The Writing Lesson; or, My Exquisite First Lie: A Short Narrative by Max Reddick for My Mother on Mother’s Day

You know, I owe my mother so much.  In a number of ways, she is most responsible for the man I have become.  At least, all the positive stuff.  My mother gave me so many things and taught me so many more.  However, there is one lesson that stands out in particular.

You see, in the very beginning it was just me and my mother.  She and my natural father separated soon after I was born.  And between then and the time she met and married the right Reverend L.G. Reddick, I was being raised by committee in a very rural area of West Tennessee with my mother and maternal grandmother being the co-chairpersons of that committee.

One Superbowl Ad that Made Me Cringe: The Black Single Mother Doritos Superbowl Ad

Do you remember this Superbowl ad? Did you find it particularly funny? When it played on Sunday night, I did titter just a bit, uncomfortably though. However, my brother-in-law found it uproariously hilarious. So much so that he got bar-b-q sauce on my new oxford button-down. That stain is not coming out.

However, for some reason, the commercial did not sit well with me. It was just something about it that put me ill at ease. So, yesterday when I should have been grading student papers, I wasted a few minutes (or hours) critiquing Superbowl ads.

Could it be the fact that the commercial featured an African American woman who just happened to be a single mother? Of course, there is nothing inherently wrong or pathological about single motherhood. And it could be just coincidental that the ad company producing the ad chose to cast African Americans.

However, in the same instance, when played before a mainstream audience, the commercial draws upon and plays into a certain narrative of hatred and disdain directed toward black single mothers.

And what about a child, a little black boy child, slapping an adult in the face? Am I wrong to find that offensive? It certainly ain't cute. Am I wrong to believe that act to be just a continuation and adjunct to the narrative mentioned above, one that posits the notion that because young black males are being raised by single mothers they must be naturally aggressive and undisciplined.

But think about it. If your child, black or otherwise, slapped an adult in the face, would you find it particularly funny? Furthermore, if that child is so utterly audacious as to slap an adult in the face at that age, what does his future look like? What else is in his bag of tricks?

I don’t know. Maybe I am reading too much into this whole thing. Maybe I am just still peeved that that loud, country Negro got that greasy sauce stain down the front of my new shirt. What kind of person waves a rib around all willy-nilly in a room full of people anyway?

Or perhaps I am simply too sensitive of the narratives about black people that are posited within the mainstream and also, the way we are portrayed across the various mediums. Going back through my blog archives, I see that this is a theme I have rehearsed and revisited many times. And my wife always tells me that I am prone to overanalyzing things. Could this be it? However, I should also add that she found it even less appealing than I did.

But whatever it may be, I still cannot bring myself to like this commercial, and I am surprised that more people have not objected to it as well. What do you think?

Suggested reading:

Feministe, “Reconsidering the Black Single Mother Argument.”

Polifact.com, “Statistics Don’t Lie.”

Because I Still Believe in Magic (Merry Christmas to You & Yours!)

As a child, I believed in Santa Claus and magic much longer than most children my age, especially those children growing up in the inner-city. I almost had to.

My parents’ economic situation vacillated wildly between boom and bust; there were times when we had more than plenty while there were others in which we had practically nothing at all, in which we were scraping the bottom of the proverbial bucket.

I didn’t understand it then, and I still, even in adulthood, have not been able to understand it. Both my parents were college educated professional people, so what can explain those rough spots in my childhood when we had practically nothing? Someday I will ask them. But it was during those times of bust that my hope, my faith, my belief in magic, deepened.

I remember one Christmas in particular. I had to have been maybe as old as twelve or thirteen at the time. We were in one of those bust periods. Things had gotten so bad that year that my parents finally gave in and accepted public assistance.

But I guess cabinets stacked with government peanut butter and powdered milk and juice and other foods is better than a cabinet stacked with nothing at all, but I know this weighed heavily on my father, a fiercely proud man. In fact, once I saw my mother bring the food into the house, I knew we had hit rock bottom.

The closer we came to Christmas, the direr our situation became. And the general malaise that had settled over our household worsened when my father drug in the most anemic Christmas tree I had ever seen in an effort to raise our spirits. Instead of lifting our spirits, that tree instead became a symbol of our lack.

So, our mother began to prepare us early for a disappointing Christmas. “Children, I don’t know what kind of Christmas we will have this year,” she would tell us. And because I am the oldest, she would pull me aside and try to explain to me the best she could what was happening so that she might enlist me in tamping down the expectations of my younger brothers and sisters.

