Layman's Prayer

I said a prayer for you today. Not to a God in Whom you do not believe, but to the Universe, the Powers That Be, the Spin in your Stars. I deposited love in your account and contentment in your warm towel as you emerge from the shower. I am the spring in your shoes and the fall in your cup. I asked the Eyes That Watch to crinkle at the corners for the amazing you put into the world. I requested sun on your face and breeze in your hair. I supply extra heat in your coffee and more cool in your beer, another mozzarella stick in your order and fries at the bottom of the bag. My love for you is in every small favor the world offers and though it may have been there before I asked, it is definitely there now. 

Sky Mama and Man

Sky Mama held ManChild’s face in her hands, so close he could smell the sunshine on her breath.

Dear baby boy, what trouble here?  I see in your heart—the lightning once flashing lies hid.  I hear only your thunder.  Where is your mighty crackle and flash?

Sky Mama, I can’t feel my heart anymore.  I have been so small for so long; I fear I’ll never be any greater than I am now, today, this moment.  I have glass in my eyes and blood in my ears.  When I stretch, I scrape knuckle on ceiling, stump toe on floor.
My precious son, you are as tall as the sky and as deep as the ocean.  Though your frame but small, ’tis only tether to the world of flesh.   Your spirit dwarfs the universe, your soul the wind that spins galaxies as heads of dandelion seed, swirling to create and destroy in infinite ages it has seen and will see forever.

You must never forget how all of existence lives in the joy and love that orbits your atoms.  Recall days spent drinking heaven, feasting on prayer.  You are all and eternal, the most of the highest and the center of My delight.  Trust lies not in the words of others, but in the knowledge of self.  And you are all—great, true, real and imagined.  You will never grow greater than you are in this moment because you are everything.  You are all I ever hoped you would be and more.

An Evening in Uganda

I wake in a tangled fluff of mosquito netting, the morning breeze blowing a soft hiss through the tall, dry grasses, the bleat of goats and the giggle of little girls play around the sides of the curtain, peeking through the window like the first rays of the sun, welcoming another new, unfamiliar, but exciting day in Africa.  I lie there with a pressed-lip smile, trying to keep still so Andrew can sleep another minute or two, but the scuttle of something across my chest yanks me bolt upright as I slap it with an open palm—the motion stops, but I never find the corpse of that critter.  It’s lost in the wad of gossamer that protected us from bloodsuckers during the night.  Well, at least MOST of ‘em.  Now EVER’body’s awake.  

There’s a family at the ranger station with SIX daughters and an infant son, the youngest of the seven from what I can see, and the boy is LAVISHED in affection by his sisters.  Though he can toddle around the porch relatively well, his feet rarely touch the ground.  One of his sisters almost always has him, either scooped with the ease and grace of a caregiver or toted with the rough-and-tumble of the younger, smaller girls, arms barely reaching around his chest, his own chubby arms flailing about his ears.  I feel he’d scream for help if his chin wasn’t wedged shut against a sister’s knobby elbow.  Bless it.  They’re gonna love that poor boy to DEATH.

My morning constitutional is performed around a potty built for squatty, a bucket of lime in the corner for hygiene and disinfection.  I’ll be honest—I MARVEL at my aim, as I’ve seldom been required to employ such accuracy in this endeavor.  A shot of sanitizer gel to the hands after a scoop of powder to the hole and I’m ready for whatever the day feels like bringin’.  I find Andrew on the porch packing and repacking his equipment, trying to mask the anxiety he feels from the tardiness of our ride; our motorcycle taxi (boda boda) is now about 20 minutes late for pick-up.  Of course we’re both fearing the worst:  stolen car, stranded at the ranger station, throwing our itinerary WAY off course, eaten in the wilderness.

Then, in the distance, we hear Ranger Margaret holler:  “hey!  You want elephants?”  Ranger Emanuel, doing calisthenics in his camouflage to prepare for his guard duty in the park, walks over and asks us if we’ve seen the elephants, if we’d heard Margaret calling.

