This door. This seemingly benign stage door with its imperfect skin, dimpled complexion and transparent patches has served as a gracious portal through which dreams have become reality.
Through this humble entryway has passed some of the greatest musical minds of our era. This simple means of ingress and egress has watched, in quiet reverence, the awesome breadth of talent the stage can boast. It reminds me of a servant’s heart who readily sheds the pride of achievement and deflects the praise to those more deserving.
It’s the aperture of opportunity that can focus great light of personal achievement or one that closes following devastating disappointment. Sometimes, the journey is paved with favor, but for most, it’s a road where hard work in silence culminates into the blissful noise of success.
In the meantime, I’ll be right here, keeping watch over this gateway to stage left, providing care and safety for anyone who passes through it. Those that are willing to stand inside the fire of celebrity and fame, whether deserving or not, have a golden ticket waiting to be punched when their name is called.
If only this little avenue of dreams could talk, oh the stories it would tell.
I would be broke if I were a sushi salesman. I’m hungry, as my hooks mostly remained bare, and I was of no threat to the fish that dawdle below the frothy surface of the sea.
What I DID catch today would be half price in the clearance aquarium at the local Pet Smart. Nonetheless, this reservation for one was worth the 6:00 am wake-up call, even though the chef had nothing to prepare for lunch.
“A fish, which you can’t see, deep down in the water, is a kind of symbol of peace on earth, good will to yourself. Fishing gives a man … some time to collect his thoughts and reaarange them kind of neatly, in an orderly fashion. Once the bait is on the hook and the boat is anchored, there’s nothing to interfere with thinking except an occasional bite.”
It doesn’t take long, once our collective Midshipmen cross the threshold of an otherwise “at ease” and white glove clean home, to feel, and smell, their presence. Naval Academy kids are not shrinking violets. They naturally do things big, bold, and boisterous. Walls rattle, ceilings vibrate, and doors slam, seemingly for no reason. Pantries are always empty, the fridge mostly bare, and their stuff lies around as if it has no keel or compass. But, when that sea bag drops with such a thud, you know your precocious lamb is back in the loving port from which they once sailed.
I arose early from my slumber this morning. Our home is old so every step on the hardwood floor seems to awaken the squeaky bones of each memory we’ve made here. As my lovely wife and Firstie lie sleeping, with only the light from my phone, I stumbled my way to the kitchen. I don’t know why, but as I walked in and flipped on the light, I noticed our young Navy lady’s house key resting on the rustic, well loved, red oak table where, as a family, we broke bread together for nearly nineteen years.
My heart began to palpitate, not because of a cardiac event, but because that key reminded me of our sweet girl’s forever connection to her true home port. My mind began to swirl as my thoughts spanned from Cheerios scattered on a tray before her she could barely grasp to midnight high school English papers we thought she’d never finish. Needless to say, a few salty tears walked the plank of memory lane. It’s no wonder we never gave away that old faithful table. I guess to do so, would’ve been like giving away a piece of our family’s soul.
No matter our sailor’s longitude, latitude, or which salt stained sea she’s floating on, or under, some day, that house key will always allow her access to the home port from which she came. She is no longer our’s alone, the Navy adopted her on Induction Day. However, we will take great comfort that this simple, seemingly mundane instrument of connection, when needed, will not only unlock the front door to the home that built her, but also to our hearts who once held her tight when sleep was not an option, nourished her hopes and dreams, and taught her how to be a lady first and a warrior second.
“We are persons of integrity. We stand for that which is right…”
As the tides churn and turbulent winds push with ill purpose against our galvanized hull, only those Naval officers “imbued with the highest ideals of duty, honor, and loyalty”, can raise their sails and set their rudders to harness that which means their vessel harm and able to garner good for those they lead.
Two for Seven, or Two along the Severn, is more than simply time. It’s time well spent in a special place. It’s a timeless place. It’s two years in preparation for five more. Seven years of service to a country which, seems now more than ever, desperately needs strong leaders. Two years left for our Midshipmen to step up, saddle up, and steady the ship to sail.