And I tried to understand. I did. But I am sure you understand the difficulty of making a child understand something so complex. When I made mention of Santa Claus to my mother, her face at once became a mask of disbelief and pity.

However, in face of such a stark reality, isn’t it only natural that a child should reach for the only surety in his or her life—their naïve but unshakable belief in magic?

On Christmas Eve, my father left the house long before I got up, and I did not see him the whole of the day. My mother sat around wringing her hands and looking forlorn and making hushed phone calls. I spent the day hoping against hope that Santa Claus was real because by this time I realized that only elves and magic could help up at this point.

Late in the evening my father finally called, and after a short hushed phone conversation with him, my mother put my brothers and sisters to bed, let me know that she had to step out for a few, and left me in charge. But the moment she closed the door behind her, I fell fast asleep.

In the morning, I awoke to the smell of a baking ham and greens and other Christmas delectables. I took a second and swallowing the lump in my throat, and not knowing what to expect, but clinging steadfastly to my belief in magic, I quickly and excitedly woke up my brothers and sisters.

When we rushed into the den, there my mother stood wiping her hands on her apron and displaying the biggest smile I had seen on her face for quite some time. “Merry Christmas,” she exclaimed. “Santa Claus has been very good to somebody this morning. But be quiet as possible. You don’t want to wake up your daddy. He’s awfully tired this morning.”

She stepped aside to reveal our little anemic Christmas tree with gifts piled high and wide underneath. And we tore into them with an amazing fervor. And then that afternoon, we had a feast the likes of which we had not seen in quite some time.

Later that night, our faces greasy from leftovers, we debated who should give credit to for such a great Christmas, Santa or Daddy. Perhaps, because I was the oldest, I should have had more sense, but I threw my support solidly behind Santa. Even though I believed, or in the back of my mind suspected, that we had such a wonderful Christmas due to the machinations of my father, I still needed to, had to, cling to my belief in Santa Clause.

I had to believe that there is a propitious force present everywhere and in all things that picks up where your efforts fall far short.

When the chips are stacked against you, when nothing is going your way, and when you have done everything within your power to overcome but nothing seems to be working, perhaps then it is time to remember when we still believed in Santa Claus, when we still believed in magic, and know that somehow something positive will happen, and things will work out in our favor.

Love Don't Love Nobody: Love, Respect, Marriage, and Tiger Woods

It takes a fool to learn

Yes sir

That love don’t love nobody

-- Love Don’t Love Nobody, The Spinners

Typically men are logical creatures and women are emotional. Love is an emotional word whereas respect deals with logic. -- @Luvologist

When the news of Tiger Woods’s automobile accident first broke, I thought that perhaps I would be writing about it soon. As bits and pieces of the story emerged, things just didn’t add up, and I began to have serious doubts about the official version of events. However, I held back writing my piece simply because I really disdain dealing in rumors. So, in writing this piece, though it seems our man Tiger may be in the wrong, I still reserve judgment until the complete truth emerges.

And, furthermore, I really don’t like to make essentialist claims like women do and think this way or men do and think this way; however, in discussing this issue with my wife and her very opinionated sisters as well as other women, I find that women and men differ in how they view this incident; for the most part, women seem genuinely shocked and outraged by his actions while men don’t find it all that shocking at all. And I think the difference can be explained by how men and women view relationships; it is a question of what is thought to be most important and valued—love or respect.

Allow me to attempt to explain by positing this analogy. There is a scene from one of Eddie Murphy’s old movies, Boomerang, in which the character played by Murphy arrives home early in the morning after spending the night with an old lover. He tries desperately to explain himself to his present live-in lover, who is played by Halle Berry, but she, of course, is livid and is hearing nothing he has to say.

Finally in desperation, Murphy’s character pitifully looks her in the eye and says, “But baby I love you.” And Berry’s character responds, “Then love should have brought you home last night.” *Cue Toni Braxton singing “Love Soulda Brought You Home”*

Usually at this point in the film, I skip around trying to find the scenes with Strangé; she makes my blood boil. But this is what I am trying to get across: I don’t think Berry’s character is completely wrong in her assessment. Yes, love should have brought him home, but love alone is not enough. Love means nothing if one party does not respect the other.