We try to play it cool until we see the FIFTEEN PACHYDERMS STROLLING THROUGH THE SAVANNA *DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET.*  Then we start to run full-tilt across the yard to get a better look.  Andrew’s camera is glued to his face and I’m snuffling and wiping, attempting to keep my vision clear enough so that I don’t miss the elephant family lumbering across the grassland IN THE RANGERS’ FRONT YARD.

Just about the time the last wrinkled backside passes into the thicket, we hear the metallic whine of the boda boda come over the hill.  EVERYTHING happens for a reason.  Andrew’s a fantastic planner, but sometimes you’ve gotta live your business in the space between the bullet points on your itinerary.  Many times that’s where the magic happens.

Easter Love

Y’know what I want today? To be tying a giNORMOUS satin bow on the back of a pretty little dress. I wanna straighten a teeny-tiny bow tie, aid itty-bitty fingers attempting to re-buckle a Mary Jane. I wish I could sneak a jelly bean ALMOST unseen from a plate in the fellowship hall, only to be met with a stern look and a stuck-out lip, a shrill tattle to somebody’s momma that Uncle Jamie stole some Easter candy, me lookin’ all put-on innocent while pleadin’ ignorance from horrendously inaccurate accusation, evidence gummed between my teeth.

I’d love to hear the clomping thunder of new-shoe-squeezed feet up the carpeted stairs at The Creek, hear ‘em clip-clop across the hardwood as basket-swingers spit-shined, slicked, and be-frocked within an inch of life go lookin’ for Momma 'n Diddy, chubby fists and angel faces smeared in treats they got in Sunday School, clutching a crumpled coloring paper of the stone rolled away—a sticker of cross, lily, or Son in the corner.

On this beautiful, blessed Easter Sunday, I want Pop to tilt his head back—bifocals, don’tcha know—to scrutinize the knot in my tie, pull my collar down over my silken noose, brush my shoulders when he’s finished; turn me around, pat my chest, mention something about how broad and strong it is, tell me how proud he is of me, then fall quiet as he gets a little wet-eyed, clears his throat, then goes off on his never-ending search for the coffee cup that refuses to stay where he left it.

I’m grateful to be in a plane crossing Canada this Easter morning. I love my job, couldn’t be prouder of the group of men with whom I get to share a stage, a van, a row, or a song. But on days like today, I know there’s someplace else I’d love to be, too.

Wishing all of you a brilliant Easter and a wonderful holiday weekend.

Love y’all.

Love the Skin You're In

I genuinely appreciate my body for the strong, capable, BEAUTIFUL vessel, instrument, and gift it truly is, was, and will be.

When I was little, I was LITTLE.  I’d get sick easily and often.  Grown-ups could encircle my waist between two hands—thumbs to thumbs and pointers to pointers.  Words like “wormy,” “dried-up,” and “teeny” were dropped at my feet like dead mice from the mouth of a well-meaning cat, an offering left to change my habits, motivation to “fill out.”  

When I was big, I was BIG.  Husky jeans with hobbit-y inseams were a wardrobe staple.  Sweet Mom took me around to e.v.e.r.y. shop in the state of Alabama advertising solutions for hard-to-fit feet to find the ONE pair of Buster Brown saddle oxfords that were as wide as they were long.  I HATED them.  But the family dropped a small fortune on them, so they were worn, not wasted; more shackle than shoe, every time I laced ‘em up, I could hear a salesperson’s nervous titter or exasperated knee slap as they squeezed my sausage toes into that metal sizer device to find—YET AGAIN—that the slides didn’t open THAT far.  

I’ve struggled with a LOT of ugly emotions because of these situations growing up—envy, embarrassment, shame.  I put off a lotta life waiting to be thinner, fitter.  More.  Less.  And I realized pretty recently that was a whole lotta time and effort wasted.  

Gone.  Over NOTHIN’.  

Never again.  I’m not wasting another minute lamenting the body that was, the ghosts it left behind.  I celebrate my body that is, what I can do with it, how I can work to make it “better,” by MY definition and mine alone.  At ANY age, this form isn’t guaranteed good health or strength, but while it lasts, I will be enjoying it to the FULLEST, both in its excesses and its scarcities.  

