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.

A Good Father, a Good Man, and a Good Writer: Taking Time to Define Myself

I can’t seem to sleep tonight.  I can’t sleep.  I can’t sleep.  I just can’t sleep.

And I wasn’t able to sleep last night.  Or the night before.  Or the night before.

But that’s not so unusual;  I have written of my lifelong bouts with insomnia before.  But this particular night of sleeplessness, as was the previous nights, seemed so much different.

What is the proper expression of fear for a man? (No, I did not scream, and that snake was awfully big)

Okay, I know that spring is in full swing, and summer is just around the corner;  I just had my first snake spotting of the year.  Since I have been authoring this blog, several times I have related stories of the snake problem we have around our home [See here, here, and here].  We live in a semi-rural area and have a pond in the backyard.  Plus, we have an abundance of insects which brings the frogs around the porch to dine, which, in turn, brings the snakes.

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.

Yes, Another Snake Tale

I did not want to do another snake post; I have already visited and revisited that subject before. However, this time my hand has been forced. The other day we happened to step outside only to find another snake in the flowerbed next to the front door—a lot of snakes both literal and metaphorical have been showing up at my door lately—and I immediately sprung into action.

I did mention the incident to a few friends, but not because I wanted to brag on my snake killing prowess; I only mentioned it because I thought it was unusual to see a snake this late in the season. Usually by now they are off hibernating. But then my wife began telling her skewed version of the story to her friends and relatives and all over Facebook, and I thought I had better step in to reclaim my narrative.

It all began on this past Wednesday evening. There was nothing unusual about this Wednesday evening. I did get home from work a bit early. Anyway, my wife and I decided to go to the store to look at something she wanted me to see. But as we were stepping out the front door she looked down and suddenly said, “Is that a snake?”

I glanced down only to find a garter snake about two feet long just laying there massive black serpent of gargantuan proportions lurking, and ready to strike. Surprised, I quickly stepped back into the house wondering what to do next decisively went back into the house to retrieve my glasses from the table in the vestibule so that I might be able to clearly see the creature I was about to do battle with.

My wife said, “What are you running back into the house for?” “Only you can save us Max!” And she lead the way I lead the way as we retreated back backtracked through the house to the garage underground crime-fighting lair so that we might retrieve garden tools gargantuan sized snake killing implements. She chose a hoe crossbow, and I chose a shovel broadsword, and we returned to do battle.

Just as we stepped back outside the front door, the garter snake vile dragon like serpent seemed to sense our presence and began to crawl away hissing, reared up to its full height, prepared to take me on. I screamed ferociously yelled with valor, “He’s getting away. Get him! Get him!” “This vile creature doth seek to do battle. Stand back fair maiden, for what shall happenth next may forever haunteth thy dreams.”

At that time, my wife trapped him with her hoe, holding him to the ground shot him through with the crossbow, pinning him to the ground. She then yelled, “I’m holding him down. Just kill him with the shovel.” “He findeth himself trapped; now is the time to strike with your sword, brave lord. Be true in your aim for each swing of thy blade could be thy last!”

So I cautiously bravely stepped forward with all disregard for my safety, and took a half-hearted stab with my shovel swung my blade with all my might, and missed but my aim was not true. My wife then yelled, “Damn, Max, you got to get closer. Do you want to hold him with the hoe, and I kill him?” “Your aim was not true, my lord. You must strike again. Only you possesseth the strength to bring this creature to its end.”

So, I struck again, and the blow found its mark. But it was only a glancing blow and served only to wound the creature, and some nasty looking yellow stuff squirted out vile acid like yellow fluid did issue forth from the wound, causing me to cry out, “Oh, my God! What is that? That nasty looking stuff just got all over my new loafers!” “He hath covered me with his toxic blood, but I have been protected by my armor!”

And with that I swung again, and again, and again, each blow of my shovel sword finding its mark until the snake dragon like serpent lay dead from a thousand death blows, quivering in the throes of death. Then my wife uttered, “It’s about time. You took all that time to kill that thing. You were acting like you were scared.” “You have vanquished that foul beast sent forth from the pit of hell! And you did so with a valiance never witnessed before.”