If I may, I will use my own experience as an example. Perhaps, I am wrong about this whole thing because my own experience stands in the way. But at this point, I have been married to my wife for almost eighteen years. And I dearly love my wife. In fact, I am absolutely crazy about her. Not a day goes by that I don’t have to stop and ask myself, what manner of root has this woman done put on me?

And in that almost eighteen years, I have not once been unfaithful to my wife. But that is not to say that I have not had the opportunity to engage in an extramarital affair or even been tempted because many times I have. Many times I have had to make the decision to either stay or go home, and the one factor driving my decision was never love, but respect.

I respect the person my wife is, and I respect her accomplishments so much so that I would never put her in a position to be ridiculed. I would never want to be the reason people are laughing and talking behind her back. I would never want to do anything to erode the respect others have for her.

Not only that, what about my self-respect? My grandfather said at one time that each time a man lies down with a woman, and vice versa, each gives up something in the exchange. And I believe that my wife and I have a mutual respect for one another. And furthermore and perhaps most importantly, I believe I enjoy the unquestioned respect of my children. What would happen to that respect if it were to be revealed that I had engaged in any number of sordid affairs which were documented by explicit text messages and voicemails? I don’t have the millions at stake like Tiger Woods; all I have is respect, and because I am a poor man, that respect is even that much more valuable.

So, if Tiger is guilty of what it is purported that he is guilty of, he probably only now realizes the depth of his folly. Perhaps, only now does he realize that not only does he stand to lose millions of dollars and his family, but he also stands to lose the respect he has worked so hard to cultivate. And perhaps over time, he will build his earning capacity back up. Perhaps, over time his wife and family will return. After all, everything seemed to work out for Kobe Bryant. But it will be a much longer stretch of time before he is able to win back the world’s respect.

Do you thing men and women view love and relationships differently? What do you believe is most important to a relationship—love or respect?

Wishing Everyone a Very Happy Thanksgiving

I must admit that I don’t understand the motivation and rationale behind Thanksgiving. Of course, I understand that Thanksgiving is a day set aside so that we might give thanks for the bounty of the past year, but I don’t really get the traditions behind the day.

So we give thanks by overindulging, by stuffing ourselves until we are utterly miserable? I have often questioned the rationale of showing thanks by engaging in a day of sanctioned gluttony. Just doesn’t really seem to make sense. Wouldn’t make better sense to show our thanks by spending a day of fasting and thoughtful reflection?

But who am I to go against the grain? Who am I to upset the applecart? So I will spend Thanksgiving indulging myself in direct proportion to those blessings that have come my way this past year, and those blessings have been many. In other words, I am going to make a pig of myself again this year, and by late this afternoon, I will be cursing myself for overdoing it once again.

But in all seriousness, I have plenty this year to be thankful for. I am thankful for having been blessed with a loving wife and wonderful children. I am thankful that we finish this year with a roof over our heads and food on the table; there are so many others who cannot make that claim.

I am thankful for the talents that have been given me. I am thankful for the opportunities I have been given this year as well as the opportunities that are to come. I am thankful for a future that looks bright.

I am thankful for supportive and understanding friends. I am even thankful for those who come against me; in responding and dealing with their negativity and opposition, I emerge on the other side a stronger, better individual.

I am thankful for the prayers of my mothers and my aunts and other family members and friends who continue to pray for me even when I am too foolish (or too arrogant) to pray for myself.

If I were too continue with those things I am thankful for, this list would continue ad naseum; however, there is one more thing that I feel I must give thanks for. I am thankful that I continue to have readers to come over and read my pitiful commentaries and occasionally leave a comment or two. Thank you and I wish you and your family and love ones a very Happy Thanksgiving.

Max Reddick Supports Single Mothers

I have a friend, a very good friend; her beauty and spirit never cease to amaze me, to intrigue me. And my friend also happens to be a single mother.

We communicate fairly often though not as often as we once did. However, in the middle of the night while I am up thinking, writing, enjoying the solitude, I sometimes get forlorn, frantic messages from her: “Did you read what she said today? Can you believe that? I think she is singling me out.”

Evidently, somewhere out there in cyberspace an African American woman runs a site for women that seems to disparage single motherhood. The site seems to find fault with those who just happen to find themselves raising their children on their own. But I don’t think the blog author means to be disparaging. I really don’t. However, I do see how her commentary might be misinterpreted that way.

