are still awake," Scott uttered for the third time because it wasn't the first attempt I'd made to convince them. Mike offered his views on an early escape as well, but I'd already mentally turned his volume down. "Let's go! It looks like all the lights are out," I insisted."Dude, they have to have time to fall asleep," Scott replied. After a few more minutes of bickering, the coast looked clear, and we began our adventure on foot. A moonlit night offered to guide our path into the unfamiliar, and adrenaline started pumping. Anytime high beams popped up around a corner or from behind a hill to give us a warning, we'd yell, "Car!" and quickly retreat to a ditch or use a nearby tree for cover. No one in Salem is a stranger, so the last thing we need is to get busted by a neighbor who saw us wandering down the road at midnight. Not many automobiles whizzed by, but it was enough to keep us on our toes. We all bonded while pretending to be undercover spies or on the run from the law. Mike started to grow on me after discovering that he wasn't as dissimilar as I'd assumed. By the time we made it down Mellon Road to the river bottom, deep conversations had taken over our expedition and proved to be enlightening. Of course, we weren't solving world hunger or cancer, but they were good talks for three kids attempting to figure out the world. Nighttime air, along with the sounds of wildlife resonating from the Cumberland to the ridge, can be inspiring if you let it. My favorite discussions were always about who walked these paths before us. A bizarre feeling can take over when you consider strangers no different from Scott, Mike, or I probably did the same exact thing a hundred years before we came along. They had hopes, fears, and loves just like us three. And expectations of making a difference or maybe leaving a mark on the planet. None of them thought about tomorrow and felt immortal as they swung from grapevines over creeks and threw rocks into the muddy river water. Every generation has a shot at living forever, but that swift current is merciless and tends to scrub the banks before allowing reenergized feet to leave a print on the earth. There was a time that time belonged to those strangers, and we'll be the strangers soon enough. "Hey, Chris. Would you eat a lizard for a hundred dollars," Mike asked. I responded, "I'd eat anything for a hundred dollars."Scott joined the conversation, "I bet you wouldn't take a bite out of your hand."We all became close after that night. Realizing life is too short makes decisions a bit easier. The summer filled with new outdoor adventures, slinking into R-rated movies and wasting quarters at Funland. We never got caught sneaking out a single time, or at least none of our parents admitted to knowing. All I ever needed was a handful of buddies I could be real around, and that's enough. Now we can figure out the complicated stuff together because I don't think we are supposed to do that alone.

No more than five hours ago, I was warm and cozy next to my wife in the den. The glow of a brilliant fire lit up her soft face to remind me of the wisest decision I'd ever made. Dumb luck introduced us, but my hardheadedness won her over in the end. Occasionally she'd look up at me with her sleepy eyes and smile. Right then and there, I thought to myself, "Eddie, you could die today, and these few moments with your sweetheart would make life whole." Never in a thousand years did I believe I would indeed die this very day. Patricia, my wife, pleaded with me to stay home. She warned me over and over that trekking out into a blizzard is treacherous, and I should have my head inspected. She calmed down once I mentioned that I'd stay close to the house and come right back if I got too chilly. It wasn't a fib at all. There's no telling how far off I wandered, but I didn't mean to do it. It's almost like something was calling me. When I finally gave in to logic and turned around, I saw it through the trees and falling snow. A giant stag was looking in my direction and begging me to pack it tightly into my freezer for the winter. Maybe I was too enthusiastic to notice my hands were so numb I couldn't feel them. Heck, I didn't even acknowledge my trigger finger was already in position before I even aimed at the buck. Somehow I ended up shooting a big chunk out of the top of my leg. As soon as the shotgun went off, I pressed my back against a tree trunk and slid down it so I could prop myself up to make my body easier to find. More than likely, It'll be my corpse an old farmer will stumble on in a day or two after the winter storm blows by. I can't feel anything aside from the strain to keep my eyelids open. The blood slowed down but not before soaking into the powder all around, forming a bed of red ice. My last thought was the delicate glow of Patricia's face before darkness eclipsed the vision. "Good morning Eddie, It's nice to meet you. My name is Harvey." Talking is useless. It was like being caught in a nightmare surrounded by ogres and incapable of screaming or running away. All my body can do is witness the circumstance as if I watched a character in a play from the audience. "This is quite an exciting situation, Eddie. It looks like I have your undivided engagement, so I'll do all of the talking. There's no need to speak up because you can't." My body was no longer in the middle of the woods outside of Clarkstown. Vision is limited, but I'd swear I was in some cheap apartment in the center of the city if I didn't know better. Busy street sounds broke through wood panel walls, and the pungent odor of rust stifled any additional aroma. The slim gentleman's breath would exit his mouth and stop directly in front of his face until he made a gesture. Then the translucent bubbles of air shadows shattered like glass and drifted away, like fragments suspended in time, unaware of gravity. Oily hair rested just above the bottomless darkness in place of his eyeballs, and the skin on his face was no thicker than silk stretched tightly covering a skull. "I'm not who you think I am, by the way. My work is all freelance, so I have to take it when I can get it. Do you know what makes me want to curse Eddie? There always has to be a reaction to every action. Who knows who made that rule up, but we're all stuck with it. I'll have a target right there in my sights, unlike you a few moments ago, and before I can unload, the prey gets a little push, and it's game over. The real frustration comes into play when you realize the jerk who did the pushing has no idea they screwed me over, and it happens all the time. My mind is aware, and I know every step I'll take to meet my quota. Those freaks who give their naughty little nudge don't even know they ruined my day. So it's on to the next, and that brings me to you, Edward." Harvey props his feet up on my lifeless body. "I bet you are wondering about the metallic fragrance hovering around that noggin of yours. It would be blood. Not yours nor is it mine, but the pesky scent tends to stick with me over time. Most clients never pick up on it, but you, Mr. Edward, are aware. Interesting. Would you enjoy a cup of hot tea?" Harvey places a steaming mug in front of me before yanking it away and continues, "Bless your heart, y'all don't drink this here hot tea in the south, do you, partner? Not to mention you're a tad bit paralyzed, and that never helps." The bony man flicks my beak to prove a point before moving on. "Regrettably, I can't smell savory blood myself because the tantalizing bouquet of desperation dominates my senses. Maybe I'm wired that way, or perhaps misery brings me more joy. Picture a starving alcoholic strolling right by a platter full of fried chicken for the open bottle of whiskey. The poor slub is hungry but never caught a whiff of the chicken. An alluring oak perfume infringed on reason instead. I'm the alcoholic Edward. The room turned upside down and then inside out several times within a second. I never noticed Harvey exit, but I did see him re-entering with a dollar bill in his hand. "Let's cut to the chase, my paraplegic compadre! Everyone has a choice. You can freeze to death under a tree if you don't bleed out first, or you can shake my hand and live. It sounds like a no-brainer to me, bub, so how about it? Do you want to play snuggles with Pattycakes tonight, or do you want to be a tasty frozen treat for a Tasmanian Tiger? I know those beasts aren't in Tennessee, but I appreciate a decent alliteration. Contrary to popular belief, I have a conscience, so let's dissect the details. You will be giving me something in return, and generally, it would be an encounter with a descendant sometime in the future." Harvey grins before sipping on his tea. "Between us two, you and your wifey can't have children. It's tragic, I know, and to be honest, it's your fault, buddy." Harvey leans in closer, "The little guy is shooting blanks, oh well. If you haven't guessed already somewhere down the line, one of your ancestors made the same agreement, and bam! Here we are. The good news is it won't be your kid because, well, you know." The mysterious fellow makes a gun with his fingers and shoots at me. "It appears to be empty, Edward. Shake my hand today; you'll return like nothing ever happened; I'll meet up with a relative, probably distant, and offer him a choice. An extra fifty years or so sound good, Edward, or do you want to go ahead and let fortune kick that bucket in the ass? Oh, good, I can feel you're coming around. All you have to do is shake on it. Go ahead, buddy; you can move it now. A weight lifted from my arm, and the feeling returned to my fingers. Harvey reached out, and I shook on the deal. The dollar bill fell from his hand simultaneously and landed on my bloody leg. Afterward, my limb dropped like a chunk of lead, and once again, I was motionless. Harvey slid the currency into his front pocket and gazed at me for several minutes before finally speaking. "You'll know when your down to the final few years, Eddie. It'll eat at your gut like a ravenous piranha chewing its way out of there. You'll go to sleep thinking about death, and it'll be the first thing you envision when you awake. Oh, the rain, it'll mean you're down to the wire, my friend. Sorry, I can't simply give you a date. I'm supposed to be all vague and stuff; it's how this works, Ed." Harvey stands, and the last thing he says is, "Clifford will love his inheritance." The ghostly figure evaporates, and I somehow return home. Patricia greets me at the door and tells me she's pleased I was only gone for ten minutes. My clothing is clean, and my leg is perfectly fine. I tell myself it was the right decision, but something is different; something haunts me.

The beauty of autumn in Clarkstown depends on how hot and dry the summer is leading up to it. June and July were so wet in '71 that the river flooded every inch of bottomland in the county. Most of the folks on the bluff could skip rocks right from their backyards, and rain is all they talked about on WJKM for two months. It's mostly dirt roads, and they were too muddy to drive over, so half the town had to walk wherever they needed to go. Not much changed for Ricky, though, because he rode his bicycle everywhere anyway. Ricky got kicked out his first year of high school for fighting.....

"Ashlee, if you are attempting to kill your brother, you are doing a phenomenal job," I yelled as loudly as I could from under my pillow, endeavoring to pamper myself with ten extra minutes of sleep. Restaurant work is formidable, and the prospect of staying in bed on my day off tends to escape my fortune no matter how I try. "Kids will be kids," I ponder before screaming again, "Ashlee, Christian, come here!" The brother and sister duo whispered a few words of concern to one another before a mad dash to my bedroom. Ashlee comes to a screeching halt while her brother does his best before bumping into the short-tempered redhead. She gives him a look that reminds Christian he'll be paying for that later. Like two tiny well-rehearsed cast members from a sitcom, they immediately descend into character to depict their best blend of remorse and apology. "I sure can't stay mad at you two. It's too bad you can't say the same for each other," The kids look down to conceal their grins unsuccessfully. "Hop up here, and I'll tell you a story." Christian lays beside me with his piece of cloth that was an entire blanket at one time and sucks on it along with his fingers. Ashlee decides a little distance is best and sits up with her legs crossed toward the foot of the bed. Storytime is special because God knows the seventy-hour work weeks never allow me to take these moments for granted. There've been occasions where I've spoken to or performed in front of hundreds of people, maybe more. But I'd erase it all from my memory if I could hang on to the sensation of sharing my tall tales with my audience of two. They're at the age where they'll believe anything, and if I can make stuff up to get them away from the tv for a few minutes, I'll do it every time. "Dad, tell us about the time you saw the Bell Witch," Ashlee asked. "I wanna hear about you shootin' Franky with the BB gun," is Christian's request. "How about a new story?" I suggested. "It's one you'll never forget, but you'll both have to make me a promise before I share it with you. A remarkable friend gave me permission to tell the story to a couple of people I trust, and I trust my kids more than anyone else. If you can promise me that you'll keep the secret, I will tell you what happened." After a brief lull, they eagerly approved the conditions of my proposal. "If you have to go to the bathroom, go now," I suggested, but neither of them budged and urged me to continue. "Okay, this is what happened to me on my eleventh birthday."That July heat was no joke on the sixteenth in 1982. When you live in a house with no air conditioning, the best time to sleep is somewhere between midnight and an hour or so before the sun makes its way past the horizon. A fan in the window felt pretty good whenever I'd turn over on my stomach. When the wind hit the sweat on my back, it provided a fleeting moment of relief before I'd have to move around again for the same sensation on the opposite side. Sizzling summers and frigid winters were all I knew, so I didn't think much about it. The smell of chocolate cake invaded the house and took my mind off the discomfort anyway. I ran into the kitchen to get a good whiff and maybe a frosting sample before the days' adventure. "Get your finger outta there, Christopher," Mom demanded before grabbing the bowl of sticky excellence. "I think I'm gonna go exploring for a little while before my party, Mom." "That's fine but don't be gone long if you want to have cake and ice cream later.""I won't," is all I said before tearing through the screen door and escaping into the woods in the backyard. A peculiar chill caught me off guard as I pushed my way through the trees into the river bottom. It was especially strange because the sun was as radiant as ever, and the previous shade was several yards behind me by now. An eerie waft snuck up behind me and carried that cool sensation along for a ride, but I trekked on, making my way to the Cumberland River. The best thing about growing up on a farm is that you never have to plan an experience. Spectacular possibilities unfurl if you know where to search. It is, however, wise to let a little caution tag along because I'd seen more than a few water moccasins around the slough. A tame breeze transformed into a violent gust, followed by another squall, and the temperature steadily dropped. Something in my stomach recommended that I needed to run toward the river, so that's what I did. Sometimes instinct is all we have, and I decided to trust it wholeheartedly. The faster my legs moved, the more challenging it was to dodge the enormous hail hurled down at me by some fantastic phantom force. White clouds descended from the sky to the earth, forming an impossible fog making my sprint more perilous. The rough ground didn't help, and I found myself face-first in the dirt every few feet. The sun was too afraid to show her face and offered her stool to the darkest sky I'd ever encountered. If the hole in front of me had been a cottonmouth, it would've bitten me because I fell right in and decided to hunker down to try and outlive the bombardment. Fighting the impulse to peek, I sat in the pit with my face covered, waiting on the silence to signal a safe getaway. My mind eased as I remembered waking to the smell of a fresh birthday cake and the comforting sight of my mother. Even after the welcomed calm, my paralyzed body refused to cooperate until I sensed an icy kiss on the back of my neck. "It couldn't be," I thought before opening my eyes. A snowflake settled on my knee while more hovered around the space and ultimately decorated the crater. Climbing my way out, I had every intention of flying home as quickly as I could manage, but the universe had other plans. "What do you guys think about moving storytime to the front porch?" I asked my frustrated children. Christian's wide eyes fluttered, "You can't stop right there! What happened?" "I'll tell you outside on the porch. Get dressed and meet me out there."Ashlee encourages her brother, "Come on, Christian! The faster we get dressed, the faster we'll hear the rest." They scurry away while I slip some shorts over my boxers and head out to the porch swing my cousin Herb made for the new house. Within seconds the entranced spectators take a seat on the ground while I relaxingly glide back and forth. These moments are invaluable, and the older I get, the fact that my memory will wither inspires me to snap a picture. After talking them into posing on the steps at the front door, we decided that was enough. "Now that I've forced you both to wait an astonishing three minutes, it's time to resume," I said playfully before picking up where I'd left off. My eyes first settled on the top of the bluff overlooking the river bottom. It's typically where I'd see the only home I've known for the last decade, but to my wonderment, it was not there. For a flash, the only logic I could make out of my dilemma is that the storm took the old structure and body-slammed it while I hid away in a hole. Before I had time to trouble myself over the well-being of Mom, something else caught my eyes. The entire landscape morphed into a downright different portrait set in an entirely separate time. A village of miniature homes made of slender trees packed with mud adorned the hillside above the flat ground. The once-mighty Cumberland appeared to have shrunk and frozen solid enough to pass on foot. Snowfall enhanced my surroundings and etched an unforgettable panorama into my brain. While I'd never seen such splendor, my bare legs quickly reminded me I was freezing, and shelter was my only hope. As hysteria started to consume me from the inside, I heard a compassionate voice and turned. "I'm Minco. We knew you'd be here today," were the first words my new friend spoke before offering a warm blanket made from animal hide. "Follow me," he recommended, and I did without delay.As we walked closer to the hillside, I introduced myself, and a conversation sparked. "I'm Chris; it's a pleasure to meet you, Minco." "You are not very smart, Chris. You would have died out here dressed like that without my help." Before I could explain, the Native American carried on. "I know why you're here.""Do you mind telling me why I'm here then?""I'll show you a few things, but it's up to you to figure out your reason for the visit, Chris." His words made little to no sense, but I smiled and consented before he invited me into his Choctaw winter home. The inside, warmed by a fire in the center of the room and insulated by various furs, looked cozy. Deerskins hung from the rafters to dry in the rising heat. The comfort level had my room beat by a long shot in frigid weather. Minco handed me a clay bowl full of dried meat and vegetables before we sat to talk. "Where's your mom and dad?" I asked."They'll be back soon, but we have a few minutes before you leave." "Leave? I just got here, and I have a lot of questions.""Chris, my father said, 'most answers will surface naturally in time, and curiosity often leads down a path less attractive than where we started.' We have a short period. Maybe we should relish in good company and eat together before you go. It'll give you a chance to take something back more valuable than an explanation.""What's that? What's more valuable?".........