So, this is the story, the true story, the exact narrative account. Do not believe what my wife might have told you over the phone or posted on Facebook. And let me go even further to remind you of the import of this event. Before when I have slain such creatures, it has been to protect my family. However, in this instance, had I failed in my endeavor, this creature would not have stopped with my family but would have wreaked havoc on the world; he could have shown up in your flowerbed next.

So, I am a hero, your hero. And my legend continues.

Far Better Men than I: My Vision for My Sons

I apologize for waiting so late to post today; however, it appears that someone has officially declared today “Let’s Pile on Max Day.” Some are trying hard to shake me from my usual aplomb, but all they have succeeded in doing is wasting my time and theirs. Days like this only make me stronger. Sometimes people are so miserable themselves that for someone to be so audacious as to be happy and content in their presence makes them even more miserable.

But I didn’t get to compose anything new, so I will just leave this piece that appeared as a guest post on the site Womanist Musings. And please, love yourself today and be a blessing to somebody.

I have been composing this narrative in my head for several weeks now. However, I always push it to the rear, lowering it in priority, until I look into the face of my fourteen year old son or until the phone rings and I see my oldest son’s number on the caller ID.
But I am lost for a way in; I simply do not know where to begin. But so that I might see this project through to completion, I’ll just jump in by positing this question: “What does it mean to be a man?”

Most of what I learned about being a man, I learned from the women in my life, ironically often in those spaces often relegated to women.

As I sat next to my grandmother watching her sew, she would lovingly question me and advise me. She would tell me what was expected of me. She would tell me how I should conduct myself.
As I helped my aunts clean by moving this piece or that piece of furniture so they could sweep or vacuum behind it, they would compliment me on my spirit. They told me I had a good spirit, a gentle spirit, a giving spirit. They warned me that people would want me to change. But they admonished me not to change. My aunts ensured me that the world needed more men with just those attributes.

And it was my mother who gave me the gift of reading and writing. I am not sure when I began to read, but from my earliest cognizance, books were there, and later she encouraged me to write despite my father insisting that I play outside with the other boys, despite my father insisting that all this “work and no play” would cause me to grow up weak and effeminate.

But she would gently rebuke him, and explain to him that what the world needed was more men who could think, who could reason; the world was populated with too many men who valued brawn over brains. And often he would respond with the question of what kind of man would I end up being if I stayed in the house under women all the time. But he would acquiesce nevertheless.

And watching him, listening to him, all the while the question hung in the back of my mind, “Just what does it mean to be a man?”

I am not saying that the men in my life did not have a huge influence over the person I have become, but while the lessons taught by the women in my life were more explicit, were more like a dialogue, the lessons taught by the men were more one-sided and sometimes contradictory. Often what they said was accompanied by a nod and a wink. Often I was confused when what they said conflicted with their actions. Perhaps, I was confused because their method of instruction left more questions than answers.

No experience is more demonstrative of this than that when I left home at the age of seventeen to enter the military.

I had finished high school, but because of my age, my parents had to sign for me which much to my surprise, they did. I am not certain why I made this decision; I had numerous other opportunities, to include a full ride college scholarship, I could have pursued. But I felt I had to do this. I felt I had to leave home to find myself as a man.

And on the eve of my departure, the male elders of my family—my surviving grandfather, my father, and a host of uncles—assembled to advise me and send me off. As they stood in a semi-circle with me sitting in a chair at the center, one by one they gave me advice, sought to inspire me, and bade me goodbye.

Before that moment when the first speaker spoke, I was unaware of the gravity of my decision. And by the time my favorite uncle, my mother’s youngest brother, rose to give the closing speech, tears of apprehension were streaming down my face. He closed his speech with the charge—I still remember it know as if it were yesterday—“In every and all things, be a man. Always be a man.”

Through tears I asked him, “What does it mean to be a man?” He looked to the faces in the crowd for an answer who all looked at my grandfather, the elder male present. My grandfather stood thoughtfully, pulled on his hat and told me that this was my journey; it was up to me to determine what it meant to be a man.

And with that piece of sage like wisdom the men filed pass me, each pausing to look me in my eyes, give me a firm handshake, a pat on the back. I returned the gesture, but what I really wanted, what I really needed was for one of them, any one of them, to put his arms around me and tell me it would be alright. And with that I set off to answer the question for myself.