And for a young single mother already questioning the choices she’s made, already trying to piece together a life out of the emotional fragments of a failed loved affair, already trying to find her way in a world that seems dead set in preventing her from moving onward and upward, already struggling with the many exigencies of raising a child or children alone, I see how the blog author’s remarks might seem disheartening and sometimes insulting even.

So I try to calm my friend. I try to offer whatever salve I have for wounds—a poem, a short story, a song, a bawdy joke—but nevertheless I don’t think it is ever enough. So, I try to simply let her know I understand, that about eighteen years or so ago for a timeframe of about a year and a half, I too found myself in the situation of being a single parent.

Mostly what I remember about that time frame is the constant fatigue that dogged me. And I remember having to set aside my dreams, my aspirations for the sake of someone else. I remember being lonely, very lonely for the company and affection of another adult.

I had to work to keep a roof over our head and so that we could continue eating. I did get child support, but even with that support, it seems like I was always short of cash, always behind playing catch-up, always struggling. So , I had to take extra hours at work, but when I did so, I always felt so guilty about being away from my child for such long periods of time. Not only that, I had to make time for karate and football practice and the many other extracurricular activities children participate in.

And when he came to stay with me, I was in school pursuing my degree, but school became the first casualty. I found that school and work and parenting seemed so unmanageable, so I limped through that semester, and it would be almost a year before I could resume my studies.

Also, in seeking out companionship of the opposite sex, I was always tried to remain cognizant of the fact that I had a young one at home; I did not want to give my son the wrong idea about relationships between men and women by parading a string of women in front of him. And perhaps I was not always as cognizant as I should have been, but I did my best.

But the greatest effect I believe this period to have had on my son was the absence of an alternate worldview. In other words, because I am male, the way in which I attempted to raise my son, and the values I attempted to inculcate in my son, were informed by my positioning as a black male. And at that time I had that whole manly man thing going, so I didn’t see the need to hug him or to teach him that it was okay to feel and show emotion; I thought it would make him a soft man. However, looking back now I realize that perhaps had I sometimes placed my arms around him and hugged him and told him I loved him that perhaps he may have been an even better person because of it, especially during this period of adjustment following the split between his mother and me.

But I was blessed to have found someone who would eventually become my spouse who joined with me in assisting me in raising my son. Not only that, his mother always remained in the picture and partnered with me in assuring that my son had those things he needed both emotionally as well as materially.

In addition, I don’t think I ever felt the stigma often associated with single parenthood as I understand many women to feel. Many people judge single mothers without ever taking the time to consider how they came to be single mothers in the first place or judging the father by the same standards.

Recently a colleague informed me that she used her married name for fifteen years following her divorce simply because she didn’t want to be judged by outsiders, and she didn’t want her children to be stigmatized in school as being the children of a single mother. But because I was a single father, which perhaps was fairly rare at the time, people bent over backwards to help me, to praise me. And that sentiment perhaps still exists.

However, I do know that with time things will get better. But for the time being, keep in mind those things you want for you and your child or children. For the time being, decide what you want for yourself. Then seek out every opportunity that will move you closer to these goals, every opportunity that will make the lives of you and your child or children better.

And surround yourself with a network of people who will not judge you and offer you the emotional support you need and go about the business of raising your child or children. And if it means anything at all, you have my undying understanding, admiration, and support. I know firsthand that it ain’t easy, but you are doing it. You are doing it.

The Devil and Mrs. Reddick

So, I got up yesterday morning with my day all planned out. First I was going to apologize to my children for jacking their Halloween candy and admit to them that I had a problem so we could begin the whole healing process. Then I planned to spend the morning working on some posts for the upcoming week, and if I had any of the morning left, I was going to spend it wasting a little time on Twitter and Facebook.

In the afternoon, I planned to grade papers and plan for the upcoming week. And for the evening, I planned to drink a couple of tumblers of scotch while finishing a book I have been desperately trying to finish for the last two weeks. Sounds like a good day, doesn’t it?

Well, the morning went perfectly. I got a few posts together and connected with a few people on Twitter and Facebook. But as I was transitioning between Twittering and Facebooking to grading papers and planning, I decided to go into the kitchen to get me a refreshing beverage. That’s when I say it lying on the counter.

I saw my name at the top of the paper, so I went over to get a closer look, only to realize that it was a honey-doo list, and my plan for the day did not include any of the tasks on that list. My day was being hi-jacked! And just then I heard a familiar voice in my ear. I knew the voice because I have heard it often before. It was the voice of the devil. And for those of you who are curious, he sounds a whole lot like Pat Buchanan.

