I missed Daughter’s Day yesterday. I am sorry for that. I was out of pocket and just didn’t get it done. If you are wondering why I chose this picture instead of one of her alone, let me clarify: she is almost never without Jude by her side. When he was born, she decided that he was HER son and HER responsibility. He is her shadow by her choice. I could not be prouder of her. She is so like me, with enough of her mom thrown in to make her better. She has stepped up and sacrificed without complaint. She’s tough, creative, loyal and fun. I love her with all I am. Happy Daughter’s Day, Scooter!

I know you think you know what these are, but I’m pretty sure you’re wrong. I’ll bet you are thinking they are fishing lures, and while, technically, that may be true, but let me tell you what they really are.

Dad was an avid outdoorsman. Being out in the woods or a on a lake was his heaven on earth. It wasn’t always about  the getting the shot, or catching a mess of fish. Mostly it was about being with someone: family or friends, or maybe someone that just needed a father figure or a some quiet for a few hours. See, Dad could fish all day and not talk. He would let the others do the talking. His thought was that the solitude would allow the brain to clear, the anger to settle, the future to become clear. The lake was a place of fun, reflection and thought, and time spent on the water was never wasted.

He shared his love of fishing with whomever he could, but he especially like taking his family. For years. we spent many of his long weekends and vacations camped at Lone Star Lake. We grew up on those waters. By 13, any of us could take the boat and head out to catch fish because we knew the lake so well. Many summer mornings while camping, we were wakened by the sound of the outboard cranking so Dad could get some fishing in before breakfast.

As he got older and had  a few health problems,  Dad’s balance got bad and he was not able to get into a boat safely, so he sold his boat, but kept all his rods and tackle boxes. He had at least three large ones along with a few worm bags and smaller storage trays. He kept them in a small shop building behind his house that had been set up for him to store his stuff. He had a chair, TV and air conditioning in it and would sit for hours staying out of Mom’s hair. The Price is Right was his favorite game show and he tried not to miss it.

Mom told me that many times she would go check on him and he would have all his old lures spread out on the floor around him. She always thought that he was just going through it all to organize it for the next trip. She would tell him they were in the way and would he please put them back so that all the grands and great-grands wouldn’t be hooked when they came to see him.

One day, I went by to say “Hi” and Mom told me Dad was out back so I went out to see him. The door to his shop was open so I was able to see him before he saw me. He was in his chair and had all his tackle laid out. He was holding one of the baits in his hand and smiling while he looked at it. It was one of those smiles that let you know that he was satisfied and at peace.

I walked into the shop and he looked up and grinned like he always did and said, “Hey, buddy!” I asked him if he was getting ready for a fishing trip, but he said no. So I asked him what he was doing and why he had all the stuff spread out, especially knowing that Mom wasn’t a fan. He looked at me and said, “Oh, these aren’t lures, they’re memories.” He paused as picked one out the pile. “See this Okey-Doke? That was the one that Sandra caught her biggest fish on at the duck blind on Lone Star.” He picked up another one: “This silver Tiny Torpedo was your favorite bait when you were learning to fish, and these grape Crème worms are the ones we used that time we tore them up at the 123 boat house,” he said as he pointed to a pile of plastic worms. The look on his face as he told these stories was radiant and wistful. He was remembering every aspect of the moment. The sun, the water, the wind, the joy of the day. I had only seen him happier when the grands were born. His life was captured in those old aluminum and plastic boxes.

If you see me standing in the aisle at tackle shop with a smile and a tear running down my face, you will know that I am not looking at baits, I am living in my memories.

My mind is sitting in a very cold room 30 years ago waiting on the arrival of Zachary Davis Golden. I remember the cold room, the nurses moving in and out, bringing heated blankets to Reneé. Then, after a long day, he arrived, and with him all the hope and dreams we had for him.

He was a good kid, with almost no need of discipline. He was smart, and funny, with big brown, almost black, eyes. He couldn’t tell a joke until he was 8. His timing was off. But he learned and then got good at it.

He loved people and had a confidence rare at his age. He grew to love helping people have fun. He was always the encourager. He seemed to carry energy with him when he entered a room.
I miss that kid. I miss that young man. I miss that humor. I miss the talks, and the texts, and the goofy photos. I miss my son. I love you, buddy.

I am getting to ride on a long road trip and that has afforded me the opportunity to consider some things. First, Reneé and I are blessed beyond our ability to comprehend. We have each other, a wonderful daughter, a funny and compassionate grandson and memories of a much-loved son. We are warm and dry, clothed and fed. We have all we need and more. We have the opportunities and means to give generously. And we are so very thankful.

The dreary weather lends itself to introspection and reflection, and today I am thinking of friends that have passed, many of them years ago, and I realized that, as long as their names resonate in our hearts and memories, they are still with us. Cy Boyd, Charlie Dempwolf, David Franklin, Bobby Pettis, Larry Parker, Jerry Welch, Jamie Pope, Henry Pittman, Anita Albright. When you read those names, if you knew them, you probably smiled. If you remember them they had an impact on you. And that keeps them alive, if only in our memories.

Sometimes we need to get lost in reverie. It is good for the soul.

Yesterday was my birthday. My family took me to Six Flags (but I drove and paid.) It was great to be with them. It was also Son’s Day.

Days like birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter and every other family celebration except for his birthday are filled with the very definition of mixed emotions. I have my family with me! We are laughing, eating, sharing gifts, having fun. We are crying and hurting so badly inside.

We are living the hardest form of dichotomy: we are happy and sad, joyful and hurting, all at the same time and in the same place with the same people. We don’t dare show our sadness to those that are celebrating us because we don’t want them to think we are unappreciative of their show of love. We don’t want them to think that our lives are so burdened by sadness that their efforts are of no effect and that no joy will ever come from us again. Neither of those statements are true. We are enjoying the time together. We do experience joy and happiness, but these days always carry the weight of our desire to see that face and hear that voice knowing that it is an impossibility. I can understand those that have chosen to avoid all contact with others during those special days. But I won’t do that.