If you’ve had similar struggles in the past or are totin’ that monkey on your back at present, I see you.  Sendin’ you a hug that circles you a couple o’ times or barely makes it all the way ‘round, depending on who you are.  

LOOOOOOOVE that body.  Please.  For its delicious leanness or all its glorious fecundity, love it.  

Love y’all.

An Evening of Swiss Cheese

I deemed tonight raclette night.  Come hell or high water, I was gonna have it.  I stopped in at a gift shop earlier for some trinketry and asked where one could enjoy that type of cuisine most deliciously in the STUNNING burg of Interlaken.  The pierced, preened, bespectacled and bow-tied associate oh-so-primly informed me that raclette is a “winter dish” and I wouldn’t be able to find it this time of year.

<ahem>

I thank him for his input, narrow my eyes and set my jaw, and take to the streets to find my dairy goodness.  A few blocks down, I stroll into a restaurant that has an alpine feel to it, inquire about raclette.  THIS guy says they have macaroni and cheese with bacon, which is… close.  

<eyebrow>

I tell him that is a distinctly American dish and I want LOCAL, AUTHENTIC Swiss food, specifically raclette.  He nods in comprehension and sends me to the Hotel Krebs.  “It’s the word for cancer in German.”  

I Googled it.  It’s totally the word for cancer in German.

SO off I go.  It’s not far from the bierhaus-lookin’ place at all, directly across the street from McDonald’s.  Beautiful restaurant, well-appointed.  There are several groups of people on the patio enjoying meals even though the weather is rainy, blustery, and chilly.  I wait at the maitre d’ stand for a moment, where I’m greeted by a young gentleman who asks to seat me.  I tell him what I’ve come to eat.

“Oh, that’s not possible.  Our raclette dishes are made for two persons.”

<…>

“I have come to Switzerland to eat raclette and I will eat raclette.  It will either be here with you or somewhere else, but I’m having it.  You decide.”  

He reserves my table for 5 p.m.  When I arrive, the heating apparatus is already warming on the table.  I sit and order raclette natur, which is served with tomatoes, potatoes, pickles, peppers, and PINEAPPLE.  When it arrives, it is displayed on a ten-pound hunk of butcher block.  There are 200g of cheese on this spread according to the menu, as well as the other accoutrements of this soon-to-be bubbling, molten mess of cheesy incredible-ness.

The server surrounds me with the entirety of my dinner, and I ask her for instructions on how to eat it.  “You slice the potatoes, then use this little … um, “thing” to take the cheese out of the little tray and cover the potato.  Then you add some pineapple, some peppers maybe.  Or bacon.  Do you like bacon?”

*MA’AM.*

She departs and returns with, no lie, a cross-section of a TREE that has TEN slices of raw bacon on it.  “This is with compliments of the chef.  You put these on top [of the warmer].  It is not cooked.”  So now I have EIGHT slabs of cheese and TEN slices of bacon, the pork GIFTED from the toqued angel in the kitchen who heard about the American attempting to tackle raclette for two, as well as pickles, tomatoes, potatoes, and a partridge in a pear tree.  

I get to work on this smorgasbord, hammering away, experimenting with leaving the cheese on the heat a little longer to get that crunchy burnt amazing around the edges.  You know, the kind that causes World War Family Edition if you scrape off more than your fair share from the casserole at holiday get-togethers?  MmHMMMM. 

In the end, there is a clear victor.  And he is wearing SWEATPANTS.  Momma Bullard didn’t raise a fool.  But now that champion needs a belly rub, a nap, aaaaaaaand probably some dessert a little later.  

I love Switzerland.  Little old lady…who.

Swiss Ladies

I think of Switzerland as a triumfeminate, each woman distinctly different, devastatingly lovely, and irresistibly enticing, leading visitors to leave a piece of their hearts in this place that is just as country as it is cosmopolitan, as analytical as it is artistic.