Along the way I have made a good many mistakes. Along the way, I have hurt some people, and I have been hurt in return. Along the way, there have been many days when I have cheered in triumph and on others I have lowered my head in defeat. Many days I have sung out loud and with glee, “I shot the sheriff, and on a few others I have found myself singing “Sweet Jesus, please be my friend.”

And I have learned that I cannot define my manhood by my sexual prowess or the number of sexual partners I have. I cannot define my manhood by the power I am able to exert over people. I cannot define my manhood by the amount of money I make, the car I drive, the size of my house, or by what I possess.

But I can define my manhood by the number of lives I have touched, the number of lives I have made better. I can define my manhood by the look of love and respect I see in the eyes of my wife and children. But most of all I can define my manhood for myself and without any outside cultural and societal paradigms.

I am still learning. I am still evolving. However, I think I have the most basic understanding of this thing now. I think that I can finally offer my sons the definition, the vision of manhood that was denied me. But most of all I know that before they leave my house, I will put my arms around them, I will pull them tight to me, and I will let them know that it will all work out in the end; it will be alright. And then hope against all hope that someday they grow to be better men than I.

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.

Five Things that Make Me Smile

This has been one of those weeks. You know those weeks when you are so busy that you cannot seem to even catch your breath. One of those weeks when no matter how hard you work you just can’t seem to catch up. One of those weeks when by the week’s end anger and frustration has built to the point at which you are almost ready to explode, that you feel you just need to vent.

When I got up early this morning to compose a post, this is the anger and frustration out of which I wrote. In fact, the original post was entitled, “Five Things I Absolutely Loathe.” But as I went down my list of loathsome things, I began to think of at least three things that made me smile for every one thing that made me angry. So instead of “Five Things I Absolutely Loathe,” I give you “Five Things that Make Me Smile.”

1. Getting up early on a Saturday morning to fix breakfast for my family.

For some reason, I have a problem getting up on time during the week, but on Saturday morning, I awake for no apparent reason around five and cannot get back to sleep. I usually spend this time enjoying the peace and quiet and writing, but I soon begin to miss the voices and laughter of the rest of the family.

And how better to wake everyone up and get them into the same place than the smell of breakfast cooking. You cannot shake them awake, but when the smell of food wafts through the house, for some reason they are awaken from their slumber. This morning I prepared peppered bacon, eggs, and French toast.

2. When my wife and kids call me for no apparent reason.

Throughout the day, thoughts of my wife and children pop into my head for no apparent reason. I cannot seem to help myself, but I wonder where they are and what they are doing at the strangest, most inopportune times. However, every now and then one of them will call me, and when I inquire as to the reason for the call, they either reply that they were simply wondering what I was doing, or that they forgot the reason for calling. The latter is used mostly by my children.

Nevertheless, for whatever the reason they call, it always brings a smile to my face. It is good to know someone is thinking about you.

3. When guilt causes me to do the right thing.

So last week I ran by the house during the day to pick up something I had forgotten. While I was there, I happened to check the mail and there was a nice hefty check from our insurance company. Evidently we have been overpaying on our homeowners’ policy for quite some time now. It suddenly dawned on me that no one knew about the existence of this check but me, and I could use it to buy some of those things I have been wanting for some time now, namely a XM satellite radio for my car and a couple pair of new Cole Haans loafers.

But guilt got the best of me, so I finally showed the check to my wife. Alas, no XM satellite radio, no Cole Haans loafers; it seemed she had other ideas for what to do with an unexpected windfall. But she seems to be really happy, so I guess all I can do is smile as well.

4. When I get to share experiences with my son that my dad shared with me.

When I was a young man, I loved going to the barbershop with my dad on Saturday afternoons. Black barber and beauty shops on a Saturday are more like events. They should charge admission on top of the price of a haircut. You can watch whatever sports program is being featured that day, or you can watch the latest bootleg movie, sometimes before it even hits the theaters. If sports or theater is not your thing, you can hear deep philosophical conversations by some of the greatest minds ever assembled in a barbershop.

Now my head is as smooth as a baby’s behind, but my son gives me an excuse to visit the barber every other weekend. And now he enjoys going just as much as I did when I was his age.

5. Finally understanding some of the lessons my elders attempted to teach me as a child.

When I was a child, my elders attempted to teach me a number of lessons that I could not understand as a child. However, now daily I am confronted with situations wherein one of those lessons comes to mind.