Clifford dresses like he's a broken-down automobile some mechanic fixed up using old parts from three or four dissimilar models. Like the misshaped porkpie hat and Hawaiian print golf shirt, most of his clothes came from thrift stores. Even his khaki trousers and vintage black and grey saddle shoes are preowned. Everything Clifford possesses accompanies him at the pub somewhere between Mesquite and Las Vegas. It's one of several pitstops along the way to a new life in California. He manages to find the cheapest motel every time, a bar, and sometimes a hooker to spend the night with before heading out again. What a shame our traveler never makes it to The Golden State. Clifford lived with his uncle for as long as he can remember. The old-timer had a morbid sense of humor, but Clifford grew callous to the remarks. He always swore to his nephew that he'd leave him a fortune when the jigs up, and each new year he told Clifford, "This is the year you'll get your money." Of course, he was always wrong, well, until he wasn't. Clifford finally received his inheritance in 1973, and it was not exactly a whopping amount of cash. Maybe one thousand nine hundred and thirty-three dollars was a lot to his uncle, but Clifford knew it would never get him very far. "The old fella had to play one last stupid joke on me," Clifford thought to himself. All of the money sat in a glass Mason jar for six months until it was time to leave that life. "Hey, bartender. I'll have another rusty nail," Clifford insists with a slight slur. The barkeep stops drying out glasses long enough to utter, "I have a name, buddy." "Well, if you'll tell me your name, I'll even say please this time." "What name did you have in mind, Clifford?" "Now I'm wondering how you know my name. You are a strange fellow." "It was a lucky guess, Cliff. Let's see if you can guess mine?" "Do not call me Cliff. My uncle used to call me that, and he's gone now." "Sorry Clifford, I always did like your uncle, always full of surprises. So do you want to take a stab at my name?" "I'm beginning to see why the place is empty. You are crazy." "Give me a name, and I'll give you a drink, my friend." Clifford looks around the poorly lit room at the classic Hollywood movie posters covering the walls set in cheap frames. He notices Jimmy Stewart from one of his favorite childhood films. "I've always enjoyed the name Harvey." "What a coincidence, Clifford. My name happens to be Harvey. You are quite the guesser yourself." "Yeah, whatever, Harvey, I'll have that drink now, please." "Sure thing. A little scotch and a little Drambuie, lovely. Here you are," Harvey passes the cocktail to Clifford. A hush blankets the atmosphere while Clifford takes a couple of sips from his cold glass. A quick stop in Vegas is part of his plan to at least double the money left by his uncle. Half of it's already gone, so things aren't off to a good start. "All the girls were probably a bad idea," flashes through the middle-aged man's mind before a final gulp—memories of his dead relative flow in and out like an angry tide. Wasted years waiting on pennies in hopes of a fresh start torment his heart and taunt him because there's no way back. Clifford abandoned better decisions years before the death and blamed every mistake on his uncle. Our drunken drifter stands to leave, knocking the empty glass from the bar into the floor, shattering it on the concrete. "No worries, Clifford. I was going to break that glass myself tonight anyway. You should stay a little longer and sober up before you drive. I'd hate to see you get killed before you make it to California," "I never told you where I was going," Clifford says, blaming his concern on the alcohol. "Besides, I'm at the motel across the street." "The last thing I want to see tonight is you getting hit by a bus when you cross the road. Stay put for a bit longer." Clifford glances through the window to confirm that he hasn't seen a single car pass by in several hours. "Yeah, whatever, I'll stay for a few more minutes." "Good choice, my inebriated nomad. How about a game of chance while you wait? You might win big before you even make it to Sin City." Harvey grabs playing cards from beneath the bar and places them in two stacks in front of Clifford. "All you have to do is shuffle each deck separately, shake my hand and give me that crumpled-up dollar bill you were probably going to leave as a tip anyway. How about it?" "Why not," Clifford uses every ounce of concentration he can muster to shuffle both piles and then awaits instruction. Harvey holds out his hand from across the bar; a firm squeeze completes the gesture. Clifford snatches his hand away, feeling a sharp prick, but not before a single drop of blood lands on the currency. The bartender swipes the bloodstained note and apologizes for the acridity of his ring. "I've been meaning to get that fixed. A tiny cut never hurt anyone." Harvey's words dart around in Clifford's skull like a racquetball shot from a cannon. The entire space shrinks and expands a hundred times within two seconds until Harvey snaps his fingers and makes a comment. "Looks like I lost you for a second there. Ready to play?" "What am I supposed to do?" "You've already completed your part. Now it's my turn." Harvey lifts a card from the first deck to reveal the queen of hearts. "Nice, it looks like a little love is around the corner. A card from the second stack will tell us when you'll find the special lady. Hmm, three days from now, Clifford. You may want to purchase a new suit before then." "Look, pal, this is ridiculous. I thought we were gonna play blackjack or somethin'. I didn't know you were some kind of fortune-teller. I'm good enough to walk across the street now." Clifford attempts to exit, and the room swirls, forcing him to take his seat. "Wonderful, you changed your mind. I assure you I am no fortune-teller. Clairvoyants don't exist, but I am very much real. I'm unique, a genuine one of a kind, and quite popular in every corner of the world. It looks like your next card is a king. Oh my. I have to say; this one is concerning. It's misfortunate he's holding a sword—the little booger. It looks like we have another three to go with it. It means the third man you see will kill you the third time you see him. Don't worry about that. These things can take years. "Okay, wait!" I'm confused." "Stop overthinking the game, Socrates. All you have to do is listen and watch. It looks like we have another king. Oh my. Good for you; there's no sword this time. We dodged that bullet, didn't we, friend? Your final card is a seven! Lucky number seven, Clifford. Concentration is essential now, so look at me." Harvey hands his inpatient guest the final card and speaks, "Do not lose this seven of diamonds. As long as you keep it in the pocket of your chic tropical shirt, you'll have good luck. I'd say that is pretty special for a man headed in your direction. Remember the part about the third fellow who's supposed to kill you the third time you see him? If you tear this card in half on the final encounter, it'll save your life. Of course, there is a downside, gosh, there is always a downside to these things. Once you rip it apart, your luck is gone as quickly as the last prostitute you slept with two days ago. Sound good?" Clifford gives Harvey a nod and walks toward the exit. On the way out, he bumps into two tired truckers who impolitely tell him to watch where he's going. Clifford ignores the men and heads to his motel to sleep it off. Dropping his keys before entering his room, he reaches for them, stumbles, and knocks his head on the doorknob. Rubbing his noggin, he mumbles, "Yeah, my lucks really turned around. Thanks, Harv." After finally entering the small room, he checks the knot on his forehead in the mirror before passing out on the rickety bed. Within a couple of hours, unwelcome sunshine invades through the inadequately hung blinds waking Clifford from his nap. He splashes water on his face, grabs the stick of jerky he picked up in Colorado, and steps outside. While placing his snack into his shirt pocket, he notices the card and carelessly throws it on the ground. "That's littering, you know," he hears from behind before entering the office to check out. A leathery complected potbellied little bald man offers to return the seven of diamonds; Clifford takes it from him then places it back into his pocket with the jerky. "Haven't you seen that commercial with the sad American Indian? I'm guessing you don't care. Where are you headed? I'll be in Vegas by tonight. Where can a man get a drink around here?" The stranger says without taking a breath. Forgetting the first two, Clifford answers the man's final question. "I doubt it's open this early, but I had a couple of drinks across the street last night at that pub." "Sounds like you had more than a couple. I don't see a damn thing over there." The tiny overweight man chuckles and introduces himself. "My name is Bob; it's the same spelled backward too. B-o-b that's called a palindrome, ever heard of a palindrome? It's pretty obvious with my name, but most folks don't realize the words ' racecar, ' ' radar, ' or ' Hannah ' are all palindromes. Weird huh? Where did you say you were headed? After looking across the road, Clifford realizes Bob is correct when he sees a rundown billboard in place of the tavern.......