She is German: tight blouse and long, fitted skirt slit to the hip, a pair of knee-high patent leather heeled boots beneath. Hair slicked into a waist-length ponytail; a smoky cat-eye beneath stylish spectacles, adjusted with arched eyebrow, thumb and forefinger. Her expensive perfume is floral yet metallic, her smirk aloof. The morning after your encounter, your ribs are sore; your underwear inside out, ripped, and dangling from the doorknob. You taste pennies licking ‘round your swollen lip, one eye purple and squinting. You limp to the shower and when the water hits you, you gasp sharply as you turn to find raw stripes, shoulder to waist, chafing on your wrists. You chuckle lightly to yourself as the mirror steams, drawing the curtain to a close, drain water stained a pale pink…

She is France, a coquettish maiden in white clam diggers and a pink oxford rolled to the elbows, a strand of the teeniest pearls known to oysterkind, delicate sandals with perfect pink toes, 2.7 shades lighter than her blouse. She is IMPOSSIBLY beautiful in the most wholesome of ways. Her skin smells of soap and butter, and she runs a finger down the collar of your shirt to get your attention; a smooth, perfect knuckle dragging along clavicle, setting your pulse to pounding, a dazzling smile when she meets your eyes. She walks too closely, and her pinky grazes your forearm once every three strides, and when she abruptly stops, you screech to a halt, contorting your lumbering person into a cocoon shape, hoping to avoid crashing into her perfection; she never moves, just waits for the impact, a naughty lip pursed when you’ve somehow missed…again. You walk her to the door, hoping for an invitation to the secret garden, but she kisses you twice—once on each cheek—then retires to the recesses of her dollhouse cottage, alone.

And she is Italy. She smells like skin and sleep and breath and HOME. She cradles your heart in her hands like a baby bird, whispering little sweetie-things while gingerly caressing, cooing, smoothing. Clad in yoga pants because she KNOWS she looks amazing, swimming in your favorite threadbare rock or team tee. She argues with you from the kitchen, stomping bare foot and slamming the spoon on the side of the pot in emphasis, splatters herself—and your SHIRT—in the process. Instantly distracted, she duck lips and buries her chin in her neck while she assesses the damage with a sheepish giggle, scooping the tomato pulp with a slender crescent nail, slurping it from fingertip to return to her rebuttal. She wraps arm around your waist in public, but when other backs are turned, ninja slides a tiny hand to cup a buttock then feigns shock and offense when you start from the squeeze.

At night, while I sleep, these women hold council to report reactions and choose a victor from the day’s efforts. Tomorrow they will start the contest again, curious to see who will win the heart of this American man traveling through their realm. It’s me versus them, and there are ONLY winners after the sun sets.

People Pleaser

<scrooch mouth> <sucks teeth> <blink blink>  Aight.

This is just a reminder to E.V.E.R.’B.O.D.Y. that no matter how hard you try, no matter how laser-sharp your focus, how great your intentions, or how steadfast your gait toward your goals, there will ALWAYS be some hemorrhoid of a human being finishing the last bite of banana just waitin’ to toss that peel at your feet.

You are allowed to ignore her.  OR.  IT IS THOROUGHLY ACCEPTABLE TO CLOUD UP AND RAIN ON HIS PARADE.  I wouldn’t necessarily recommend it in a public forum, but sometimes discretion isn’t an option. Occasionally you’ve just gotta let folks KNOW.  

Remember this:  for every pile in your pasture, there’s a million flowers.  And, whether you choose sunshine or rain on that heap o’ steamin’ turd, one will dry it, the other will wash it away, but all of it nourishes what’s been growin’ by the light of what you’ve been showin’.

Love y’all.  

Donnie Sue

She taught me that a whisper and a tear could be exchanged for a promise:  I can still hear the soft <thups> of love and faith that fell from her eyes dotting the cover of her Bible, punctuating her quiet, tender prayers on my behalf, hanky gossamered from years of wringing and dabbing in the church on the hill, tucked safely between Psalms and salvation.

She’s the drop-everything, duck-your-head-and-hustle when it’s do or die, fourteen-options-for-dinner, Sunday School warrior woman in sweater sets, pearls, and applique.  She smells like Merle Norman, Tresemme and Clorets.  There’s perfume in the mix somewhere, but these other scents, to me, are more distinctly my MOMMA.  