So then the devil starts in on me: “Who she think she is? She can’t do this. She can’t plan Max Reddick’s day for Max Reddick. Only Max Reddick can plan Max Reddick’s day. Go ahead. Tell’em why you mad, son!”

And foolishly I agreed, but just then I spotted her and the kids coming down the hall, so I put my game face on. However, she completely disarmed me with her sweetness:

“Max, I know you are busy today. And I know you already had your day all planned out, but I really need your help. I need to take the children to pick up a few pieces of winter clothing—it’s supposed to get cooler next week—so if you don’t mind, could you please help me by performing the few tasks on this list. Thanks.”

With that she kisses me on the cheek. She doesn’t play fair at all.

So, a couple hours later I’m on my hands and knees in the shower sweating like a slave amid all kinds of noxious fumes while cleaning the grout with a toothbrush when the devil makes another appearance.

“Look at you down there on your hands and kneess like a common servant. You work too hard to spend your Sunday afternoon like this. You need to put her in her place. Tell’em why you mad, son! Tell’em why you mad.”

Then the devil left to get pen and paper so I could make crib notes of what I should say when she got home.

So, when she and the children returned, I was there waiting at the kitchen table. When I heard her keys in the door I quickly went over my notes so that I could get everything right. But she quickly disarmed me with kindness and a smile again as she came through the door laden with bags.

“Oh my, Max. It smells so clean in here.”

I looked at my notes once again. “Don’t come in here trying to be all sweet. I got a few things I need to get off my chest.”

But she proceeded as if she did not even hear me. “And you did such an outstanding job on that grout. I can’t remember when the bathroom and shower has been looked and smelled this clean!”

She then moved in closer and whispered in my ear. “And I don’t even know my you even wasted your time putting clean linens on the bed. We’re just going to have to change them again in the morning. I hope you did not plan on going to bed early tonight.”

With that she kissed me right on top of my bald head. “What did you have to tell me, and what’s that in your hand?”

“Nothing dear, nothing I all,” I managed to get out right before I stuffed my crib sheet in my mouth and swallowed hard. Talking about eating one’s words.

It’s funny how things work out. One moment you are all preparing to do verbal battle, and the next you are chilling the wine, running bath water, and doing push-ups on the bathroom floor.

Later that night as I slept the sleep of pure bliss, the familiar voice returned to wake me from my sleep.

“She played you, son! She played you. You need to go ahead and take care of this because if you don’t, next week she’s going to pull that same foolishness.”

But I had come to my senses now. “Get behind me Satan. Get thee behind me!”

Just then my wife woke up. “Are you talking to someone? Who are you talking to? I thought I heard Pat Buchanan.”

“No,” I said. “I must have been just talking to myself. I must have eaten something spicy before I went to bed.”

Please, have a wonderful start to your week. And as always, love yourself and be a blessing to somebody. --Max

I strong-armed my kids out of their Halloween candy. Does that make me a bad father?

I have frequently confessed my love for candy and all things sweet. I do not know why, but I am a candy fiend. I eat copious amounts of candy every day even though I know it can’t be good for me, but I just cannot resist. Perhaps I need professional help.

So, yesterday was Halloween, that day when children are allowed to collect all the candy their little bags can hold. My children are older now, thirteen and fourteen, but they decided to go treat or treating nonetheless. And they started early in the day, about three o’clock, so that they might optimize their candy gathering potential.

They began by making early Halloween calls on relatives. They then went door to door in a relative’s neighborhood where the neighbors have always proven to be exceptionally generous in the candy giving department. They ended the evening at a Halloween party at the home of yet another relative, so by the end of the evening, they had amassed a pretty impressive mountain of candy. And when they returned home, I was awaiting at the door.

I watched in silence, my presence concealed by the shadows, as my wife and children made their way down the street and turned into the driveway. I don’t think they expected to find me there, and as they found their way up the walkway, I could hear them congratulating themselves on this year’s candy haul. But when they became aware of my presence, they suddenly became silent.

“Welcome home,” I greeted them.

Tentatively, suspiciously, they greeted me back: “Oh, hi Daddy.”

And I got right down to business. “How much candy did you manage to collect this Halloween, my dear children?”