Two years is a small prism, but casts long, colorful shadows over the Yard as the Naval Academy continues to hone the vessel they commissioned on I Day while also preparing it for christening just four short years later.
Five years is a commitment to active service beyond self few are willing to make. Some call it, “repayment”. I prefer, “paying it forward”.
Seven years is a span of time from their birth to the second grade, mathematically, one third of their lives lived thus far, and hopefully, our Navy and Marine grown-ups will roll lucky sevens until they decide what’s next. In the wake of a full and abundant life, seven is really a small number, but it’s a measure of time anchored in big things, good things, right, and honorable things.
At around twenty-one, which most of these brave souls signing this sacred document are, I was imbued with little more than a short term dream of passing calculus and hopes of which young lady might say yes when asked to the fall formal. These kids, your kids, are becoming warriors of the sea, land, and air and willing to commit, in writing, to do that which they’ve been called to do; “without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion”. They are long term dreamers, doers, fighters, and winners.
Last year, our then 2/C daughter (pictured here), delighted us with this photo. It was without measure the joy we felt upon receiving confirmation of such a milestone. It’s a moment rivaled by only a few.
As you survey your own MIDN, I’m sure, like our’s, your children have accomplished that which you never doubted they would achieve. Now we, as parents, must find contentment in their decision. Although our minds may find favor with their future, our hearts desperately want to hold tight the chain that anchored them to our safe harbor for so many years. It is time they set course, point their bow, aircraft, or battalion, and sail to explore new seas and fight worthy battles. Their signatures, and what they represent, have stamped their place in U.S. Naval history.
“We are persons of integrity. We stand for that which is right…” is a profound collection of words inscribed on this scroll that means something. They matter. Those Mids that sign this scroll have not done so of light heart, but with deep conviction. They believe these words. These Midshipmen embody the script of which they are committing to. These words mean doing hard things. Things these future Naval officers have chosen to do their whole lives. They’ve got this. They’ll soon have the watch, and we, as a nation, are safer for it.
Myrtle Beach is the east coast mecca of sun and coastal family leisure. This iconic place, where the gaggle of red neon “Vacancy” signs is rivaled only by the gobs of beach towels, like tribal flags of unicorns, sea life, and northern ball teams, flutter along concrete balconies up and down the Grand Strand.
It’s a place where waiting, for what seems like hours, for mediocre calabash style seafood, is the right thing to do. A place where planes buzz the beach with banners selling hermit crabs, beachwear, and directions to Ripley’s Believe It Or Not. Doing nothing is a non-contact sport and is required of all who go there. It’s a place children dream of. It’s a place where I grew up.
Myrtle Beach is where I saw my first wave, built my first sandcastle, and where I almost drowned in the deep end of the motel pool. I was just a blue collar kid who seemingly lived like royalty for one week each year.
My first glimpse of the ocean upon entering town, as the horizon opened between the myriad of hotels, from the backseat of our 1976 VW Beetle, was exhilarating. At that moment, I would’ve been content, even as a three-year-old, to have been dropped off at the first public access with some Little Debbies and a bucket, not to be seen, hide nor hair, for days. Sunscreen was too much of a bother and only slowed me down.
Jorts were acceptable “resort wear” and muscle shirts, adorned with Ol’ Glory and tie dyed in rainbow colors, dotted the beach. The smell of Hawaiian Tropic coconut oil wafted across the hot sand while tater brown bathing beauties shifted their chairs as the sun traversed the sky above.
White motel towels, for those who hadn’t yet made their voyage to the Gay Dolphin for beach supplies, lay about the pool deck, hither and tither. I recall Winston Red 100s was the preferred smoke and Budweiser the preferred beer of those who brought me there, at least from my vantage point. I can still smell bbq pork chops on the hibachi grill.