"Things are not looking good for the mighty Musketeers with thirty seconds left in the game and fifty yards. It looks like they've called a time-out. I want to take this opportunity to remind all of the fine folks who listen to WJKM that you can get your film developed over at Mr. Ken's Pharmaceuticals. That's right! Ken guarantees those pictures in one hour or less. It's not 1970 anymore, so step into 1978 and enjoy faster, more convenient film developing at Ken's Pharmaceuticals on Second Street right beside Frank's Diner. Pick up Grammy's meds and grab your photos from tonight's game in one easy stop. WJKM is the voice of Clarkstown, and I'm Chuck 'The Duck' Williams." "Small towns are notorious for their enthusiastic hometown football fans. Anyone interested in the game is at the game, and that's everyone except for the old codger, Huffy McWhorter, who lives alone out by Byers Creek and hands out shoestrings for Halloween. Duck is a fine commentator, but the reality is that the only folks listening to the broadcast are Duck and the three people sitting behind him. Ken first opened the pharmacy in 1937, and all he talks about these days is how he spent more on that one-hour photo lab than he did on the entire shop back in the day. It takes all kinds to make up a little community like Clarkstown," says Tommy from his steel-framed single bed as his friend Stuart listens intently. Stuart sits comfortably in Tommy's second-hand wheelchair by the bed as our storyteller takes a brief break. "Tommy, dude, why did you stop? It was just getting good, man." "You are not a surfer Stuart. And you're getting crumbs in my chair." Tommy swipes the Pringles from his friend and crunches on a couple of them." "Yeah, well, you owe me two chips. You can't go and steal a fat kid's food without paying the consequences, ya know." "Well, if you don't stop trying to do wheelies in my chair, you are gonna break it. Then you'll be carrying me to school." The two boys laugh at each other, and Tommy continues with his story. "We're back, folks, and just in time. It looks like the quarterback is about to go down, which will end the game. No. Wait! He manages to release the ball, but unfortunately, the pass will be incomplete. I stand corrected! Little Tommy comes out of nowhere! Either I'm crazy, or that kid must have leaped seven feet into the air to make the catch! Boy, oh boy, this boy sure can run. Look at him go. Twenty, fifteen, ten, five, and TOUCHDOWN! The Musketeers win their homecoming game twenty-eight to twenty-four! What a catch, and man, no one even got close to that kid. I've never seen anyone run like that. The cheerleaders will line up to dance with the star of the game tonight." Stuart leaps from his seat, "Wow, Tommy! That was the best story I've ever heard." He then reclaims his chips. "Thanks, Stuart. I made it up just now." "Dude, that's your superpower." "Superpower? I've been in a wheelchair my whole life. Freaks like me do not have superpowers." "Um, Tony Stark. He's in a wheelchair doofus. Oh, I forget, you don't like to read like us intelligents." "I believe you are trying to say intellectuals doofus." "I don't get it. You have the best imagination of anyone I know, but you always cheat your book reports. You'd make one hell of a writer. It's weird because you don't like to read. I just figured a good writer must be a good reader." "Yeah, I don't know. Books are boring, to be honest. I have more fun making my own stuff up. I've never tried writing either. I doubt I'm that good anyway. You're the only slob that'll sit long enough with me to listen." Stuart wipes the grease from his Pringles onto his shirt and says, "I may be a slob, but I have taste, and you are good. Those jerks who pick on us at school don't have your gift. Most of the guys who graduate class of 1979 will end up working at the factory by the summer. It would help if you got out of this town, Tommy. You need to forget everyone here and run away. For real. All of that extra detail about the radio guy and Ken. Who else thinks to do that crap?" "How am I going to run anywhere, hotshot? Look at me." "You can be so dumb for a smart kid. Okay then, you should write away. I mean, write far away from here." "Wait, what? What did you say?" "I know that sounded dumb, Tommy, so you don't have to pick on me about it." "No, I kind of liked it, write far away. I like the way it sounds." "Really? Cool! Anyway, all those jocks will have bad backs between getting hit so much and working on the assembly line. Their superpowers are gone as soon as they grab that diploma. But your powers will keep growing and improving forever, Tommy. All you need is a pen and notebook paper." "I don't know, Stuart. Maybe." "Well, whatever it is you are afraid of, you need to forget it. Tony was probably scared of the suit the first time he put it on, but he did it anyway, and BAM! Iron Man. I'm guessing he'd be more afraid of my mom, who will beat me if I'm late for supper, so I have to go. Think about it. Don't forget me when you build your fortress somewhere in the Alps. I can be your sidekick—later nerd face." Stuart lets himself out through the window and closes it behind him. Tommy sighs and ponders for a moment before reaching into his nightstand to pull out some paper and a pencil. He stares at the crumb-covered wheelchair beside the bed. The contraption has felt like a prison his entire life. At this moment, he realized Stuart never saw the handicap. Instead, his friend only noticed the super-human abilities of his lifelong companion. Tommy's mind has always been free to explore and navigate far beyond the borders of his small town for as long as he can remember. He was the first man on Mars once, and the next day, he took advantage of an endless supply of oxygen as he rode dolphins beneath the sea. Recently he scored the winning touchdown and, before that, saved the prettiest girl in school from a burning building. We're all trapped by something. Fear often holds each of us firmly and strongly suggests that routine is best. A pattern is safe, and we all deserve to live life stuck in some foreordained groove that's impossible to escape. Sometimes a pal like Stuart comes along to give us a slight nudge unknowingly. A push was all Tommy needed, after all, because he'd always known the intensity was there but ignored the feelings. "I guess Stuart is my radioactive spider," Tommy thinks to himself before laughing out loud. The pencil rolls between Tommy's fingers as his vision builds velocity and vivid images assemble within his mind. A whole world materializes within his reflections like it has a myriad of times. Before, his expressions were seized by the cosmos and thrown into a cell for an audience of one. A lost story is a tragedy, so today, he'll step from his boundaries and escape along with his words. The pencil glides over the paper as if it takes on its own personality and forgets it's an instrument guided by Tommy. Sentences evolve, and paragraphs unfold while our hero uses his newfound ability to rework his perspective. Tommy reads the first few lines aloud, "Write Far Away by Thomas Browning. The more my friend spoke, the further away my wheelchair appeared. It was almost like God's way of telling me that I didn't need it anymore. That piece of equipment has always defined me but not now because today, I learned that I have a superpower thanks to my best friend. My words will catapult me from Clarkstown one day, but until then, I'll use them to wander anywhere, and the only limitations are the ones I allow. Stuart breaks my concentration, 'I know that sounded dumb, Tommy, so you don't have to pick on me about it.' No, I kind of liked it; write far away. I like the way it sounds."

Nate has big plans to ring in the New Year, but he won't be seeing 1980. Like every December thirty-first, he'll thumb through the pictures around ten in the morning, eat his two eggs, and maybe go for a walk. Nate appreciates the scenery of an abandoned downtown, perhaps because there's a bond with the boarded-up buildings. Often he will ponder how a little love is all the empty spaces need, but no one has time to invest in the forgotten side of town. Sometimes it's easier to drive on by and look the other way. "Why folks are drawn to crowds never made sense to me," goes through his mind on most of the strolls. He'll end his celebration soaking in a hot tub that's too small for his body, but at least tiles are easy to clean. The only thing different about this thirty-first is that Nathaniel will send a bullet into his brain. A beige rotary phone sits on top of the outdated phonebook that hasn't rung in over a year, and if you were to move it, you'd find a perfect outline etched in the dust. The thick yellow book rests on an Italian nightstand that's missing one brass toe cap that leaves it a bit wobbly. Nate's table is way too short for its purpose, but it's the best he could manage for something he never uses. His sink is full of dishes from last week, or maybe they're leftover from a month ago, who knows. Open cans of Van Camp's pork and beans decorate the tiny kitchen. Nate rents the basement from an older woman his mother's age. The only private area is the john, but it doesn't matter because no one ever visits anyway. Each December, Nathaniel pulls out a stack of photos from his childhood. It's all that his mother, Maria, left him after drinking herself to death in 1942. That woman sure enjoyed her whiskey, and it all started on her fourteenth birthday, New Years Day, about a week or so after little Nate was born. His mother kept a bottle by her bed to start the day right. She was either passed out on the couch or drinking at the local blind tiger by noon. No one cared how old she was at the bar because she was a pretty girl and it's best Maria couldn't remember what happened while she was out on the town. Nate's fondest memories of his mom occurred within sixty minutes each day at around ten in the morning. He knew all of the words to Old MacDonald Had a Farm by the time he turned three years old. It's the only song Maria knew, so that's what she sang while preparing a late breakfast. She attempted sunny side up, but the eggs were always scrambled by the time they hit his plate. Even though it was long ago, Nate remembers all of the details like yesterday. It isn't difficult to recall daily routines, especially when they're the best part and wrapped snuggly within an hour. His best friend was the shadow a lit candle provided before bedtime. Infinite conversations between Nathaniel and his silhouette furnished comfort before drifting away. Nate presses the round rubber plug into the drain and allows the water to trickle while he reflects one more time before the evenings' climax. The Colt is loaded and strategically placed within arms reach on the toilet seat as he heads to the couch and plops down. A streetlight shines through the tiny mud-covered ground-level window to provide enough light for the aged photographs. Life began in a dark place for the poor guy, and it'll end the same way. Fifty years of solitude, fifty years of despair, and fifty years of anger will conclude shortly. An inevitable end is an unfailing outcome with no purpose, spark, or reason. A wave to his shadow and a wave back is all the reassurance needed before his bath. An unfamiliar sound interrupts the somber ceremony and catches Nate off guard. "RING!" Shocked, he sprints to the telephone knocking the receiver onto the floor. "Um, hello, this is Nate." "Hello Nate, my name is Jude, and I'm with a group called Restore. We're a nonprofit organization looking for volunteers." "Wait, what? Why did you call me? How did you get my number?" "Well, to be honest, I've been calling folks all day, and I was about to give up. Who'd of thought asking people to do hard labor for free would be so challenging? Anyway, I lost my temper and threw the phonebook onto the floor. It just so happens the darn thing opened up to 'N,' and I saw your name." "Look, Jude, I'm busy right now." "Hang on; I'm not finished with my story. My pop was a preacher, and he once told me that the name Nathaniel means 'gift from God,' which is precisely what I need right now. I know Christmas is over, but I could use a present from the big guy. Did you know that? You are a gift from God, Nate, so if you don't help me, no one will. Without support, the project is over before we even start." "Project? What project." We've spent years raising cash to fix up all those ancient buildings downtown. Our goal is to bring a little life back to the area, like a second chance, you know? Can you use a hammer, Nate?" "Well, yeah. I do part-time maintenance over at the plant a couple of days a week." "Before you jump at this offer of a lifetime, you'll need to know that it is strictly volunteer, and I'll pretty much be your shadow whenever you show up. It could be years before we're finished, and we'll be talking on the telephone most days. Sound good? Nate? You still with me?" "I can start tomorrow." "I think the phone messed up for a sec. It sounded like you said you'd start tomorrow. I was expecting you to hang up like everyone else." "I'll be there. Downtown?" "Yep, can you meet up with us at about eight?" "I'll be there at seven-thirty." "Perfect! We'll see you then. Oh, Nate, I knew I had a good feeling about you. Everyone can use a gift from God from time to time. See you later." Nathanial's mother probably had no idea what the name meant when she gave it to her son. Someone with a plan likely chose it. She saw the boy as a curse instead of a gift. It makes sense if you think about it because it's problematic to see in the dark. Nate reaches under the sink for a garbage bag and begins to collect the cans that litter the kitchen. "I've got to get this place cleaned up before I go to bed. Tomorrow will be a busy day," Nate says to himself.

My sophomore year at MCHS gave me a gift I'd cherish for a lifetime. Prior to the tenth grade, I invested many waking hours in pursuit of coolness. The goal of acceptance seemed within reach many times but faded away before I could secure my grasp. It always felt like I had something to prove, but that something remained a mystery and with good reason. My epiphany struck me as hard as Rocky pounced on that Russian dude in the fourth film. There was no reason to establish any kind of reputation because I'd finally grown to accept my 'dorkhood.' I embraced my newfound freedom as tightly as Mrs. Dinsmore gripped that paddle three years ago before my feet left the ground. Sure, many kids didn't appreciate my vision, but maybe they weren't supposed to be part of my energy. No one can afford to constantly pretend outside of a play because that lifestyle comes at a high price. The friendships I pursued were unique and authentic. No doubt other circles felt the same, but I was a square peg, and my secret motto became 'Dorks Unite.' It's possibly the silliest thing my mind ever cooked up, but it enabled me to sleep at night. Tonight is the big night! We've rehearsed for 'Hey Teach' every day after school for more than a month, and we're as ready as we will ever be. Most of the cast has gathered in the art room for makeup before the big show. Mike and I can barely hold our composure as some of the girls apply our heavy eyeliner while Mrs. Todd oversees the whole ceremony. All year long, Michael and I made a competition out of every speech in class. The goal was to see who could be the most absurd and still get an A. English was one of the few courses where I could give him a run for his money. The manly hug from Rob shook me a bit earlier, but I'd grown used to his overabundance of affection, and the injuries were only minor. It's kind of strange to see my buddy Scott in the play. I'm not sure if I convinced him to do it or if he got bored whenever the rest of us signed up for this stuff and decided to join in on his own. All the ladies seem smitten with Frank, the foreign exchange student. I've tried out a German accent, but it never got me anywhere with the females. We have a pretty good cast this year, and everyone knows their lines. I'll never forget all the fun we've had leading up to the special evening. My biggest obstacle is pretending to be a bully. It's challenging to threaten Tammy because she is exceptionally friendly whenever I run into her. Each time I attempted to intimidate other cast members at rehearsal, I immediately felt the urge to apologize. The true thespian in me eventually managed to shine through in the end. Being the bad guy may not have been my ideal role, but I made the best of it like everyone else. It all reminded me of the lesson I'd learned months before and cemented my belief that we're all better off being ourselves. The best part about today is that all of us showed up. We arrived ready to do our best, and the experience of working together would last a lifetime. Who knows what the future will bring, but we all share a bond at this moment, and that's priceless. Now that Stacy, Jennifer, and Tammalyn have complimented me on my lipstick, it's time to terrorize my classmates under the lights on stage. Hopefully, they all recognize how much I care about each of them. Perhaps I'll write it all out one of these days when I have grey hair and back problems. I can't tell them now, well, because that's just weird. Dorks unite!