She’s the face that defined beautiful for a little tow-headed, button-nosed boy a lifetime ago, hidden behind delicately creased knuckles in a million games of “Peep-Eye.”  She’s the naughty chuckle stifled behind eight sliver-nailed fingertips.  The tremor in her shoulders, the rolling side eye inform me my quip has landed safe in humor’s harbor; she’s the quiet in the eye of the storm—’til she’s NOT—then we’d ALL better run for cover.  

She’s a perfect pan o’ biscuits, presented pipin’ hot on a crispy-edged potholder, blackened, caramelized and crunchy from the million other fresh-from-the-oven dishes she’s put in front of her chubby youngster, those precious Teflon hands still floured and buttered from the kneading and rolling, cutting, pinching, and placing, a greasy dollop atop each, baking crown to golden brown.  She’s shown me through countless calories that a Southern mother’s love is often expressed most effectively in a meat ’n three.  Or four.  Or more.  And a sorghum-slathered cloud of carbohydrate.  

She made it clear all she’s ever wanted for me was happiness.  And safety.  And for me to be good to folks.  And I do my best.  She gave me the world and all she asked in return was a postcard to let her know I was OK, the occasional tale of how I made the most of an opportunity to help along the journey, jotted in the margin near the postmark.

Donnie Sue, my sweet Mom, I never leave home without a pocketful of memories of your whispers, tears, biscuits and blessings.  I see your eyes in the mirror each morning and taste your wisdom on my heart when I need guidance.  You’re the breath behind my laughter and the white in my knuckles when I fold my hands to pray.  Grateful for you today and every day.  

Love you.  PFY

Ink and Cream

Perfect morning breaks to black coffee and journal, leaves the thick coarseness of a coloring book—penpoint etches, leaving  innermost thoughts in an inky wake, footprints on a beach at dawn.  Privacy unnecessary, the scrawl is indecipherable to all, including author.  Written not to be read, but to be released; brain, balls, bile and ire escape through rollerball’s path.  Even the spaces between loop and dot hold meaning lost as soon as it is recorded.

Narrow feetsteps approach, bare toes on clay tile, smell of shampoo fills nostril before contact.  I thrill at the anticipation of touch, continuing my purge, aching to see what will come:  a squeeze of a buttock, a palm across a nipple, a wet finger in an ear?  Intimacy without serious distraction, a quiet “I’m here,” a hint to how much better my morning will be once my exercise is complete.

It is a lingering press of lip to shoulder.  Not a kiss, a luscious mouth resting on the ridge of muscle that eventually leads to my written word.  Breath raising the hairs on my skin, one eye peering to page where my thoughts become focus from their cerebral scatter, the other hiding behind my neck, butterfly lashes tickling with each blink.  Close enough to observe every invisible hair, each pore and follicle.

She inhales the smell of sleep from my skin, the cold drip of her bathed curls trickles shoulder blade, kissed away from my waist by a thirsty navel as she presses into me.  Pillow lips from shoulder to spine, a silent peck before resuming journey to the brewing carafe of liquid miracle, a shadow of her touch still warm and dark behind me.

Second cup poured from pot, she slinks to table, drapes robe behind thigh, her silky knee disturbs the hair on my own.  She cuts eyes briefly while puckering to sip through the steam, estimating the time in column inches that separates us.  She stares forward, but I know this game.  My scribble quickens as I approach page end.  

She rises from table, half-supped and smirking, and as she reaches kitchen door, she hears the click of the pen and the book slam shut.  She runs but not too fast, her squeal smothered by a hungry mouth and another glorious day has begun.

I Wanna Tell You a Story.

Friends of mine had a baby, a little girl.  Beautiful, dear angel—all smiles, dimples deep enough to stash quarters, crinkled her nose when she laughed, pushed the air through it in a mischievous snicker.  Bald as an egg the first two years of her life.    