Just this week in a confrontation with an irrational, argumentative colleague, for a brief second I lost my patience and decided to let her know how I really felt. Then I remembered my grandfather telling me at one time or another, that I should never waste my time arguing with fools or babies because I have nothing to gain either way. I realized at that very moment that this was one of those fools he was speaking of, so I just smiled, ended the conversation and went about my business. I guess I am finally getting the hang of this whole adulthood thing.

What things make you smile?

I Still Get Butterflies (Tea and Crumpets with My Lover)

Several years ago when my younger brother was contemplating marriage, he called and asked me how I knew my wife was the one. Now, you would have to know my brother to know how big a deal this really was. For him to even ask a question like this concerning any woman was huge.

Of course, love is always such a deeply personal thing, and we cannot always pinpoint that exact moment we knew or, better still, causation, so I told him I would get back to him.

I then I sat down and thought about it for a minute or two before I realized that before my mind ever registered what was going on, the psychosomatic symptoms provided all the evidence I needed; at just the mention of her name, at the very thought of her, I got all light-headed, and my skin got all clammy, and above all, I got butterflies deep in the pit of my stomach.

You know, for the longest time I could think of nothing else but her. And I began to do just absolutely absentminded, foolish things. For instance, one day I was to meet her after my last class, a late evening class, for dinner. That class lasted perhaps longer than any other class I had ever attended in my life. And I didn’t learn anything that evening because she so preoccupied my mind.

As I left campus that evening, my gas light came on. So, I stopped at a gas station, ran in and paid for my gas, ran out of the gas station and jumped in my car and just drove off. I never realized that I didn’t even take the time to pump my gas until about ten minutes later when I was sitting on the side of the road. I ended up calling her to come get me.

And then there were those instances when I knew she was to be getting out of class or off work soon, and I could expect her to call me or stop by. As the time of that expected call or visit neared, I could do nothing else, I could think of nothing else. I just sat by the phone or peeked out the window every two minutes, with my skin all clammy and my stomach tied up in knots while I wringed my hands like a nervous old woman.

This whole thing, this love thing, shocked my sensibilities. I was a person who took pride in my self-control. And suddenly I had none.

But perhaps what solidified the whole thing for me was when I begin to think in the plural terms of we and not I whenever I had occasion to have an introspective moment and think about the future; I could not even begin to imagine my future without her in it.

All of this came back this afternoon when I got a text message from my wife. It read simply,

“Way ahead on my workload, and I have no trainings for this afternoon. Taking off at noon and going home. Why don’t you meet me there?”

Of course, I tried to be cool about the whole thing. I tried to be coy. So I sent her a message back: “Don’t know what we do with a whole afternoon by ourselves. Do you have anything planned?”

And she shot back, “Just tea and crumpets. Are you coming?”

So I left at eleven o’clock, office hours be damned. Ain’t nobody need to see me that bad anyway on a Thursday. And if they did, they have my email. And I raced pell-mell across town, breaking every conceivable traffic law in the process, to be there on time, and all the while, those old symptoms returned. I got all light-headed. My skin got all clammy. And I could feel the butterflies colliding right there deep in the pit of my stomach.

And the thing is, I couldn’t even figure out what it was all about. I really am not that fond of tea, and I don’t even know what the hell a crumpet is.

Back Down South

For some time now, my wife and I have struggled to make a crucial decision. For some time now, we have been contemplating a move. We have been contemplating leaving the South and moving to the Northeast.

Not that we do not find our quality of life satisfying here; we do. We have been blessed and lead very good lives. And not that we are fleeing some virulent racism or discrimination here; we are not. I think that racism and discrimination exist in equal measures throughout the country, so in that regards, I would much rather deal with the devil I know as opposed to the devil I don’t know.

However, the dearth of cultural opportunities in our area prompts us to consider the move. Culturally, Northeast Florida most resembles Southeast Georgia. Many of the major shows, concerts, and exhibits pass us by altogether. We often find ourselves having to drive north to Atlanta or southwest to Orlando or in some cases, even as far south as Miami to take part in these cultural events. And needless to say, that gets very expensive and time consuming, so we must carefully and judiciously pick and choose the events we attend.