The machine rumbles and sputters as the last bit of clean oil escapes through the hose into the deep fryer at the Catfish House. After placing the handle securely onto the filter machine, I roll it out of the way and walk toward the back door to look outside before checking the dining room. A bizarre warm breeze touches my face while pushing against the metal door. "It doesn't feel like January," I think to myself as I head toward the front of the house to send the remaining servers home for the evening. We all advise one another to stay safe as I lock up the doors and head home myself. If there is one thing you can depend on in Tennessee, it's that you can't depend on a weather forecast. Everyone is saying things could get sketchy tonight, but if I had a dime each time those rumors bounced around, well, I'd have a lot of dimes. We can have snow on the ground one day, and within twenty-four hours, it's sunny and eighty degrees. If the weatherman calls for snow, not one flake falls to the ground, but we get six inches if the forecast is clear. Go figure. I'm not nervous about the storms, and normally I sleep like a baby during a good rain, so bring it on. The rest will do me good before a busy Friday at the restaurant. The wind picks up as my head hits the pillow, and several flashes of light beam across the sky through my bedroom window before I plunge into a deep sleep. My last thoughts were that I'd seen this a hundred times, and there would be nothing to worry about tonight. Snug and cozy underneath my covers, I'm unaware of Mother Natures' plan for my small community. Her intentions will change the face of our downtown forever and steal over a hundred years of history while I dream. Eerie echos of sirens blared beneath the howling winds swirling down streets, around brick buildings, and through the ridges of Clarksville. Trees began to bend while cracking wood sounds encompassed hillsides leading to the river bottoms. Muddy water from the mighty Cumberland rises and falls as it crashes against its banks, leaving behind debris only to seize it once again to sacrifice to the current. Stoplights swing violently over Riverside's empty streets, signaling that more is in store for the early morning. Trash waltzes around barren parking lots up and down Madison Street shooting into the atmosphere before descending, never touching the earth. A hush interrupts the spectacle; bushes are static, and the river rests for only a wink while the whistling wind relaxes. He is here in the stillness. Serenity soon reveals the ghostly whisper of an approaching locomotive descending from space in all directions. The last train to Clarksville extends as wide as nine football fields and hastens toward its mark at two hundred miles per hour. The earlier performance was a delicate ballet compared to the approaching terror preordained to take hundreds of passengers on their final pilgrimage. Roofs soar into the sky as if an invisible angry giant had nothing better to do before sunrise. Brick buildings crumbled as easily as a temperamental five-year-old could knock over a pile of Lincoln Logs. Objects rip across the ground, piercing, mangling, and disintegrating dreams and achievements. The roar of the phantom engine vibrates darkness itself, leaving behind mounds of rubbish in place of gorgeous architecture. Loose rubble falls from broken church walls closing the curtain on the final act of havoc in the twilight. The spirit steam engine dissipates but not without proof of its descent onto five blocks. Like many others in our small city, I'd soon wake up to the news of chaos and devastation. I'd hear how an F-3 struck downtown, and the aftermath looked like photos straight out of World War Two bombings. "We were lucky that tornado hit at 4:15 in the morning," would be the popular notion. People would say, "Had that thing struck later in the day, hundreds could have died." That stillness before the annihilation was something more significant than Mother Nature. Not a single soul boarded the train on January 22nd, 1999, and it had nothing to do with chance. Miracles emerge from silence, and God does his best work before we even see the storm.

Kathleen is getting older but not old enough to call old. The Price Is Right has always been her claim to fame, but she didn't win back in 73' and now, in 78' she sits in Frank's Diner on Second Street. Some things seem like they happened yesterday, while others were surely two lifetimes ago. She fancies pretty dresses adorned with pink flowers and bows, but she's most comfortable in her worn bell-bottoms even though they're going out of style. Donald is barely past his prime, but men tend to age well. His buddies all call him Donnie, even when he was the boss a few years back. Since they cut the ribbon, Frank's has been his early lunch break stop, at first because of the world's best coffee but now for another reason. Those worn hands have held many hammers, but not for several seasons now. You can still see the imperfection from the time the nail went all the way through. He was back to work the next day. Kathleen takes her break at 10:30, and in the beginning, it was to avoid the crowd. Frank lets her sit in the corner booth by herself because he knows she'll be gone before the rush. Kathy brings along her worn copy of Reader's Digest every visit, but she never reads it. The magazine is only a prop, a part of the show. Sometimes she'll turn a page or two, but most words are impossible to read behind the world's best coffee stains covering the literature. She'll often spend time thinking about how her nature is to hide her own story. It's kind of like a self-imposed wound whose purpose is to conceal any beauty. Donald brings his newspaper from home but rarely reads it at lunch. He saves the articles for bedtime because it helps him sleep most nights, but it doesn't always work. Most days, he'll catch himself daydreaming about running through the forest. He's never run a day in his life, but the thought of sprinting as quickly as he can through the woods and never losing his breath gives him peace. It's the sort of serenity we all accomplish in our fantasies, but it leaves us hollow when we wake up. Donnie's chest is like an auditorium filled with ghosts he isn't ready to let go of anytime soon. It's not as easy as you'd think. Apparitions linger longer than an old broken power drill we'd discard and replace. Kathleen's tears cascade in reverse, washing down the inside of her cheeks, hidden from you and me. Houdini probably crafted her mask because all we're allowed to see is what Kathy is comfortable showing us. And it isn't much. She married the devil soon after her five minutes of fame. He spoke the perfect words and gave her the universe before confining her on a small island. The demon dictated every move and thought, and she did her best to comply. At sunset, he came home and rewarded her efforts with bruises and broken bones. She ran away to heal her body, but no distance ever repaired the destruction, picking and pinching and ripping inside her spirit. Donald can hardly walk after the accident at work left him crippled perpetually. His broken back earned him enough money to get by, but currency is no better than a wet Band-Aid when it comes to repairing the true tragedy. His life is as charged as a brand new Duracell, but a battery is useless without something to power. Donnie has the impulse of a younger man but the body of an old-timer frittering away, waiting on fate. Memories of youth inspire most, but yesterday's photos leave Donald frustrated with the desire to live again. He'd love to climb a ladder to stand on a rooftop where he felt most at home. Despair recognizes misery when it's hidden beneath a bed of roses like a trained eye senses the body under the lawn of a serial killer. Don caught Kat's eye the day she strolled into Frank's for the world's best coffee. She spent the first day spying on him, the second feeling his emotion, and every day since loving the man, she'd never approach. Kat knows why he brings the paper but never opens it and why he hardly drinks a drop from his mug. Sometimes, he'll order a muffin on Wednesday, and Kat knows if Don will add butter or eat it plain before he even decides. Like anyone else, she can see the physical torment in his face when he stands. Like no other, she discloses the overwhelming sorrow that haunts him. Love burst through the diner door for Don the first time Kat walked in and had a seat. Her confidence fooled everyone, even Benny, who sits on a barstool every Friday complaining about his marriage. The masquerade failed within moments when Don took a more intimate gaze because he knows tragedy like the back of his scarred hand. Whenever he'd catch Kat scrolling the greasy menu, he knew it was because she felt the need to hide. Sometimes she'd drink a second cup with two lumps of sugar instead of one like the first round. "If we could only sweeten life as easily," he would contemplate as she stirred. He imagines she finds comfort in at least having control over her coffee. The two meet six days a week, right on time on Second Street. Sundays must be unbearable for both of them. Then again, the separation undoubtedly intensifies the magnificence of the daily encounters. They've never shared a hello or a goodbye, but what they do share is something Benny has clearly never experienced. The comfort of being close to a person who understands and ensures you aren't alone is a gift many never find. Kat and Don depend on one another, and they never break the plans they never made together. Unfortunately, that's more than most obtain when they compromise. Kat and Don's eyes have met a time or two, and it's enough when you aren't ready for anything more. Perhaps the world's best coffee isn't as great as the sign may suggest, but it gave our two misfits an excuse to find each other. Thirty minutes, six days a week turns into one hundred and fifty-six hours a year that these two forget and feel complete. If Benny gave that much time to his wife, he wouldn't plan on leaving her. Maybe the passion between Kat and Don is indeed unique, and it's doubtful it'll ever move any further than Second Street. Sometimes that kind of love is enough—a love that demands attention from across the room and is admired forever from a distance.

My house has two warm rooms, the living room, and the kitchen. Those enormous wood stoves certainly do the trick, and the sound of the wood crackling never gets old. It's about thirty minutes before bedtime, and I need to make sure I'm prepared to drift away quickly. It's a big night with Santa making a stop, so I have to do everything right. I've spent all year being a good boy, so I sure don't want to cause a ruckus at the last minute. Opening the door leading to the foyer, I make a frantic dash zipping around the steps bursting through my bedroom door to flip the switch on my electric blanket. A tiny light appears to let me know it's working while I watch my frozen breath for a second before returning to the warmth of the living room. You're either too hot or too cold in an old house, and there is no in-between. Too long in the kitchen and sweat beads up on my forehead, but one step in the next room, and I'm ready for a heavy coat. On school mornings, I'd abandon the luxury of my blanket and race to the bathroom to plop down on the floor. Our electric space heater was my only hope of survival. A red glow would gradually take over the coils while one-half of my body defrosted. Once I couldn't take it anymore, I'd switch sides and repeat before jumping into a hot shower. By the time I got out, the modest area was full of steam and warm enough to dry off and get dressed. It was my ritual, and I had it down to an art. School should be the last thing on my mind because tomorrow is a momentous day, and I must remain centered. With fifteen minutes to kill, I crack open the worn copy of our Sears catalog and turn to the pages I delicately marked weeks ago. Instantly, my eyes are cemented to the Lone Ranger and Silver, his steed. I secretly wanted Tonto and Scout too, but each toy was almost ten dollars, and I do not want Santa to think I'm selfish. Grabbing a handful of silver tinsel icicles from the Christmas tree, I tossed them onto the television screen and watched them pop and bounce around when I touched them for a tiny shock. Mom, in her robe, snuck up on me and said, "Christopher, get that stuff off of the tv and get to bed if you want Santa Clause to make a stop." It's all she had to say; I immediately followed her directions, told her I loved her, then scurried off. When decorating the television set, I overheard the newsman say the Air Force spotted Kris Kringle entering the USA. A friend of mine had the nerve to inform me that Santa isn't real on the last day of class before Christmas break. It'll be fun to tell him he's incorrect because the military has evidence. Hardly anything is more satisfying than slipping into a heated blanket at bedtime. After pulling the covers over my head, I'd lay there until the last bit of chill left my nostrils. My nose is always the final thing to heat up and the first thing to freeze. Then I slip off my socks to enjoy the feeling of my bare feet cradled in pure coziness. Now that I'm officially safe from hypothermia, I can finally rest and dream about the joy I'll find under the evergreen in a few hours. Of course, the desire to fall asleep and falling asleep on Christmas Eve are two separate matters. My imagination ran wild as I envisioned Saint Nick tiptoeing around and emptying his bag beneath our tree. "How is it even possible to visit every single house in the world in one night?" I thought to myself. He is mystical, so my best guess is that he suspends time and fulfills everyone's wishes in the blink of an eye. To him, it takes about three days which is much more reasonable, but for us mortals, it all happens while we slumber. I smile as I am sure I've discovered Santa's great mystery, but I'll keep this info to myself because I'd never want it to fall into evil hands. Gosh, the night before Christmas has got to be the longest evening of the entire year. Although I'm not sure, so I'll try to look that up sometime in our World Book Encyclopedias. If you know the alphabet, you can find anything in those books. It probably has something to do with the big guy pausing time all night long. If that's the case, I doubt I'll have much luck researching, but I'll take a look anyway. After hours of pondering questions like, "I wonder if he brushes his teeth after milk and cookies every time?" I can finally see daybreak. Full of adrenalin, I slip my socks back on and turn my blanket off. The moment I have waited for all year is finally here, and I can hardly contain myself. The bitterness doesn't phase me as I walk through the freezing foyer. Mom and Dad are awake; I hear the television, and all I have to do is wander straight into utter bliss. Before another step, I shut my eyes to thank God for the most incredible home a kid could ask for, and I close my prayer with, "Happy Birthday Jesus." The door creeks as I lean into it just enough to see my parents relaxing on the couch, urging me to explore. Before Santa Clause moves on to the next family, he never forgets to leave a little magic behind. I know because I can sense the awe erupting within my chest. The enchantment of this extraordinary celebration propels me toward our spruce to expose all of the wonders a child could manage. It was as though some great power raised the toys from our catalog and meticulously placed them where they belonged. All that's left to do is to ride off into the sunset. Hi-Yo, Silver, and away!

The truth is, in the end, Kelly chose the man she loved. It's that simple. Cans bounced around, smacking the pavement behind my bright red pickup truck. Kelly and I drove into Gatlinburg with "JUST MARRIED" painted on the back windshield and along the sides of my brand new 91' Sonoma. Shiny gold rings on each of our hands completed the perfect honeymoon portrait. We were barely in our twenties, and everything was falling into its place. The both of us were together at last. Cars buzzed by and honked while fellow vacationers yelled, "Congratulations." We both waved back and thanked everyone as we made our way up the mountain road. If I had to guess, romance was probably born in places high up like the Smokies or on sandy beaches. We'd saved up enough money for a five-star hotel the first day, but the final two would be spent in a simple cabin at the KOA Campground in Cherokee, North Carolina...