MB’Vegas was a light show after dark. The sun’s Bactine burn of the day was equal to that of my retina burn at night. Tank tops, salt water taffy, and cheap toys emptied tourist’s pocketbooks like a game of hungry hippos. Dads in flower print button-up shirts just purchased at the corner shirt shop, you know, to fit in with the hip crowd. Moms everywhere uttering the words “hooligans” and “ne’er-do-wells”, as young boys passed by, hootin’ and hollerin’, at the young girls. I think my dad may have been guilty of that as well…oops!
Theme parks, putt-putt, and ice cream shops were fancy living even Little Lord Fauntleroy would envy. Who knew you could top a sugar cone with anything other than vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry ice cream? Sprinkles were an upgrade.
I think my detour down memory lane this week is about to end. As I rolled my beach wagon down the strip yesterday, the flood gate swung wide and my reservoir of Myrtle Beach days overflowed.
The First Lady and I have found creating good memories for our kids, no matter how minor, is important so when times are tough, there’s a room they can rent for a moment to reflect on the feel goods that are now long in their rear view mirror. Times when joy and a sense of wonder filled their lives. A time when, perhaps as an adult, they can rebuild their sand castle before they drown in the deep end of the pool. For me, Myrtle Beach is one of those places. Yes, bedazzled sportswear is a thing and dad’s still wear clothes incongruent to their birth date, but it’s a place where families, who’ve saved their pennies all year, can come and exploit the best of being on vacation together…jorts, muscle shirts, and all.
As lawn darts, cap guns, searing hot steel monkey bars, easy bake ovens and, my favorite, pop rock candy, have all fallen out of favor with the National Association of Helicopter Moms, I’m tickled pink to find these mini pirate swords lodged into the heart of my Caribbean Caesar wrap. I know our precious little dumplings can be a bit fragile but, crawling through the sandbox of life while eating Bojangles’ chicken supremes, is good for their constitution.
So, en garde! Poke and prod your lambs to go outside. Pierce their imagination to explore the world around them. Tell them to throw, climb and catch stuff. It’s ok. The threads they’ll spin as adults will be much more intriguing than stories of them sittin’ on a couch playing Call of Doody
Hollywood continues to miss the mark. “Esteemed” writers and actors, to garner a quick laugh, portray TV and movie dads as aloof, naive, cowardly, and would much rather have us think that kids are on level with their fathers. By creating such a linear family structure, some children no longer feel obligated to honor their dads with the respect and admiration most deserve. This is a dangerous message being sent, not only to our children, but to the men who see this portrayal as a low bar of which we are begged to crawl over and society, in general, seems ok with that. This is not what we as fathers were called to be.
I’ve so enjoyed “meeting” your dads today. I’ve been encouraged by your stories, memories, and how proud you are of your fathers. We need men of strength and character in our families. Those who love us unconditionally, but also willing to discipline us, not as our best buds, but as our children who need correction. Time is the currency of a child’s life and when, as dads, our pockets are empty, our children become bankrupt. Mothers are the heart and soul of our children, but dads are the anchor in the safe harbor of life.
Happy Father’s Day to all my dads out there. If you’ve read along this far, you’re not who Hollywood wants you to be. You are most likely engaged, present, and the hero your son or daughter needs. Your cool points may no longer be enough to trade for a pack of baseball cards, but the kindness, love, and leadership you demonstrate for your kids will pay dividends worth more than any Babe Ruth rookie card will ever be.
Thanksgiving leftovers are the gifts that keep on giving. We’ll be sifting through the shrapnel that exploded on our dining room table for days with the exception of the fruit cake we discreetly hid away in the freezer. That thing will be there for a month of Sundays or the next blue moon, whichever comes first.
The cornucopia of sustenance that spread across two rooms was too wide and far too deep to have been captured by even the widest of fish eye lenses. It looked as if our Dining Room had been decorated by Paula Deen. Oh, the smells were wonderful. I told the First Lady, “don’t you dare turn on that hood vent!”. I wanted to savor the aromas. I also didn’t want the neighbors to know the feed bag was on lest they come lookin’ for some of my ham gravy.