I love the pictures of your sons, and the joy with which you so rightfully show them off. I will show Zack’s pictures and tell his stories as long as I live. It was hard to not be with him. While there will be no more pictures taken and no more hugs given and no ability to tell him how much we love him, I will gladly tell the world how proud I am to call him my son.

Three things have occurred within the last couple of years that have caused me to redefine my understanding of romance. The first event was our loss of Zack. (That may sound a bit strange but trust me until the end.) The second event was that one of my friends left his wife of a number of years. The third was an article I read that was composed of short vignettes from husbands telling about the things their wives did that they found special and endearing.

I woke up this morning early as I usually do now and turned to hug Reneé before I got up. In the movement, I realized that I thought about where to place my arm and hand so as not to cause her any discomfort or to wake her. After almost thirty-nine years, a person should know those things. And I realized: that is romance.

After Zack died, we had so many things going through our heads and hearts. His loss was so traumatic and devastating, I wondered if we would survive as a family. We each deal with his death so differently, it would be easy to accuse the other of not grieving properly, or of not having the same depth of feelings. Or, at the time, we each could have begun to accuse the other of not doing everything they could have done. Or we could have become so angry at ourselves that we withdrew from each other out of guilt about our perceived lack of effort to help him. We talked about all this and decided that we could only survive together, so we did. That is romance.

We have become jealous of our time together. We spend weekends away at quiet places to talk and pray and listen. We hold hands and walk. We hold hands and talk. We hold hands and drink coffee. (That takes some planning, or it could be a mess!) We hold hands and we argue. That is romance.

Our Instagram/Facebook/WhatsApp/Marco Polo world has so distorted the reality of romance. The pictures of the “romantic get-away’s” that were probably staged. Perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect lighting. Possibly perfect lies.

I recently saw a meme (man, I hate that word and wish it didn’t have reason to exist) that showed a couple in a mirrored room. There were rose petals on the floor, and sparklers burning. The couple was dressed very well, and he was on his knees asking for her hand in marriage. How romantic! All of that is well and good and I have no problem with it. The issue is that the text attached to it indicated that this was the kind of man a woman “deserves” and so she should wait until he comes along. Baloney.

Years ago, we attended a Valentine’s Day dinner for married couples that featured a well-known couple as the speakers for the evening. After the meal and the accompanying music (all of which was “romantic”) the man got up and told the story of how he would not ask her to marry him until he had bought a very nice home and had money in the bank because she “deserved” it. He continued by saying that they had recently celebrated their anniversary (10th, I think) by him renting a limo, buying her a new, “expensive” outfit, having a nice “expensive” meal (all his words) and spending more than a thousand dollars on the evening. She then got up and rehearsed all he said and told the crowd that he did all that because she was “worth it.”

At our table, all the men looked at their feet. None of us could afford that no matter how much we desired it. We left ashamed and angry, not romantically inclined. But we could afford beanie weenies on the back porch at sunset. We could afford the gasoline for a drive through the country holding hands and talking, with a stop at Dairy Queen for a cone. We could afford to share our dreams and efforts and heartaches. That is romance.

And while some can now afford to have the same evening as he and his wife, I’m not sure many would. Romance is not about what we can buy, it is about what we can give.

When Reneé and I walk through Wal-Mart, or the mall, or the parking lot, we either hold hands or walk her arm in mine. Why? Because we like each other, and we know that we are not good alone. According to the Bible, when we married, we became one flesh. Why not act that way? When I woke this morning, I held Reneé for a few moments. I knew I needed to hold her, not to comfort her, but because I need her. I need her strength, her love, her compassion – everything about her is important to me. That, in my mind, is romance.

For the last 17 months, it seems as if I have lived in a partial disconnect from reality. There are still days I wake up and want to check on Zack in the middle of his many travels. I have to remind myself that I can’t call or message him no matter how much I want to. I tell myself, “No, that can’t be right. He’s my son and I want to see him.” The world swirls around me and goes about its business, but I feel like there is a veil between me and it. Usually this is only for a moment or two, but it is intense. Then reality hits.

Love your kids. Hug them. Kiss them. Always tell them you love them, even if you are not happy with their choices, or their lifestyle. They are a part of you. To deny them is to deny some of yourself.

When Zack died, I can honestly say that we were in a good place. I had told him I loved him just minutes earlier and had hugged him, too. I just wish I could do it again.

One of the hardest parts of being honest when I write is organizing. My mind just wants to throw stuff out there and let each person look at it and sort it out, sort of like a Jackson Pollock painting. And while that may be good for me as I unload my thoughts, the reader is left to try to get my purpose. I want to have a reason to occupy your time and effort, and to try to communicate whatever is bouncing around in my head.

Reneé and my family have dealt with a lot in the last few months, not unlike a number of my friends, and we have committed to be honest about what we feel and go through. It’s not a easy as you might think.

My process is to write something, then edit the stuffings out of it so it makes sense. (since, cents, scents!). Many times in this flurry of activity, I have to eliminate something, but it is captured in my pile of notes for some future date. I am not a disciplined writer in that I make myself produce something every day or so, but I don’t do this for a living, so that is fine. Most of my ideas come between 2:30 and 4:00 AM when my mind is rested and not cluttered with the day. I grab my phone or iPad and begin to dump it through my fingers. I may publish it then, or I may sit on it for a while, chew on it, edit then submit it for your consumption. I usually have a purpose for each piece, something I have been stewing over for a bit. But sometimes I just want to throw down words and get it out before I explode.