That baby grew from a chunky-legged infant to a teetering toddler, clinging to every stick of furniture, grasping every finger to hold while she made her way ‘round house, church, and grocery.  She HATED to be carried now that she knew how to walk:  FIERCELY independent, from the moment she realized her freedom lay in putting one foot in front of the other.

Flash forward a few years of scraped knees, snaggle-toothed smiles, wonky pigtails, and fridge art.  Time skitters by a little more to the dreaded days of colossal crushes and giggle whispers, homecoming dances and prom dates; tassels and mortar boards, sheepskins and scholarships.

Then THAT boy came along.  <sigh>  You didn’t know what to make of him:  he was quiet and didn’t really “mesh” with the family, but he LOVED that little girl in a way we couldn’t—honored her, cherished her, listened to her, protected her, VALUED her.  She trusted him with her heart and he took that responsibility very seriously.  We warmed to him, but he was always more “hers” than “ours.”  <shrug>  OK.  It wasn’t OUR ideal situation, but, y’know, that’s how it went.

They married.  I sang.  I couldn’t look at them at the altar because I can either sing…or I can cry.  I can’t do both.  Fact.  Finished the song, took my seat, yanked the hanky.  Waterworks.  

Cake was cut, life began.  Jobs, house, honeymoon.  Normal, right?  Then they found out they were expecting.  We could NOT have been happier.  ALL of us.  Her bony elbows and knobby knees rounded with the rest of her—FINALLY, thank goodness—and we all rejoiced as the new life swelled in her along with our hearts, our hopes, our excitement for the new addition to the family.

Then, 10 weeks before she was to deliver, the unthinkable.  We’d never even heard the words “placental abruption.”  Those who weren’t talking to the doctor ran to phones, just to gauge the severity of the situation.  There was a choice to be made.  

How do you choose between the little girl you’ve known for the past 24 years and the little stranger you’ve loved for as long as it’s existed?  I cannot imagine the fear, the abject bewilderment and helplessness in the hearts and minds of the family that surrounded these two precious lives. 

It wasn’t up to me, but I was grateful the family had the CHOICE.  That sweet blessing stayed with the angels instead of coming down to us, and we got to keep Momma.   For what seemed like an eternity, they dealt with anger, loss, and a phantom of wounded disquiet that refused to move on.  But after about a year, they took another chance at starting a family.  

Nine months of an EXTRA-vigilant pregnancy delivered a healthy baby girl, spitting image of the roly-poly pinkness I remember from about a quarter-century ago.  Just as bald, too.  Heh.

And though it is absolutely, 100%, without-a-doubt, NONE OF MY BUSINESS WHATSOEVER, I am beyond grateful in my heart of hearts that this family had an OPTION and that we got to keep one because of a choice instead of losing both because of an obligation.  They made the best decision they could with the facts of the situation, praying all the while they made the right one.  

Not every decision of this sort is made by monsters, friends; though I can see how you’d think that if you hadn’t lived through it.  That’s an ugly picture being painted in broad, ugly strokes across a HUGE canvas.  Those choices are also made by folks who love and want those babies, MORE THAN ANTYHING, and have prayed—in earnest—for the privilege to be parents, but can’t bring themselves to lose the daughter, friend, wife, future mother in the hopes of saving a little one.  

Love y’all.

My Love Letter to Alabama

Baby pictures’ll show Ralph Edward and Donnie Sue raised a chubby cherub who grew to husky youngster; born to the sweetest, warmest, deepest- and fiercest-loving parents, Pop and Sweet Mom provided the darkest, richest earth in which a li’l mansprout could ever hope to plant himself.

Austin Creek Missionary Baptist Church ignited my fire in faith, community, and family made instead of inherited.  My love of music only swelled from lifting those shape notes from the hymnals’ pages, showing me how song could melt a heart and thrill a soul.  

I was a panther through and through, first at Cleveland K-12 and then on to the Hilltop of Birmingham-Southern College.  More than books and classes, I found my people, discovered myself, realized my passions, initiated my tribe.