As I gazed across the fruited plain of bowls, platters, and gravy boats, the variety of colors, shapes, and sizes of foods were overwhelming. Ham, turkey, corn puddin’, mashed taters, and sweet ones too! Lima beans, homemade rolls, and cranberry sauce, the type that makes a sucking sound when it shimmys from its can, was a crowd pleaser. Homemade cheesecake, pecan, and Chocolate Chess pie with whip cream made from scratch. Lawd, have mercy on me! I broke out in a sweat. My mouth was declared a flood zone. I was like Pavlov’s dog anxiously anticipating that first morsel of deliciousness to pass my lips.
Because I’m a Southern gentleman, I elected to fill my plate last. I was in such an irrational state, I wondered if any crumbs would be left upon my turn. Even our little pooch was able to partake, from her food bowl, of course, as we do not allow the passage of table scraps from finger to mouth.
Ugh, I’m full! But, one more big goblet of egg nog I shall drink before I lie down and go to sleep. By the end of it all, the table at which we sat looked as if it had been ravaged by a herd of Squirrel Monkeys. Nonetheless, as we all loosened our belts a notch or two and acknowledged what gluttons we had become, we sat content, not because our bellys were full, but because we had just broken bread, and a lot of it, together with those we loved.
So, as each day passes and it seems impossible to swallow another turkey sandwich, I’m reminded that, unlike all the leftovers in my icebox, which may eventually spoil, the thankfulness for the blessings in my life never will.
14Bobbie Osborne, Ben Griffith and 12 others1 CommentsLikeCommentShare
Like eager hound dogs tethered to the hand of their owner, so too are these pants, which when released from the confines of my closet, tromp through fields and forests alike, searching, as if determined children chasing an ice cream truck, for that which draws their curiosity.
Each pair could tell a story. As a palm reader might, she could decipher every mud stain, errant paint splatter, fish smear, or piece of tattered fabric, most likely from a beaver swamp briar patch, yard chores, or simply from a life well lived.
Like a proper spouse, a loyal pair of pants will never leave you, nor forsake you. I have some pairs older than my children, but because they are now threadbare, like all good things, they must relinquish their hanger upon which they’ve lived all these years. However, some things are just too painful to let loose of.
Like a treasured hunting dog, they deserve a proper burial, but instead of being placed in a landfill, most will forever live amongst old love letters, trophies, and school pictures somewhere at the bottom of my chest of drawers. The only difference is, it’s ‘bout near impossible to replace a good hunting pair of pants.
Facing southward is more than a compass bearing. It’s an ideology, a state of mind, but most importantly, a place of comfort that resides in our hearts. The southern monument of deep fried truth has been blended with stories by such authors as Harper Lee, Mark Twain, and William Faulkner. Each have written words that dance throughout their chapters to celebrate that which we love about the south and scribed words in limp, wilted letters mourning that which we loath. Now, it seems a large slice of our southern apple pie lives as caricatures in northern minds where shrines to hillbillies of the Old South reside while dismissing our modern, citified sophistication. Well, bless their little hearts.
The south is a place where old ladies wear gobs of costume jewelry to church, hushpuppies are a delicacy, and pimento cheese finger sandwiches are a must at any bridge club gathering. Though the sultry days of summer rest like a yoke on my shoulders, my front porch is a refuge from the toils of the day’s labor. While SEC football is a religion in the south, Tobacco Road is the highway to Heaven. It’s a place where even some of our most invasive weeds and parasitic vines bloom like purple royalty along roadsides and amongst corn fields.
“If you cannot eat what you want in the South, life is not worth living here”
Rick Bragg
Our bloodlines course with Dixie Crystal, Duke’s mayonnaise, and deviled eggs. Sweet tea is our beverage of choice, BBQ is the other white meat, and good chicken salad is worth the hunt. Any culinary fare with the forename, “fried”, is considered a staple south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
The south, whether a native or newcomer, is a place where people want to belong. It’s a geographical anomaly most want to move to or say they’re from. It’s rich in history. Some memories should be celebrated, others should not, but never should we forget from that which we hail.
Facing Southward 