I'm relatively confident God gives each of us the ability to love more than one person. Those feelings aren't like the numbers on a calculator that we can delete and start over. It's more like a beautiful painting we hide away in the attic because there's no room left on the wall. It's still around, it's still breathtaking, but it's out of sight and ignored except for the reverberations of joy that endure. Yesterday I was five years old, running from Margret on the playground in kindergarten at Cumberland Heights. Now I've graduated from high school, and I'm trying to figure out how to keep my life from becoming a waste. Restaurant work isn't something I want to make a career of, and I know that. It's hard to let go of, though, because it's been one of the few consistent ingredients in my existence. Well, restaurant and my feelings for a particular blonde-headed girl. Our first and only date came and went quickly my junior year at MCHS. I've long forgotten the name of the movie we sat halfway through that Friday night, but some memories will stick with me until the day I die. I'm not even sure if the moon was full that evening or if the glow was from her smile when she looked up at me. I felt like I towered over Kelly in her little denim skirt while we stood against the Cutlass. The view of the Cumberland River and the stars above failed miserably, attempting to capture my attention while that girl was in my arms. The ideal mixtape played just loud enough to cover the gentle hum of the car motor. Bon Jovi set the mood while we carelessly swayed, fitting together like two perfectly tiny puzzle pieces. We kissed, we talked, and then we kissed a bit more. None of our responsibilities, fears, or regrets mattered outside on that hill beneath the April sky in 1988. Kelly never broke up with me because we were never officially a couple. She never wore my class ring or my jacket around campus to signify I was her boyfriend. Maybe I didn't act quickly enough or maybe what I had to offer wasn't what she desired. Within a few days of our first date, her best friend Jennifer, who worked with me, told me that Kelly had started dating another guy, and it was intense. Her news broke my heart that afternoon. I'm unsure of how many days I went without eating, but I can say that I never got over her. That summer vacation was interesting. The moments I spent with my friends and the dates I went on did me some good. It was the first time I'd felt grown, I guess. Lynette the brunette and I sat in the back row during Young Guns and made out, and I stole a kiss from a pretty platinum blonde named Carol after meeting her at a summer picnic. I couldn't stop listening to Red Red Wine by UB40. My friends and I still managed to find time to strike out all season, cruising up and down Riverside, and they were the best times. My senior year was off to a terrific start, but Kelly never left my thoughts. My friendship with Jennifer grew over the course of our first semester. By the time late fall hit, we were an official couple and spent every minute of each day together. Of course, this meant Kelly would also be in my life, and I was okay with that. Her tagging along when I'd take my girlfriend home after school wasn't even awkward. We'd cram in the front seat of the Cutlass I finally purchased from my brother and blast Ton Loc through the speakers. Jennifer and Kelly were two of my favorite people, and life was good. After sliding a quarter into Rampage at the arcade one evening, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Kelly's boyfriend wanted to talk. He could have at least waited until after I finished knocking down all of the buildings before he broke my concentration. "Oh, hey Lee," I said with a grin. "Hey Chris, I wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings between the two of us. I know you went out with Kelly before I started dating her, and I want to make sure we're good." "That's ancient history, man. I'm with Jennifer now, and none of that even matters anymore." "That's great. I figured you were probably over it all by now. It's been months, and I know you've moved on. We should all go on a double date sometime when you're free." My stomach knotted up, and I did all I could do to smile and push out, "That's cool, buddy, we'll figure something out soon." He walked away from the conversation, and I sat there, misplaced for a few minutes before I headed out to my car. Surprisingly some lost feelings resurfaced and caught me off guard. Time with Kelly and her guy is not an experience I want to knock off my bucket list anytime soon. Don't get me wrong, he seems nice enough, and I don't despise him or anything. No, I don't hate him, but the big problem here is that I wish I were him. Oh boy. After the ridiculous Rampage predicament, I calmed down, and things were back to normal in my heart. Kelly's love life managed to hit a few ups and downs. She broke up with Lee, which meant she was hanging with Jennifer and me more than ever. I wasn't happy the two of them broke it off. It was, however, comforting to know the dreaded double date was off the table. 1989 snuck up on us quickly, and the three of us decided to drive up to Paoli, Indiana, for a ski trip on January sixteenth with friends from work. We stopped to eat in French Lick, and it wasn't hard to tell that's Larry Bird's hometown. They probably had twenty photos of him in the diner where we ate for breakfast. I recall sitting there with those two far from home and thinking I was a lucky guy to have friends I adore. We headed to the slopes after our meal and enjoyed the day together. Even when I wasn't Kelly's boyfriend, she was always there. It had been over a year since my first and the last date with Kelly. I can remember fantasizing about taking her to prom back in 88,' but it never happened. I passed on a few opportunities to even go that year because the pain was too much, and no girl I had a shot with compared to the one who got away. It turns out we ended up going together my senior year. Well, kind of anyway. Jennifer was my date, and Kelly brought some guy I'd never met. Kelly introduced us, but his name went in one ear and out the other. We all met at Jennifer's house for pictures before prom. Both of the ladies were gorgeous; I felt lucky to at least be in the same room with them. The story that led me to that moment took plenty of twists and turns. For a few brief seconds, I allowed my mind to drift, taking me to an alternate universe where I was Kelly's date instead of what's-his-name. A pink bow tie would have looked good on me, especially with Kelly hanging from my arm. On May sixth, I traveled back to my reality and escorted my girlfriend of six months to my final high school dance. Jennifer and I broke up not long after prom. I went through the typical month-long ordeal of feeling sorry for myself and swearing off relationships for good. She ended up getting engaged to a guy I work with, and that was that. They're getting married today, and I opted out of going to the wedding. Working with the two of them is awkward enough, so I'll be skipping the event. You'll never guess who popped back into my head. It's too bad she got back with Lee, but it's what she wants, so I'll survive. I've been through a lot since graduation. We moved from the house I grew up in, and not a day goes by where I don't miss it. The song Captain Jack continuously reminds me that I should move out soon anyway, so I've been saving up. At least we have air conditioning now, so that is a plus. My buddy Mike moved off to Knoxville for college, but most of my pals are still around, so there is never a shortage of stuff to do. Well, too much reminiscing can get to a man, so I guess I'll head on out for some racquetball. I'll give my friend Brett a call to see if he's free. As I reach for the phone, "RING." Crap! That scared me. I hope this isn't one of my mom's friends who'll keep her on the line for an hour. "Hello," I say, ready to let Mom know she has a phone call. "Chris, this is Kelly," is the sweetest sound I've heard in a long, long time. After a short pause waiting on my heart to start beating again, I respond, and the next chapter begins.

Life can be jam-packed full of second chances. Sometimes we have to orchestrate our own melodies, and occasionally, the day plays an unplanned piece so sweet we're not even sure if we are supposed to hear it. Welcome the tragic tunes and the victorious versus all the same because seasons are short, so we'd better listen close while we can. "Chris, I told you the car needs work, and it's not safe enough for you to drive. It died on me three times on the way to Montgomery Ward," Mom said for the final time, again. "Mom, I need to borrow it today; it'll be fine. If it dies on me, I'll just restart it," I begged. She countered with, "It's not going to happen, and if you keep asking, I'll never let you borrow it again. "Mom, please! You don't understand. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important." "Leave me alone, Christopher! Maybe you can use your brother's car. He'll leave it with me today, so I'll have something to drive until mine gets fixed. I'll ask him before you get home." Well, that never dawned on me at all. My brother, Larry, loves his ride. There's no way he's going to let me use it after school today. It's a sweet, bright white 85' Cutlass that I've admired since the first day he showed it off. Kelly would flip out if I picked her up in it. I'm not even sure if I am worthy enough to sit in the driver's seat of something that special. She's deserving, though, and maybe I'll come home to some good news. Lucky me, this has to be the longest ride home ever. As soon as the bus was ready to leave MCHS, some kid in the back barfed, and it flowed as far as my seat before it stopped. He got to enjoy his fruit cocktail cup twice today, good for him. Who knows what the pink stuff is that the driver sprinkles on top. It smells almost as bad as the vomit. Between that and Todd's little brother asking me to join his birdwatching club, I've had about enough. I've had a little time to reflect on the day in between the excitement. It made me feel pretty spectacular when Kelly's best friend, Jennifer, told me that her homeslice was excited to see me after school. The nagging feeling of my brother possibly saying no has been eating at me since first period. Telling Kelly, we may have to cancel wasn't an option because I at least want to project the illusion that I have everything together. So much for being in control of my fate. All I can do now is pray that things work out in my favor. The giant yellow bus swings around our barn to reveal the stunning automobile I desperately hope to pilot. Everything feels like slow motion as I make my exit and walk toward the impeccable machine resting in front of our house. Gently placing my hand on the trunk, I let my fingers glide over the paint as I circle to the hood. Peering through the windshield, I imagine myself in control of this masterpiece. "Chris!" blares through the screen door and snaps me from my daze. My stomach feels sick as I march toward the front entrance into the unknown. The smell of the pink stuff still lingers in my nostrils, and that isn't helping at all. One of two things is about to happen; I'll call my friend to cancel our encounter, or I'll pull up in her driveway in Larry's brilliant white beauty. Why do I feel like my life is over? Tracy Chapman's, Fast Car plays on the radio, drowning any outside noise leaving me solely with my thoughts. The steering wheel of my brother's 1985 Cutlass feels right at home in my hands as I cruise down Salem road. If my smile were any bigger, it would have to sit in the backseat to make room for Kelly. Man, this day has certainly turned around, and I will not let it go to waste. My actual assignment isn't writing the play at all; it's asking her out on a date. My confidence level is through the roof, so this should be a cakewalk. "Oh boy, I just want to turn around and go home," I said to myself as my spirit took a nose dive turning into her driveway. She's probably going to say no, so I should save face and treat her like she's Miller or something. I'll picture his head on her shoulders and maybe survive the whole trip without sounding like an idiot. Kelly comes strutting out and jumps in the front seat before I get the chance to walk to her door. "Too bad Miller can't be here, huh?" Kelly expressed. "Miller? Who?" I mumbled as the reality of her sitting in my front seat smacked me in the face like that softball the time the sun got in my eyes. "Yeah, it's um too bad he couldn't tag along," is all I could think to say after hearing her sweet voice glide along through the air. The scent of her perfume overtook any leftover odor from the pink stuff and sent my senses into a fabulous frenzy of joy. "Chris!" "Yeah!?" I shook my head and blurted as if someone rubbed smelling salt on my nose. "We should probably leave before it's time to be back, don't ya think?" I wholeheartedly agreed, put the car in reverse, and pulled out into the road. Maybe it's a self-esteem issue, but I never once pictured myself in a situation like this. A guy can spend his entire life thinking and dreaming of this very moment, but it always seems so out of reach. Well, until it finally happens. We're talking and joking like we do every day in speech and drama class in no time at all. It feels right. "I love this car. Who's is it?" "It's my brothers. I can't believe he let me borrow it." The one I drove yesterday finally gave out, and I'm glad it did because this is an improvement." "I'd say so. It's nice, but the adventure was fun yesterday, not knowing if we'd stall in the middle of traffic. You kept me guessing for sure." "Welp, I'm known all over Tennessee as an adventuresome man of mystery, you know," escapes my lips as I push up my glasses while realizing how lame that sounded. "That was lame," Kelly snickers. We go through the trouble of renting the library conference room at APSU for the second night and have a seat directly across from each other. Kelly asks where we should start, and I tell her that I have a confession to make. Honesty is always the best policy, and she should hear the truth. "What is it, Chris? You're not an adventuresome man of mystery?" "No, that's true, but there's something else, Kelly." Pulling out my folder, I place a finished script in front of her. "I stayed up late last night completing this so we could just hang out today. Being around you is remarkable, and I never feel like we have enough time, so I wanted to make some for us. Look, if this sounds creepy, I get it, so I don't blame you if you want me to take you home. I lied about only being available today because I wanted to be alone with you. I figured Miller would be okay with it, so yeah, that's everything," Exhaling, I wait on her reply. "I know." "You know? You know what?" "Monday, you told me your schedule for the week, and I know you don't have to be at work until Saturday. I went along with it because I was hoping we could hang out together without any interruptions. I think you're sweet." "Will you go on a date with me Friday?" Wow! did I just say that out loud! She's going to say no. I've pushed my luck way too far, and it'll be over before it starts. I can feel it." "I would, Chris, but Miller asked me already at school today. "Oh." "I'm kidding; I'd love to go out with you. We don't even have to bring Miller along." I fought the urge to tell her that I fell for her over a year ago. Who knows if it's love or not. I guess I'm not even sure what that means. It's best to let some things slip through the cracks of history. One shot at this may be all I have, so I'm sure not going to turn it into some complex mess. The only thing I'm one hundred percent positive of is that she said yes, so I'll enjoy that for now. Kelly and I spent the rest of the evening discussing how complicated life can be and how uncertain the future is at our age. All of our differences surfaced along with anything we had in common. It's probably the most I'll ever learn in a library. Her laughter and the look in her eyes when she tells her own funny story will surely stick with me forever. When I dropped her off at her house that evening, we walked to her front door together. Our first kiss taunted the both of us, but we settled for a hug knowing Friday wasn't far away.