And for the past few years, we have endeavored to spend time in the Northeast during the summer so that we might take part in the range of cultural offerings. Each and every time we are there, it is like a whirlwind tour with us running from this place and that place, trying to get it all in before it’s time to return home. But this too gets expensive and tiring, plus there are other places we would like to go and explore during our extended summer vacations.

Now our relatives and Facebook friends around the country taunt us daily by bragging about the events that have attended. Just last week someone posted a status update about attending a play I have been wanting to see for years. And I have a Facebook friend who lives in the New York area who is forever boasting about the free concerts he attends on almost a weekly basis.

Needless to say, we are now growing impatient. Our children are getting older, and if we are going to make that move, the time is now. Plus, we have solid job opportunities in the area that will not be there forever. So, what are we waiting for? My wife is more than ready, but I can’t make up my mind.

Playwright August Wilson once wrote that the South is the cultural homeland for African Americans. It is in the South within that dreadful, horrific crucible of slavery where our culture was born. It is here where those sustaining values and traditions were formed. It is here where deprived of a meaningful existence, we improvised. Given the offal of animals, we created our own unique foods. Out of the daily anguish and heartbreak of bondage, we created the only musical form to originate in this country.

And I have been blessed to have traveled all over the world. I have lived in many places outside the South; New Jersey, Seattle, and California are just a few that come readily to mind. But where ever I have traveled to and where ever I have lived, I have found myself longing for the South.

I found myself longing for those almost endless rural roads lined with kudzu. I missed the familiar sounds and smells, the familiar accents, the familiar foods. I missed my family and friends, and most of all, I missed the slow, laid back pace of life in the South. And each and every time, I found some reason, some excuse, to escape back down South.

So, I guess I have written myself to a decision this morning. There is no need for me to go anywhere. Any move would simply be a waste of time. I would be happy for a short while. I would probably busy myself going to museums and shows and plays and monuments. But that would probably grow old really quick. My mind would begin to wonder and invisible strings would begin to tug at my heart, and before long I would find myself with my family in tow headed south on I-95, headed back down South.

I Have Two Sons

I have two sons.

Perhaps, this comes as unexpected. Perhaps, it seems to come out of the blue even. But this morning I would like to take the time to clarify a bit of confusion I may have caused. But I stand ready to remedy that confusion.

Two recent events prompted this acknowledgement. Recently I had a conversation with a friend, and when I mentioned my oldest son, she seemed genuinely surprised. She stated that I had not mentioned him before. But I am almost sure I have; perhaps she just forgot.

And when on yesterday I was searching through my archives for something, I found frequent and detailed mentions of one son and only infrequent and cursory mentions of the other. But that does not mean that I favor one son over the other. Both sons are on my mind and in my heart continually. I am equally proud of each of them. But the one remains here at home with me. I see him daily, and he is constantly underfoot, so when I reach for material to write on, he often comes to mind.

But I love each son equally, however, for different reasons. Each represents a distinct period in my life, a distinct consciousness.

I fathered my first son when I was yet still very young, still in need of being raised myself. It’s funny how human development works. The human reproductive system often develops far ahead of the capacity to reason.

I marvel at my grandfather. He and my grandmother were married when they were in their early teens; this was not uncommon at the time. And from his early teens on, he was able to play the role of a man. He and my grandmother had six children, three boys and three girls, and with the little they had, they were able t raise six strong productive human beings and send them to college.

I was perhaps the same age as my grandfather when his first son was born when my oldest son was born. Perhaps because times had changed drastically, perhaps because I had the luxury of enjoying an adolescence, I wasn’t ready financially, mentally, maturely, or otherwise to be a father. And my mistakes, my lack of maturity, and my lack of depth of consciousness were repeated by my son. And I accept full responsibility for this.

However, just as I was able to do, he was able to pull it together in the end, and now he is an entrepreneur and business student living in Atlanta.

But my youngest son came at such a time that I had finally found myself. I possessed the financial means, the mental maturity, and the lived experience and consciousness requisite to being a good father. The way has no ways been completely smooth, however. Even know I must rethink my earlier positions and assumptions and relearn new ways of dealing with old problems.

The lesson to be taken away, though, is this: The student cannot progress beyond the knowledge and consciousness of the teacher. If our young men are running amok, if our young men are not living up to our expectations of them, then before we point an accusatory finger at them, we must stop to think and acknowledge our role in their development.