They looked at each other, and then they looked at my wife before offering for inspection two bulging bags of candy which I accepted. But something didn’t seem quite right. They offered up their bags too easily and without protest, and though the bags of candy may have seemed impressive by relative measures, I knew these two were candy collecting overachievers. I sensed deception afoot. Decoy bags!

“This is not all of it is it?,” I asked. I got very close to them so I might gauge their reaction.

They then appealed to their mother. “Daddy’s going to take all our candy again isn’t he? C’mon, Mom. This isn’t fair.”

My wife appealed to my sense of fatherly decently. "Don't do this, Max. Let the children have their candy this year. They'll give you some. Just leave them be, Max. Leave them be! They're just children."

But I had anticipated her complicity, so I had an excuse prepared. I needed to search the bags to cull out all candy containing peanuts or peanut by-products. They are severely allergic to peanuts.

So, I went to work starting with the Snickers and the Baby Ruths and the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. Then I took the Butterfingers. I’m not sure if Butterfingers contain peanuts, but you can never be safe in these matters.

And I was prepared to stop here. I did take a few Mike ‘n Ikes. They were the new tropical twister variety and I am absolutely powerless against those. And I did take a few Starbursts. I like these too. It was my intention to stop there, but then I saw a familiar yellow and blue package at the bottom of the bag. Lemonheads! Did you know they made Lemonheads in little packages of about ten to be passed out at Halloween?

Anyway, at the sight of the Lemonheads I just lost it. My candy lust just went while, and the children looked on with the most plaintive, helpless looks on their faces as my pile of candy grew, and their piles diminished. I was drunk with candy power.

But then I got up this morning and I read Renee’s Sunday Shame post over at Womanist Musings. And then the full implications of my actions suddenly washed over me. Suddenly I feel so ashamed of myself. I pride myself on my self-control, but at the sight of so much candy, I lost all control. How could I? Years down the road I probably will be paying for therapy to help them get over the mental harm caused by my actions on this day. Will they ever forgive me?

But I am going to give it all back this morning, absent what I have already eaten of course which is a pretty significant amount. And I am going to apologize and admit to them that I have a problem and then seek help. Is there a twelve step program for candy and sweets addiction? How does one kick the Lemonhead habit? A Lemonheads anonymous, perhaps? This is my rock-bottom moment.

It’s time to have “The Talk” with my son, but I have no idea what to say

Mocha Dad and E. Payne’s Makes Me Want to Holler are two blogs that I check with relative frequency. Both are “Daddy Blogs.” Mocha Dad’s children are much younger than my own, but it’s fun to laugh at and enjoy the experiences of a father going through what I have already been through. At that young age, children are so hilarious. Parenting seems like such a piece of cake. But then they become teenagers.

That is why I return frequently to E. Payne’s site. His son is about the same age as my youngest son, fourteen, and he seems to be going through some of the same issues that I am working through now with my own. A week or so ago he featured a story about having to have “The Talk” with his son, and his ineptitude in doing so entitled "The Worst Sex Talk Ever."

E. Payne used humor to illustrate his point, and I laughed along with him, but inside I squirmed. I was facing the prospect of having to have the same talk with my son. The whole “Talk” thing seems simple in theory; I know all about the birds and the bees. But in praxis it all seems to fall apart, especially when it catches you unprepared. And I found myself wholly unprepared for this one. The whole issue and imperative to have “The Talk,” not the parenthetical version you have when your children are young but the more serious one, seemed to emerge from nowhere.

Not too long ago, my son had no interest whatsoever in girls. Girls seemed to be the furthest thing from his mind. However, the clues that the fairer sex was entering his purview were subtle at first, but then it all came bursting into the open.

The first hint came in the form of an altering of his hygiene habits. Not too long ago we had to practically make him take a bath. But suddenly he has become the king of clean. In fact, we now have to get up a hour earlier just so we can get some hot water. Suddenly, out of the blue, he has begun to wake up each morning and take those long Hollywood showers, after which he sprays himself from head to toe with that foul smelling Axe stuff.

And this coincided with the reports from our well placed spy, our youngest daughter, that he and a young lady were actively flirting on the bus on the way home. And suddenly he didn’t want to be picked up from the bus stop, but expressed his preference to walk home. My wife and I found this curious because at the beginning of the school year, he had insisted on being picked up from the bus stop.

Again our well placed spy informed us that he and the young lady he had been flirting with had taken to walking home together and holding hands.