Mrs. Phillips recognizes we aren't completing any work today, so she rolls the projector in to keep us engaged. Movie time never occurs in her class, so we all know there is a genuine chance we'll be going home early. The lights go out, and the gentle hum from the machine follows the click of the on/off switch. The film works its way through the maze, gaining steam until our movie appears like magic on the brick wall. Word on the street is that there is an enormous snowstorm spiraling into Montgomery county. All of the students are delighted in anticipation of Mrs. Gaither saying the welcomed words over the intercom. The Love Bug may be fine entertainment, but almost everyone's attention is on the window. Each kid in the room wants to be the first to shout out snow when the flakes begin to make their way to earth. No one has made a sighting, but we immediately notice bright yellow school busses stretching through the parking lot. The familiar pop from the loudspeaker signals an urgent message, "Teachers, please dismiss your students at this time." You'd of thought we were experiencing a home team touchdown by the cheers bursting throughout Cumberland Heights. Everyone lines up and heads to the front door, thrilled to leave three hours early. I'm optimistic we'll get a good dose of the white wet stuff, but others on the bus insist it'll never happen, and we'll be back at it tomorrow. If the forecast is correct, a guaranteed three days off is in our future because today is already Thursday. God tends to get my most sincere prayers under these types of circumstances. Each time the door opens to let an eager child bust through, the polar gust attacks to ensure my prayers do not go unnoticed. Finally, I'm home and ready for a bit of rest and relaxation. Mom has other plans for my early arrival as she points out the empty wood boxes inside and tells me I'm the perfect candidate to fill them up. Outdoor, we have a mountain of lumber up against the house covered with a tarp. We transfer it inside whenever the crates get empty. It's not how I had planned to spend my mini-vacation, but if we want to stay warm, I'd better get to work. Once I finish the job, I take a moment to admire my significantly overstacked accomplishment. The containers aren't full unless the wood reaches the ceiling. This particular technique guarantees more free time in between chores. My mother invites me into the cozy kitchen for a hot bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese prepared with love. A string of gooey Velveeta stretches from my toasted bread to the thick red concoction when I tear some off to give it a dunk. Suddenly, my favorite weatherman, Bill Hall, delivers an unwelcome word. It looks like the naysayers on the bus could have been correct. Bill just told me the storm would barely miss middle Tennessee, but we aren't in the clear. He's a good man because he always gives me hope. A chance is all I need to keep the dream alive until I hear from the Snowbird report in the morning. The sky through the kitchen window doesn't show a sign yet, but it smells like snow. My dad would always tell me he could smell it in the air, and he was always right. After a solid night's sleep, I awake with a mission. There's no sign of snowfall outside, so my next source of information is the small black and white television in the kitchen. Ralph Emery is on, as usual, the Soap Sisters are singing, and nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. "Momma, have you heard anything yet?" I asked on the way to the bathroom. "Nope, you better get ready for school," she says in the distance as I close the door behind me. Disappointment stares back at me through the medicine cabinet mirror above the sink while I say another earnest prayer. "Chris, it's Snowbird," Mom screams from the other side of the house. Ripping through rooms like the Dukes running from Sheriff Rosco P. Coltrane, I join Mom in the den. My face lights up as Mr. Hall points at the map and presents the news I desperately need to hear. School is closed? School is closed! Yes! I love you, Bill, and I love you, Snowbird! My eyes shift to the window in anticipation, only to realize nothing has fallen. Grabbing up my heavy coat, I head outside. A rush of arctic air slices through my shirt before I'm able to zip up tight. Beads of ice strike my face like a million tiny angel kisses flung from Heaven. I expose the camouflaged precipitation by looking away from the white sky to concentrate on a nearby Spruce. The deep green backdrop affords the perfect frame for Mother Nature's display. A solitary snowflake as large as my hand sways back and forth, drifting silently to the glaciated ground. Finally, an opaque quilt covers any imperfections and charges me with the thrill of a weekend of adventure.

It's not Thanksgiving until Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is on the television. The floats, the marching bands, and the entertainers are mesmerizing. It's an enormous spectacle, especially for a little boy in a small town. Mom's already busy in the kitchen, but my father hangs out with me for almost everything. "Oh gosh! Oh gosh! Look, Dad, it's Spider-man! There's Superman Dad, look!" Dad smiles and reminds me that we have to watch until the very end because of the special guest. I know exactly what he's talking about because this isn't my first rodeo. They save Mr. Kringle himself for the very end. Everyone knows the real Santa shows up for the big parade, so it's my chance to catch a glimpse. I've sure tried to see him in the act on Christmas Eve, but he's quick and sneaky. I feel like he's waving at me whenever the camera zooms in on his face. I've been to the mall before in town and sat with one of those wannabes. The beard is a dead giveaway every single time. It's how I know the Macey Santa is the real deal. The announcer keeps saying that Kris Kringle is getting close, but that was three commercial breaks ago! I have to go to the bathroom, but I'll miss him as soon as I do, so it's in my best interest to hold tight. "Here he comes, son!" My fathers' eyes get as big as mine as we catch the first flash of the jolly old elf in his sleigh. We both tremble in excitement together as Santa is finally introduced and waves at Dad and me. We know Christmas is on the way, and Dad says, "It won't be long now, Chris."

"We are taking heavy fire! I repeat we are taking heavy fire! I need a medic over here now! Keep your head down, son, unless you want to lose it. Don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes, men," I said in my best authoritative voice. My mind tends to get pretty noisy whenever bombers, tanks, and machine guns are involved. "Chris, stop picking at the turkey," my mother demanded before kicking me out of the kitchen and sending me outside. There's no telling what time she got up this morning, but she's been in there all day cooking for what looks like an army. Don't get me wrong, she prepares giant meals pretty much every day, but on Thanksgiving, things get crazy. By the looks of it, we invited everyone on Bend Road. "You better not be getting dirty, Christopher," I hear through the screen door as my knees embed into the soil beneath our oak. "Yes, ma'am," is my effort to avoid a lie and not tell the truth at the same time. Mom means business because she used my entire first name. Whenever she uses my first, middle, and last name, it means I'm already busted, and there will be consequences. It's wise to avoid those scenarios. "RAT-A-TAT-A-TAT-A-TATAT! These bullets are flying everywhere. Quick! Take cover," were the last words some of my small green militia heard before meeting their maker. Once we finish burying those poor devils, the remaining troops will have to complete the fort. By now, I'm second-guessing the decision to wear my Sunday clothes outside to play before the celebration. Filth works its way deep under my fingernails as I lay flat on my stomach, digging six-inch graves. Earlier I was standing by Mom as she cracked the oven to check on her stuffing. The smell escaped filling the room with the sweet aroma of a day that only comes around once a year. Mashed potatoes are my favorite, especially covered in her giblet gravy. I don't even know where to begin with all of the deserts. She makes a squash pie I'm not a giant fan of, but her coconut cake is enchanting. We'll have days of leftovers after the event, and that's fine by me. "Sir, it would seem as though the enemy has blown up the dam. In a few seconds, the fort will be underwater," screams out my imaginary lieutenant. Before most of the men can make a run for it, I tip over my five-gallon bucket of water onto the frantic soldiers. Many ride the current to safety, but some meet an early demise caught between giant logs from unfinished structures. Alas, my heroic attempt to save a few of these battle-worn fighters was in vain. Mom's number one rule at Thanksgiving is that guests aren't allowed to take food home. This rule suites me, but she invites everyone to come back the next day for more, and they do. By the fourth day, all that's left is turkey and cranberry sauce. There's nothing like a good turkey sandwich with a bit of Velveeta squished between white bread. I'm pretty sure everyone ends up at my house because Mama is the best cook in Salem. "KABOOM!" The leftover firecracker I'd buried in the muck explodes, sending my lime-colored squadron flying. Specks of mud are all up and down my arm and cover my face like chickenpox. It's a good thing I wear glasses because that could have put an eye out. By the time the smoke clears, all that's left are the mangled remains of my warriors. Bowing my head, I say an earnest prayer for the brave who have fallen on this holiday. Speaking of prayer, if I don't make it inside soon to clean up, I'll be needing plenty of help from Baby Jesus. The house is full of people, but I may be able to sneak past to grab some fresh clothes. Everyone is either watching television or helping Mom finish up, so it should be a cinch. Before I even manage to get one foot in the door, I hear, "Christopher Ray Sherron." I should have stayed on the battlefield.

A Visit from St. NicholasBy Clement Clarke Moore'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the houseNot a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;The children were nestled all snug in their beds;While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.Away to the window I flew like a flash,Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,When what to my wondering eyes did appear,But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,With a little old driver so lively and quick,I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;So up to the housetop the coursers they flewWith the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roofThe prancing and pawing of each little hoof.As I drew in my head, and was turning around,Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;He had a broad face and a little round bellyThat shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;A wink of his eye and a twist of his headSoon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,And laying his finger aside of his nose,And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

I never liked flying. The one time I got a window seat, I ended up giving it to an elderly woman who insisted she could see her dead husband in the clouds and enjoyed long conversations with him. As far as I could tell, she slept the whole time. Isle seats are best anyway because these trips tend to make me sick. The tiniest bit of turbulence ends with my face in the toilet at thirty thousand feet. Being a member of the mile-high club isn't something I'll ever mark off my bucket list. I've always read that a person can never go home. The saying is true even if you never leave in the first place. People die, then everyone fights over stuff until nobody wants any of it. Favorite childhood memories get replaced with mini-malls and automatic car washes. Going back or attempting to hang on is a lost cause. Once we break free of the cocoon, it's time to spread our wings and fly. Or if you're like me, you hop from branch to branch forever in search of a better launchpad. Maybe I'll find it. Nothing was keeping me in Minnesota anyway. The only girl I ever loved perused me for years, but I was too dumb to see it until she married my best friend. Today, I'm flying home to watch them bury Patricia Van Pelt after losing a cancer fight. I observed the rest of my childhood pals either become alcoholics or settle well below their potential in our dying little community. Life insurance salesman sort of chose me. It's not the most glamorous career, but it was the catalyst for my escape. Well, my physical freedom anyway. Somehow my mind is still stuck in some never-ending groove. My happiest moments came and went by the time I was thirteen. Life was a struggle, and things rarely worked out, but I had my family and my buddies. I felt complete in my pre-teen years, even though my childhood was far from perfect. My favorite person wasn't even a person at all. It was my stupid dog, which I still believe today thought he was human. Wherever I went, my four-legged companion tagged along. I'd be lying to myself if I said I wasn't nervous about going back after thirty years. None of my old friends will want to see me, at least the ones still breathing. I've got a good mind to turn right around and buy another ticket as soon as the plane lands. They've all been better off without me anyway, even my kid sister. That's what I'll do; I'll text Frank to let him know I changed my mind as soon as we land. After exiting the plane, the first thing I saw in the airport was a giant Christmas tree. It instantly brought back memories of the real tree I picked out one year when I was a kid. Man, that little evergreen was ugly, and that's being modest. Everyone made fun of me, but they did what friends do and helped me decorate it anyway. It's funny, but that's my most memorable holiday. Not one gift from the past sticks out in my mind; only the memories of friendships and hardships linger. Alright, time for the text, "Hey Franklin, I've got some awful news. Hopefully, you haven't made it to the airport already," before I could finish, I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Charles! Charlie Brown!" screamed out my old companion, Franklin. He met me with a giant hug as I turned around. Looking over his shoulder during our embrace, I discovered a welcome surprise. I instantly recognized my sister Sally; we still FaceTime every other week. She was standing alongside Linus, Schroeder, Lucy, and the rest of the gang. They would have all been easily recognizable even without Facebook. Sadly Peppermint Patty is the only one missing. We'll be saying our goodbyes to Patricia later in the week. By the looks of things, the loss is lying heavily on Linus. Even after thirty years, they all showed up to see me. Maybe going home isn't impossible after all. "Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown," my childhood friends said in unison while tackling me with affection.

Sunshine shot through the rifts in the old tobacco barn in Salem, displaying millions of particles hustling around like minnows in a pond. Layers of deep green leaves linger overhead, perfectly placed until reaching their prime. A single delicate burley leaf escapes as if an elephant's ear could wilt and drop to the earth. Fallen plants blanket the ground but not for long. "Chris, bring me an arm full of those leaves over there in the corner," my uncle belted out, urging me to be careful with them. Gathering as many as I could handle in one trip, I dropped them off at his feet and went back for more until he was satisfied. Uncle Neb patiently tied the stragglers together with his collection of rubber bands. Once we finished the chore, he offered to teach me a trick. I watched as he worked his magic. Uncle Neb carefully placed one rubber band around his index and middle fingers. He then balled up his leather hand and invited me to watch closely. Like a true showman, he said, "Abra Kadabra," and quickly opened his fist. Somehow the band instantly traveled to his ring and pinky fingers. First, I was astonished and then honored when he showed me the secret and advised me to keep the mystery between the two of us. "Let's go have some lunch," he said eagerly. The short ride gave me time to think while I sat next to my uncle in his old truck. Anyone who's ever spent time doing this sort of work will tell you it isn't easy. Earlier, a constant stream of sweat dripped from my nose as I lifted the enormous stalks to drive a spike through each one onto a wooden stick. "Boy, make sure you don't run that into your hand. I doubt Aunt Faith would be happy," was the sound advice from my cousin Billy and I wholeheartedly agreed. Uncle Neb would visit the house a lot to see my mom, his sister. They loved playing rummy, and both were great at complaining whenever they'd lose. The tales they'd tell of their youth were fun to listen to during the heated matches. By the end of the game, I knew exactly how far a nickel would get you when they were kids. I recall thinking about how much the world had changed by the time the torch passed to my generation. On occasion, his truck would pull up at MCHS to give my buddy Jeff and me a ride home after football practice. We'd pile up in the truck bed instead of squeezing into the front seat. The wind was a welcome relief after running several hills during training. We both launched grapes straight up into the air to watch them splatter on the blacktop during our ride. Sometimes my uncle had a watermelon or two in the back that may have disappeared before the final stop. Those ended up in our stomachs, not on the road. Often I'd catch a glimpse of Uncle Neb sitting atop the tractor with a close eye on everyone working the field. I rarely saw him in anything aside from those denim bib overalls and trucker cap. He never once told me what he was thinking during those long hours in the heat, but I knew. Not long ago, he could have worked circles around any one of his sons or me. Growing old must be difficult, but it happens to everyone if we're lucky enough. He would have instantly traded his seat for a hatchet to swing away at those stalks if he was capable. If I had to pick out one thing I enjoyed about working in tobacco, it would have to be the food ladies like my mother and cousins Donna and Terry prepared for us. It was a well-deserved feast in the middle of a busy day prepared with love. Each of us devoured as much as we could handle, and it was a lot. It made me feel like a king to sit around with my cousins and eat while listening to their stories like we were Vikings returning from a quest. The meal would have been incomplete without my cousin Charlie picking on me. We'd often wrestle in the dirt before the day came to a close, and typically I was on the losing end. He started with a headlock that I managed to wiggle from before turning the tables and throwing my older cousin to the ground. "Don't hurt him, Charlie," recommended Uncle Neb. Charlie responded with, "Don't hurt him!?" "Get 'em, boy," was all of the encouragement I needed from cousin Butch to pin down Charlie finally. I'm sure he let me win that one, but he never let on because that's what family does. Mom always said Charlie looked like Burt Reynolds, but to me, he was a bigger star. I'd never tell him that, but it's true. My uncle gave me a broad smile and told me Charle probably wouldn't be picking on me again. My attention was fixated on the rearview mirror as we rode back to the field, and I secretly stared at my Uncle Neb's face. He drove slow anyway but took extra precautions on the rocky river bottom roads. His sun-dried complexion explained the story of a veteran, a farmer, a family man, and a mentor. Each wrinkle was forged from a lifetime of tears and laughter. Those bumpy rides were always too quick, and its misfortunate life has to be the same way.