What examples are we setting? Are we actively and proactively seeking to influence their lives, to raise their consciousness, to change their worldview? Or are we content to sit back and point out and write and complain about their shortcomings, smug in our own psudeo-greatness, without offering ourselves up as part of the solution?

Whether they are close in proximity or far away, they are still our sons, and if they are to improve their situation, they must have and deserve our acknowledgement. And furthermore, they deserve our time and attention. What have you done today to improve the lives of our young men whether far away or right in the next room?

And let me remind you so you might now know. I have two sons. Two. And the eternal connection of the lifeblood that flows within is validated by the immense love and respect that flows between.

I really wish I were able to write more stuff like this.

This morning looks as if it will be a beautiful morning indeed. I decided to turn the television off last night, so as I slept, I did not hear the noise in the background. I did not hear the arguing and fussing back and forth. I did not hear the lies and accusations. But I slept peacefully, perhaps more peacefully than I have slept in quite some time. Perhaps I should turn off the television each night.

And I got up early enough to assist my wife in making breakfast, but now I’m just sipping on a cup of coffee and watching. I tried to surprise her by cooking the oatmeal, but I burned it. I always burn the oatmeal. So we just had a good laugh, dumped it out and started all over again.

When is the last time the two of us have been up this early and alone, all alone? No children, just us. When is the last time we got to just sit and talk and poke fun at one another and laugh like children? When is the last time we wished for time to just stop for a minute or two so that we would have just that much longer to do nothing but enjoy the other’s company?

But soon we’ll have to wake the children up and the chaos of the morning routine will begin. And my wife will be off to work and the children off to school. I don’t have any classes on Friday, but usually I go in just to prepare for the upcoming week. However, today I think I will stay home. I will stay home and just write. I feel like just writing.

But I do not want to write anything angry, anything polemical. I don’t want to write in short, clipped, harsh sentences filled with anger, with disappointment, with resentment. Instead I would like to write long flowing sentences filled with the pleasant dulcet tones of remembrance, of love, of longing.

Perhaps I’ll write something about my grandmother. I am finally at that point in my grief that I can look at her picture without tearing up. I can finally think of her without having to choke down that lump in my throat. I still miss her deeply, but now her memory is soothing, not upsetting. Now I can finally appreciate what a blessing she always was, always will be.

Perhaps I’ll finish that piece I started for my wife. It has a catchy title: “Because I Could Never Love You Nearly Enough.” But I must find the prose, the flow, the language to live up to the promise of that title. And if I finish it in time, I can get it out in the morning mail, and the letter will arrive in the mail tomorrow just in time to find someplace for the kids to spend the evening. But I’m getting way ahead of myself. One thing at a time.

I know I need to write a letter to my oldest daughter. I feel the need to tell her I love her, and that I am proud of her, and that I think about her daily, almost hourly. She is always on my mind. She is always in my heart even though she is so far away.

Of course, I could just pick up the phone and just call her, but a phone call does not have the permanence of writing. Whenever she is down, whenever she is lonely, whenever she feels defeated, I want her to be able to pick up her father’s letter and read it. And read it over again and know that whatever she is going through, I am there for her, and I am there with her even though she is so far away.

Alisia, if you read this today, please know that I love you even more than I love myself. And I miss you terribly and look forward to seeing you shortly.

Yes, this is turning out to be an exceptional day. I wish every day was just like this one; I wish I could just spend every day writing more stuff like this. But if every day was like this one, would this moment still be as sweet?

Good Morning, Mama

Mom and Pops Reddick cut a rug at my sister's wedding

“Mama may have, papa may have

But God bless the child thats got his own

Thats got his own.”

“God Bless the Child,” Written by Arthur Herzog, Jr.

Good morning, Mother. How are you and Dad doing this morning?

You know I thought of you often last week, more often than usual. I thought of all those times you told me that someday I would wish I were back in your house, under your roof. I remember you told me that someday reality would finally catch up with me, and I would long for those days when you and Dad were there to make sure all my needs were met, when you and Dad would suddenly swoop in and clean up all my messes. Well, that someday was last week.

Not only did I wish I were back in your house, several times I peeked outside the door of my office and around the corner, wishing I would see you coming around the corner with that big Bible with the picture of White Jesus on the front, fully prepared to clown on my behalf, to defend me, like you did when I was in school.