But the biggest shock came when we found he had changed his Facebook relationship status from “Who cares!” to “In a relationship with…” Immediately our defenses went up, and my wife began to hint that it was time for “The Talk.”

And even as I was absorbing this information, even as I was formulating what this talk would consist of, even as I was still getting my script together, he hit us with the one-two punch. He casually informed us that he and this young lady were planning on having a date. And in questioning him further about this so-called date and the particulars thereof, he informed us that his new “girlfriend” was sixteen, two years older than he, and she would be doing the driving. My wife responded rather loudly and indignantly, “I bet she will be doing the driving!”. Of course the car date was vetoed. We offered instead to take the two of them out to dinner with us and to the theater.

So, now I have to have “The Talk” with him. I plan to take him to a movie then have a late lunch. I have no idea yet what I will say, but I am sure the words will come. I was preparing an outline of the points I would need to hit, but I threw it away. It just seems best that talks like this come straight from the heart. It seemed like fatherhood was less complicated when he was younger and still had the luxury of believing in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy.

I Am Going to Build Me a Home: Finding a New Purpose

Forgive me if I speak in metaphors and allegories, but for some reason, this is how I have begun to view the world; this is how everything comes to me lately.

But every now and then I find myself having to step back, re-survey the landscape, get my bearings and begin anew. Right now, I am at that place.

I know it sounds rather cliché to say, but it seems like only yesterday that my two children left at home were only babies. Then, our goals were simple. We had only to raise these two children to adulthood while putting aside a little here and a little there to assure that they would be able to attend college.

For so long this is the end toward which we have been working. For so long this has been our purpose in life.

But now the children are older, and we have almost met those two goals. Pretty soon the two of them will be off to college leaving the two of us to our own devices. What do we do then? What will be our purpose? This is what my wife asked me as my head rested on the pillow awaiting sleep. And I really wished she had not done so because then sleep would not come. I instead spent the night staring into the darkness and contemplating this question.

However, toward morning a narrative came to mind. Toward morning an old image returned.

As the story was related to me, my grandfather began his adult, married life sharecropping on the very land on which his family, my ancestors, were held as slaves. However, the white owner, who was incidentally his great uncle, was so impressed by his work ethic and mental acumen that he promised to bequeath him the little house he had built for his family, and the bit of land he occupied at the time.

You can probably guess what happened next. Upon the landowner’s death, his heir, my grandfather’s cousin, refused to honor the agreement. He insisted instead that his father had left my grandfather the house, but not the land.

My grandfather responded by taking a job on the graveyard shift at a new manufacturing plant that had just opened in Milan, Tennessee. So, by day he dutifully worked the little piece of farmland that was his responsibility, and by night he worked as a factory worker.

He did this until he had amassed enough money to buy his own land elsewhere. And when that day came, he and a few of his relatives broke the house into manageable pieces, loaded it onto the back of a flatbed truck, and moved the house onto his new property.

During the years following that move, he continued to build and add to that little house little by little, piecemeal by piecemeal. With what little money he earned, he purchased lumber and other things he needed, and he bartered and traded for labor. With the help of his sons and relatives, he managed to add a second story as well as additional bedrooms. In fact, he worked on that house up until the eve of his death, and with the insurance my grandmother received, she finished the work he had started.

I remember playing in the yard one day as he and my great-great uncle El Duffie worked on some part of the house. Being the curious, precocious child that I was, I sauntered over and asked him what he was doing.

He responded with, “I’m building a home.”

I responded with a question. “You are building a house?”

He patiently answered, “No, I’m building a home.”

He went on to try to explain the difference between a house and a home, a distinction which was lost on me then. He explained that he wanted to provide a place of relative comfort and safety for his wife and children and me. He went on to say that long after his children left his home, he wanted them to have a place to return to, a place filled with loving memories that would always call them, beckon them back.

And he added that he wanted to build a home to which I, too, would always want to return, to which I would want to bring my children and my grandchildren so that they might know a place of respite, a place of relative comfort and safety to which they might bring their children and grandchildren and so on.

My grandfather has passed away. And recently my grandmother passed away. But that home still stands, and I still possess my key. I return there as often as time permits. And no matter how low I am, no matter how life has beaten me down, joy comes from just stepping foot on the grounds. My strength is renewed by the musty smell of years and years of life and living. I am inspired by the memories that reside there.

I have written often of what that house still means to me, most recently here.

So, today I shall begin working toward a new goal. I have found my purpose. I am going to build me a home.