Ninth grade has been a whirlwind. It's my first year as an official high schooler, and I've figured a few things out. I'm not even talking about history or science; it's the important stuff like, well, life. Many of my old friends from elementary school vanished into the halls of my memory while new companions surfaced to the top of the pond surrounding MCHS. It's no one's fault; it's how life works, and that's alright. Playing football was never my dream, but I made the most of it for two years. Coach Horsey managed to convince me to stick it out with these wise words, "You have enormous shoulders, son, you need to play football." He may have been right about the width of my frame, but my heart wasn't in it at all. Some of those guys like Matt, Fred, Curtie, Russell, and David played the game since they were in diapers. My passion belonged somewhere else, and thankfully the sport at least taught me that. Mrs. Brown gave me my first small part last year in a play called Arsenic And Old Lace. In eighth grade, I was happy to get whatever I could and did my best working with the older high school kids. After giving it one hundred percent throughout the year, tryouts for Harvey were just around the corner, and I wanted that lead part. Of course, doubt was easy due to my lack of experience, but I had hope, which was more valuable than skepticism any day. Jimmy Stewart was always a hero of mine, from his personal life to his roles in cinema. He portrayed the main character, Elwood P. Dowd, in Harvey on Broadway and the silver screen. My goal was not to be James Stewart but to honor the man who'd entertained me for as long as I can remember. He was sincere and warm in every role he portrayed on screen and off, and that inspires me. My nerves were on edge all day, wondering when Mrs. Brown would announce the cast. Each time I'd see my buddy Deb around campus, I'd ask if she'd heard anything. Neither one of us was patient, and we both constantly checked for the list in between classes. She auditioned for the character of Myrtle and was equally as excited. Silently I prayed the director wouldn't award the part to a junior or senior in place of my freshman inexperience. Finally, the news was out, and I couldn't contain myself as I rushed to the little theater to check the results. A crowd huddled around the tiny sheet of paper taped to the wall, but I succeeded in breaking through for a look. Placing my finger at the top, I began to scroll down intently, reading the names, "Myrtle Mae Simmons - Debby, Veta Louise Simmons - Teresa, Elwood P. Dowd - Chris Sherron!" Jumping around and yelling was never my thing, but I did read the list three more times before stepping away from the wall to make sure. Plopping down in a chair, stage left, a genuine feeling of accomplishment forced my chest to swell with pride as I watched the cast form before my eyes. "Now the work begins," I thought as a smile emerged on my face. Each day for the next five, I devoted about six hours to studying lines at home. A three-act play is no joke, especially with speaking parts every time I turn the page. The thirty-plus hours of memorizing were plenty, along with the rehearsals after school five days a week. Getting the words down early on was vital so that I could focus on character development over the next thirty days. My peers deserved my best, and there was no way I'd let them down. While most students couldn't wait for the sixth period bell to sound so they could escape, I was hype for an entirely different reason. It meant that it was time to rehearse with people I'd grown to love. A week into practice, it didn't matter what grade we were in or what click we may have been part of because we were family. Guys like Rick and Chip were undoubtedly cooler than me, but all of that stuff faded away like the end of an act. Deb had me on experience, but she never hesitated to help out when I needed her for anything, and that's something special. What a team. The two Teresas, I'd have to say, were a bit intimidating in the beginning. They were both seniors and on the extreme side of bodacious. I recall reading through the script for the first time to discover a kissing scene with Nurse Kelly played by one of the Teresas. I'd be lying if I told you I didn't look forward to rehearsing that each day. Okay, it doesn't technically count as my first kiss, but it sure gave me lots of experience before the magic moment happened more than a year later. Maybe more football players would have switched over to drama had they known about the benefits. We had a packed house both nights. The audience was full of folks from all over the community, family, friends, and fellow students. Everyone knew what to do, and we were ready to put on a show no one would forget. The stage glowed as each character who'd evolved from the pages of a script came to life. We were spectacular. Several weeks earlier, my friend, Billy asked me why I put so much effort into performing. Aside from telling him that I loved doing it, there was no clear answer. It was something inside I couldn't shake, but beyond that, I didn't have a clue. Once the crew was on stage and we took our final bows, I knew why I'd worked so hard. I will never forget the enchanting sensation of gazing out into an audience as they rise to applaud. Hand in hand, we occupied the stage soaking up every ounce of energy thrown from the patrons. Roaring claps echoed all around as we stood under the bright lights from the catwalk overhead. Only one thing can top that exhilaration, and it happened simultaneously. A look to my left and then to my right exposed my people. The message behind Harvey is the value of friendship and loyalty. I understood that message working with my friends after school each day for a few weeks.

It's almost a little cruel going from the top of the food chain as a sixth-grader into a school occupied by grades seventh through twelfth. Montgomery Central is a giant swimming pool occupied by hormone-driven adolescents pushed in with the option to sink or swim. Some students look like they could still be breastfeeding, while others have full-on Grizzly Adams beards. Seventh grade was a blur trying to find my way around and making new friends. Somehow I survived, and I can only hope eighth grade will be more manageable. The first bus ride of the year is always a little exciting. I get to see all of my old friends, and it's fun meeting the kids who are new to the neighborhood. This particular year started right up with the hope of romance in my future. The driver took us down an unfamiliar road and stopped at a house I'd never seen before. It was the first time I made eye contact with Carol. She walked up the steps, and before sitting across the aisle from me, she smiled. "Wait, did she grin at me? She probably saw the sleeping drooly-faced kid next to me and thought it was funny. Gosh, he's going to cramp my style. Maybe she did smile at me," I thought while frantically trying to avoid eye contact for the remainder of the journey. The whole scenario played out the same for two full months. Carol would get on the bus, we'd both smile, and then I'd ignore her because I panicked and had no idea of how to seize the day. I should have never stopped reading comics because that's when all of my girl problems started. Graduating to stuff like "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may" has me constantly thinking about love and time. Time is on my side right now, but it'll be lost one day soon, and what if I never love? All adults ever do, is complain about how hard life can be and how lucky fourteen-year-olds like myself have it. Did they forget what it's like to be afraid and how paralyzing situations can be, or is it all a giant lie they tell kids to prepare us for adulthood? Maybe I'll figure that out one day. "Gosh, it's getting cold," escapes my mouth to be carried away by the frozen air for a moment before mixing with the heavy fog of a November morning. My footprints take the place of our first frost of the season while I hop to stay warm at the bus stop. Today is the day. I'm planning on asking Carol on a date. My brother already told me he'd be our chauffeur if I ever worked up enough nerve, so that's covered. We'll strike up a deep conversation, and before arriving at MCHS, I will have secured my very first date. Carol's stop came and went, and she didn't get on as luck would have it. Today was supposed to be my time to shine, so hopefully, I'll have enough nerve when I see her again. My heart was a little broken because I didn't get to sit across from her. We never spoke, but I'd gotten used to being near my brown-eyed companion. The empty seat is a reminder that I must act soon. Janet, Carol's good friend, stopped me on the way to first-period PE to talk. She informed me that Carol likes me and would like to be my girlfriend if I'd ever ask. After exiting the conversation, I was more worried than ever. What if she is only caught up in the idea of being my girlfriend? She hardly knows me, after all. Our first conversation could quite possibly be our last if I say the wrong thing. Those rosebuds are already beginning to wilt. After getting dressed for gym class, I got lost in conversation with my buddies, Brian and Wade, before roll call. "Did someone fart?" I inquired while my two pals wondered the same thing. Billy turned around to assure us no one farted this time, and it was actually Wayne. He'd spent the morning cleaning out the chicken coops before school, and a few souvenirs hitchhiked on the bottom of his sneakers. We were all thankful it wasn't us and changed the topic. My friends encouraged me to ask Carol out finally because they were probably tired of me talking about it. Caught up in our discussion, I'd missed my name, and Coach Cron gave me twenty push-ups. Wayne was on the bottom row of the bleachers, so I made sure to distance myself before the workout. The smell of a gymnasium is terrible enough without subtle hints of chicken poop swirling around my nostrils as I take deep breaths. Later in the day, I noticed Carol in the hallway. "Carpe diem," I thought over and over as I approached her with shaky knees and an accelerated heartbeat. After greeting one another, I asked her why she wasn't on the school bus. Before she could finish her explanation, I blurted out, "Would you like to go on a date?" Her flawless smile chased away the brief pause with welcomed relief before the bell signaled our tardiness. Being late to my sixth period didn't phase me in the least. We held hands on the way to the bus that afternoon after class. My birthday was back in July, and somehow I managed to save most of the cash for a special occasion. A first date qualifies, so I went all out and spared no expense. During our weekly trip to Montgomery Ward, I found a great deal on a necklace in the jewelry section. After dropping half of my money on it, the other half was for the movies. We both love to laugh, so we decided on Spies Like Us with Chevy Chase and Dan Aykroyd. We arrived at my date's house; I hopped from the car and rushed up the sidewalk to the front door. Knock, knock, knock. Carol's mother answered and invited me inside to have a seat. She told me her daughter would only be a minute and was super friendly. All I could think about while I sat on the couch was how excited I was about the big night. I imagined how thrilled she'd be after I gave her the gift and how we'd get to hold hands during the entire movie. Maybe I'd even be able to swing my first kiss at the end of our evening. Carol walked into the room, and I couldn't help but believe she was way out of my league. The ride to the theater lasted forever. There was so much to say but not while my big brother was in the front seat driving. The experience was awkward enough without him becoming part of the conversation. He drove off as we walked to the box office and paid for the two tickets. We had a few minutes before the show started, so I suggested we take a stroll. A few flurries began to fall, and I figured it would be romantic if I presented her gift before we went inside. The half-moon was peeking at us through the clouds, and everything could not have been more sublime. We stopped under a street lamp long enough for me to reach into my pocket to pull out her surprise. "Chris, this is beautiful," she told me before wrapping her arms around my neck to give me a tight squeeze. That embrace was worth every dime I spent earlier at the store for my new girlfriend. She asked me to put it on her, and I was successful after fumbling around for a minute or so. It was off to the concession stand for a couple of sodas before the movie. I couldn't tell you anything about the comedy except that it was rather magical sitting beside a pretty girl with her hand in mine. Occasionally we'd glance at each other and giggle. Sometimes I'd give her a tiny squeeze, and she'd return the favor. My fingers had fallen asleep about halfway in, but I wasn't about to waste a second neglecting her touch. This moment took two months to materialize, and every ounce of it would secure a spot in my heart forever. We whispered and laughed all the way back to her house after leaving the cinema. The only time Carol took her head off my shoulder was to briefly admire her new necklace. Soon I would be face to face with her at the front door. Hopefully, we would end with the kiss that's been in the making for fourteen years. Nervousness began to rear its ugly face, but I was confident enough to seize the day. It's too bad the climax would also indicate the end of our enchanting evening under the moonlight. Not a single word broke through the silence as I escorted her toward the house. All I wanted was a peck on the cheek, and I'd drown in complete fulfillment. Tonight everything will change, and I will officially be on my way to adulthood. We stopped at the front door, and she thanked me for a fantastic time. Her mesmerizing copper eyes drew me in like a tractor beam straight out of Star Wars. My heart was screaming through my chest the closer I got to her lips. Just before we connected and ultimately sealed the deal, she asked me to wait. "I don't like to French kiss," she uttered before I pulled away. Alright, I had no clue what a French kiss was, and I was not about to ruin everything, so I settled for another hug and told her goodbye. Carol and I held hands at school for a couple of more weeks before going our separate ways. Things didn't work out how I wanted them to, but my first date was in the books, and I officially had a girlfriend for a little while. My first kiss came along just before my sixteenth birthday with a girl named Jeannie, unless we count Teresa. I know it's confusing, but I'll explain that another day. "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying;And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying." - Robert Herrick