And several times, I even picked up the phone to dial your number. One or two times I even dialed the area code and the first two or three digits of your number before I hung up.

I know you would have welcomed the call. I know that your voice would have been warm and soothing. I know you would have said all the right things to comfort me. I know I would have felt the love radiating even through the phone lines. And I know that sometimes everybody needs to feel they are somebody’s child.

But, in the same instance, I know you would not have wanted your grown son, your oldest son, to call you whining and complaining because he faced seemingly insurmountable obstacles, because things were not exactly going his way, because he felt maligned and misused by those around him. And I know this because you did not raise me that way. So, I did what you would have done, what Dad would have done.

I simply smiled your smile (Everyone seems to think I have your smile.). And I grunted Dad’s peculiar little laugh (Everyone seems to think I got that laugh from him.). I stood up straight—proud and erect, and I stuck my chest out. And I took on each and every obstacle that stood in my path. And when things did not go my way, I simply grabbed the snake by the head, as Grandmother used to say, and I kept working with it until I bent it to my will.

And for those people who maligned me, who wished to misuse me, your smile and Dad’s laugh and my upright carriage proved enough. When they saw they could not discourage me, when they realized they could not dissuade me from my goals, my purpose, they simply slinked away, cursing themselves.

But I still wish I were there in your house right now having a cup of coffee with you, enjoying the morning meal with you. That way I could feel your kiss and accept your embrace and feel Dad’s firm hand on my shoulder as I told you of how I faced self-pity and certain defeat but came out victorious. And then I could look in each of your faces and see your pride in the man that I have become.

Love always,

Maxwell René

The Mote in Your Eye, and the Beam in My Own (I'm Back!)

"It’s been a long time, I shouldn’t have left you

Without a strong rhyme to step to."

Eric B. and Rakim, “I Know You Got Soul”

I know by the many messages I’ve received that many of you have noticed my absence over the course of the past week. Thank you for thinking of me. I assure you that I am okay, and my family is okay. However, the school year started in earnest and so did the sixteen hour days, and I suddenly found myself overwhelmed and disoriented. By the end of the week, I was emotionally and physically exhausted. But after a good night’s rest and a little TLC, I am much better now.

This blog was originally intended to be a summertime distraction. For the first time in years, I planned not to work or travel on behalf of work during the summer. I instead opted to do a little blogging, complete a long list of tasks, and just spend time with my wife and children. And I sat down and planned it all out.

Well, I managed to do a whole lot of blogging, but in the meantime, my list of tasks fell to the wayside. When I complained to a friend that I didn’t feel as though I was accomplishing anything, she posed before me a number of questions that put it all in perspective.

She asked me if, during the course of the summer, I had been up and actually paid attention to the sun rising. Had I laughed so much that my stomach hurt? Had I on occasion slept well into the afternoon? Had I ever taken the time to just sit and think and ponder all those questions I never had time to ponder before? Did I delight in not having to be anywhere at any specific time and using my time as I chose?

And the answer, of course, was yes to all of the above. My carefully made plans went out the window about the first week of summer. And soon thereafter I quit checking my work e-mail altogether. Of course I felt guilty and irresponsible at first. But then I began to enjoy myself. For the first time in a long time, I really began to enjoy myself.

I spent my morning composing blog posts and dialoguing with readers. And I spent my afternoons exploring Northeast Florida with my children. Though I’ve always taken time out for my children, it was so much different when they were my only focus, when my mind was not occupied by job pressures and issues, both real and imagined. And I thoroughly enjoyed all the time I spent with them; I thoroughly enjoyed getting to know them all over again.

And sometime during the summer, sometime while doing nothing, I managed to find my way back to me.

So, I have said all of that to say this. I’m back, and I’m back for good. Never will I stay away so long again.

The sixteen hour days are a thing of the past. I’ll have to learn to politely but firmly say no to a lot of people; I know that I’ll have stop chasing every dollar. But I’m recommitting myself and redoubling my efforts so that each and every day I will be here. Each and every day my mission will be to enlighten, to inspire, to entertain you to the best of my ability, and if I do my job well, each and every day I will cause you to think.

I only wish to help you with the mote in your third eye even as I work to extract the beam in my own. Join me on my journey of discovery and self-awareness. Together we gone work this thang out.

Who is with me?