There's nothing like cracking open a brand new yearbook and getting a whiff of that adhesive and ink. Each section holds a treasure chest full of memories frozen in time. We quickly skim over some pages while others are studied and admired. Sometimes we skip the photos and quotes altogether and go straight to the signatures. I've always had a personal tradition of waiting until I get home to read what my friends say in the annual. It gives me something to look forward to, plus I can sit back and soak everything in without distractions. I'm busy signing everyone else's at school, so waiting a few extra hours isn't that difficult. After arriving home from MCHS, I say hi to Mom and rush upstairs to my room. With a couple of fluffy pillows behind my back in bed, I'm ready to see what my peers have to say. It's especially fun to see what the cute girls write because a guy never knows what sparks may be swirling around in the universe. "Alrighty, let's get started," I say out loud to myself as I crack open the book and begin to read. "Chris, Well, I don't know you very well, but you seem to be an O.K. guy. You are a lot of laughs. The double dates we have went on haven't been the worst. Hope you have a lotta luck with everything.Teresa" "Wait, what? An 'O.K. guy.' You don't know me well? What does that even mean? We went on double dates together. I'm thrilled they weren't the 'worst' experiences of your life. Gosh! I hate it when people write, 'I don't know you well, but...' That drives me nuts. Well, I'm happy to know I've left a mediocre impression on your life. Maybe one day in the future we can get together for some extra fun mediocre times, really paint the town." "Chris, Hey, I didn't get to know you as well as I would have liked to, but I really think you're great. It was really fun being with you on the Spanish trip to Rivergate. You're just a WILD & CRAZY GUY. Hope I see ya this summer. Love,Jacinda326-----Don't be a stranger.PARTY ANIMAL" "Hmm, I'm getting some significant mixed signals with this one. She doesn't know me well, but she thinks I'm great. I think she wants to hang out with me this summer. I mean, obviously, she wants to hang out because she wrote her phone number. Should I call her now? No. No. No. That looks desperate. I'll wait a few days and maybe ask her if she wants to party? I mean, I have no idea of how to party, but I am absolutely willing to learn. She did ask me not to be a stranger after all. "Chris, Well, if it weren't for you, all of us girls in chemistry would fail! You're a great guy! Stay out of trouble & have a great summer.Love ya,Sandra" "Okay, 'Love ya,' is the exact opposite of 'Love you,' it means I'm in the friend zone in this situation. That's okay because she probably won't even like me at all after the grades come back from that last chemistry test. Everyone thinks I'm smart because all of my buddies are intelligent. I keep trying to tell them, but they don't listen." "Chris, You are a funny and crazy person. You have a way of making people laugh. I think you have a career in comedy. 4th EnglishKaren" " Funny and crazy are good. That's not a bad legacy to leave behind. At least she didn't call me the stinky kid or something like that. I do remember making her snort more than once in class, so she's probably being sincere. I've never thought about a comedy career, but I'm leaving my options open. Should I give Jacinda a call? She did give me her number." "Chris, I'm glad that I got to share Gov. School of the Arts with you. Since then, you have become a special friend. Maybe we don't talk all the time, but you're still special. I will never forget you. Go after your dream. You are a wonderful actor and friend and guy and good-looking! Have a great last year.Your friend,love MelanieP.S. Keep God in your life too!" "Good looking? Wow, I didn't see that one coming. Crap! I should have told her she's beautiful or hot or something like that. Damn! Why didn't I read what Melanie wrote at school so I would have known how to respond? It may be time to forget my tradition. She didn't leave her number, though, and she called me friend, so I should let that one go. Wait, she called me a 'special friend,' so this could be a definite maybe sort of situation. " "Chris, You have been a fun person to be around. Putting up with your stupid jokes was pretty hard to do. Hope you get everything out of life you want. Bobby" "Alright, so maybe a comedy career isn't in my future. Was I fun to be around, or were my jokes stupid? Why does life have to be this difficult to figure out? Was he being sarcastic, and he thinks I'm funny, or was he being serious? That settles it; I'm going to have to unleash some next-level jokes at school tomorrow. Bobby won't know what hit him." "Chris, Well, let's see, I have known you for 12 yrs. Now. And maybe, hopefully, I'll get to know you one more year. You have been a great friend & I appreciate that. I hope you have a GREAT summer!Kim 89" "I hope I have a great summer too, Kim. What did she mean by 'Hopefully, I'll get to know you one more year?' Does she know something I don't? I'm going to have to teach Kim the power of positive thinking. She has been a good friend my entire time in school. I have a couple of Kims in my life since the beginning, and I'm grateful for them both." "Chris, What's going on? This has been a killer year.Your pal,Wade -The Kid" "Wade, for one reason or another, loves to sign my annual with 'the kid.' He's done it every year I've known him. I'm pretty sure he has some infatuation with Billy The Kid. It would make more sense if his name were William or Billy, but it's Wade, and it just doesn't flow. I accept Wade, though, and love him just the same. Some days I greet him with a little finger gun and make the 'pow pow' sound. I'm not sure he gets what I'm referring to, but maybe he will one day." "Chris 'Billy Bob Jo Dean,' That's what you said your name was HA HA. 2nd period has really been a trip with you. You think of more off-the-wall stuff than anyone I know. Killer, stay sweet & make something of yourself. You really have potential but just party every now & then.Love,Twila" "Twila knows me. I guess I should party more often. I'd probably be a little more popular if I did. I think she believed me at first when I lied about my name. At least until roll call, but we got a good laugh out of it. It's sweet she believes I have potential. I need more positive reinforcement like that in my life. I hope we keep in touch. Hmm, she said, 'Love Twila,' Okay, I need to stop doing that." "Chris, I still don't think you're sane, but you're a great guy anyway. Work on the jokes and good luck. See ya on t.v.James" "Alright, this is starting to give me a complex. James is like the fifteenth person to tell me I need to work on my jokes. What the hell is wrong with these people! Oh, maybe it isn't them. He's always told me that I should be an anchorman or weatherman or something like that. I would consider that career, but I have a difficult time keeping a straight face. I could imagine bursting out in laughter for no reason during the forecast or a serious news story." "Chris, Even though your stupid jokes caused my parent's divorce and my grandfather's ulcer, and me getting kicked out of the house into the cold, harsh world at the age of 15, we're still friends.Jeff" "I give up on the jokes." "Chris, It has been of utmost pleasure working with you in the play. Stay cool, and life shall treat you well. God Bless!Robby" "Rob, 'Stay cool?' For real? When have I ever been cool? I wonder if Jacinda is home now? The next day at MCHS, I happened to bump into Scott before the first period. He approached me with an overabundance of enthusiasm and wanted to talk before class. "Dude, you won't believe what I'm about to tell you," he said, smiling ear to ear. " Please don't leave me in suspense; what's up?" I asked. "Jacinda wrote her phone number down in my yearbook. Can you believe that! I think I'm going to call her," came from Scott's mouth. "Dude, you should totally call her," crept from my lips as I shook my head and walked away from the conversation.

Once a week, Mom drags me along for a trip into town. The usual stops are Montgomery Ward, Hilltop Market, and either Bonanza or Captain D's. She clips coupons for both places, and we pick the best deal. I end up eating for free almost every time. I don't mind going unless she has a doctor's appointment because those waiting rooms are dull, especially for a kid who wants to run around outside. The best part of our weekly supply run is when she lets me choose a couple of comics. Spider-Man, Captain America, and Batman are my all-time favorites and in that order. She doesn't mind purchasing them for me as long as I'm reading something. I noticed some Sea Monkeys in the toy section on one of our excursions and pleaded with my mother. It wasn't easy, but I convinced her to buy them after explaining how rare these animals are. They'd first come to my attention in the back of a Tarzan comic, and I was captivated by the picture of the underwater family hanging out by the castle. Now that I've dumped the packet into the aquarium, it's a matter of time before I introduce myself to the cute creatures. Each day after returning from Cumberland Heights Elementary school, I check on my miniature friends. I'd learned about a week in that they weren't going to look anything like the picture. Regardless their lives rested in my hands, and I was not about to let them down. The food ran out, so I had to get creative. The freshwater springs in the river bottom provided an all-you-can-eat algae buffet, so we are good to go. They're getting pretty large after several weeks, but I'm still waiting for them to hop in their aquatic automobiles and drive around the tiny town they'll eventually build. Most days, a Spidey comic stows away in my Trapper Keeper during school. Mrs. Allen doesn't like to see me reading them during class, and she's kept a close eye on me ever since I licked all of those erasers and stuck them to my face. It looked like I had some weird intergalactic chickenpox outbreak right out of Star Trek when I removed them. We paid a visit to Mr. Mitler, the principal, and he told her the circles on my forehead were punishment enough this time around. It probably wouldn't have been a big deal if most of the class hadn't copied me. At least no one made fun because they were all dealing with the same predicament. Most Friday's Mrs. Andrews, the PE teacher, lets us play battle ball the first half, and then we hit the playground afterward. It's the greatest game ever invented, without a doubt, and any wounds give the survivors bragging rights for a solid day or two. One time, I wound up, ready to release my wrath on Kent. He was like a sitting duck in my scope, and just before shots were fired, I was blindsided right in the face by James. PHOONTKK! The round rubber sphere smashes my mug in and shoots upward toward the gym ceiling. You could have heard a pin drop while the onlookers waited to see if I was still breathing. By the time the dodgeball fell back to earth, I had shown signs of life, and the game continued. I'd scheduled some light reading on the swingset for the second half of PE class. My copy of Amazing Spider-Man was rolled up in my back pocket, ready to be explored. The cover had a picture of one of my favorite supervillains, the Lizard. Some of the other kids gathered around to check out my literature of the day, and a conversation broke out. The slippery green creature reminded Kent of a story he'd heard about an alligator in the sewers of New York. With a sincere look, Kent said, "Yeah, somebody flushed the reptile down the toilet when it was a baby. Now it comes up through people's floors and eats them." Barney followed with, "It ate something radioactive and grew into a giant monster." And finally, James gave a little insight, "You won't catch me using the bathroom if I ever go to New York." A heated discussion evolved when Patricia and Kim walked by and told us we shouldn't believe everything we hear. James argued that girls were not experts on radioactive sewer creatures, so there was no need to take them seriously. While this made sense, I was skeptical because I figured the guys were getting me back for that last Cub Scout meeting at Kent's house. All of the guys were in the bathroom trying to summon the Bell Witch. Being the sneaky practical jokester that I am, I banged on the door and ran off. They screamed and made a speedy exit, almost breaking the doorway. They would have probably beaten me if my dad hadn't already arrived to pick me up. So I'm guessing Kent's accusations are his attempt at trying to frighten me. James and Barney are probably both in on it, so there is no way I'm falling for his tall tale of giant underground sewage-dwelling demons. The conversation switched gears as we moved to the monkey bars. Kiss was always the hot topic, and the true fans wore t-shirts emblazoned with the epic rock band at least once a week. You'd often find us standing around to see who had a tongue most like Gene Simmons. It got crazier than ever after Kiss Meets The Phantom Of The Park came out on television. Some guys dressed like their favorite band members for Halloween, but I usually stick with Spidey. After a long day of ball dodging and trying to stay on Mrs. Allens' good side, I was eager to get home to check on my Sea Monkeys. All of the time and effort were beginning to pay off. If you look close enough, you can see their miniature arms and legs swaying in the water. It's fun to spy on them as they swim to the top for a bite of food. I often wonder what they're thinking and if I'm disturbing the daily routine with my giant eavesdropping eyeballs. Busting through the front door, I plop my books down on the kitchen table and check the window seal for my aquarium. It's not there! Maybe I moved it to my bedroom and forgot? The cold truth punched me in the face as hard as that stupid ball James threw at me. "Mom, have you seen my Sea Monkeys?" I asked as she gave me 'the look.' "Yep, you left them in the kitchen, and they were stinking up the whole house," she confessed. "Where are they now?" I demanded. "I flushed them." "You WHAT!" "They had to go, Chris; I flushed them down the toilet." Pulling the comic from my back pocket, I throw it on the floor in front of her and say, "Look! Momma, you have no idea what you've done. We are all doomed." She sent me to my room.

Muffin jumps on my dresser and runs across, almost knocking all of my cologne into the floor. That cat is nearly as old as me, and she's had it out for me ever since elementary school. One morning, I slid my arm into my coat sleeve in a mad dash to catch the bus, and something felt strange. A prompt investigation revealed that my kitty plopped a number two in the pit area, and my hand pushed her surprise all the way up my arm. With the school bus approaching quickly, the entire house declared code red. Dad ran outside to stall the bus driver while Mom hunted down another jacket, cleaned my arm, and replaced my shirt. She rushed me out the door, I boarded, and no one had a clue. Nobody wants to be the stinky kid, and I barely dodged that bullet. I think about my old buddy Jeff a lot when I get ready for church every Sunday morning. Idaho, he up and moved to Idaho of all places. We lost touch quickly because those long-distance bills are expensive, and writing takes a lot of time and effort. He introduced me to comics, ping pong, and Pleasant View Baptist. Jeff was a good friend, and I'm glad I knew him, even if it was for just a little while. The van swings by to pick me up every Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday for church. The white van doesn't go in reverse, so whoever is driving that day has to