Though I treasure my Alabama roots, there’s a whole WORLD to see and I didn’t want to waste a MINUTE gettin’ out in it.  I’ve been blessed beyond measure to experience a bounty of wonders this ol’ world has to offer.  When I roam, I have ALWAYS taken a bit of home with me.  I donned crimson and white trekkin’ Everest.  I sang “Sweet Home Alabama” from a guard station on the Great Wall of China.  Hell, I hollered “ROLL TIDE!” at some lady sportin’ orange and blue at the Vatican.  Bless ‘er heart. 

NOBODY HAS *EVER* HAD TO GUESS FROM WHENCE I HAILED, NOR HOW PROUD I WAS OF THAT FACT.  

And this morning, Alabama, I am awash in love and gratitude I feel for you.  Yesterday, the WHOLE WORLD was watching as you proved what I have been preachin’ for TWENTY YEARS:  Alabama is chockablock with kind, strong, generous, intelligent, creative, caring, hard-working people.  I know it, y’all know it.  Now EVER’BODY knows it.  

 Some other gems gleaned yesterday that I suspected and delivered:

A VOTE IS NEVER WASTED.  Write-in folks?  I’m lookin’ at YOU.  Many of you crossed an aisle to accomplish what you saw as the greater good.  Y’all turned the TIDE on this (see what I did there?).  Thank you.

ALABAMIANS OF COLOR?  YOUR VOTE MATTERS.  Especially you, strong black ladies and powerful black men of my home state.  I give you a flower for the guff some tolerated at your polling places.  You stuck to your guns and you cast your ballot. 

YOUNG VOTERS?  You don’t need white at your temples or specs on your nose to be wise.  Your numbers and conviction got you heard.  I look forward to hearing more from you in the future.  You are the foundation and future of Alabama, the nation.  

No matter what the media tries to tell you, regardless of what Mildred confided at the Piggly Wiggly, or how bookface, tweeterbug, or insta assault you in the days to come, I want you to remember this:  

I’ve seen us win S.E.V.E.R.A.L.  crystal footballs in my time, and that’s INCREDIBLE, and y’all KNOW how much I love my team.  The world may burn tomorrow.  But today?  Today I celebrate the fact that there was a line drawn in the sand and Alabama?  My people?  MY FOLKS?  

Y’ALL TOED IT.  

LOVE Y’ALL.  ROLL TIDE.

All the World's Secrets...

Smear hummus, try couscous, don’t pass on the flan.
You’re here but a moment, the next one you’re gone.
Smell roses, kiss babies, indulge your caprices;
write your crush on your dance card, spoil nephews and nieces.

See Kathmandu, Cuzco, Kigali and Rome
Cruise the white cliffs of Dover, miss the red hills of home.
Watch full moons, surf sand dunes, hug redwoods in Cali,
Master mopeds and bobsleds, walk each cobblestone alley.

Don matching at Easter for family photo
Suffer Dad’s quips and road trips in his old DeSoto
Yuletide by fireside then new year’s eve kisses
Sure thing at spring fling, mourn a couple near misses.

Life’s dotted throughout with some wins, draws, and losses,
Messiahs, mezuzahs, and crescents and crosses.
Neither perfect nor streamlined; oft messy and loud
There’s much ground to cover from swaddle to shroud.

This wide world’s a gift, countless layers of wrapping
The music is playing, why stop your toes' tapping?
Gleaned many of her secrets, and now I’ll confess:
The best way I’ve found to live fully? SAY YES.

You Can Tell a Friend by the Fights

I got in a heated discussion a while back with a brilliant young woman over language, cultural communities, appropriation and the like.  This morning, I found this INCREDIBLE video and wanted to share it with her, only to find that I’d been removed from her facebook friends list. 

Valuable lesson in this.  Truly.  Disagreement can sometimes be one of the highest compliments you can pay another:  your beliefs don’t align 100%, but that even though you were SO vehemently opposed to each others’ viewpoints, with a little time, distance, and understanding, bits and pieces of their argument can—and hopefully will—augment and expand your own ideas.  

So before I go isolating my own self from others who disagree so strongly with something very near and dear to my own way of thinking, I will take pause to remember this day when there was something uniquely valuable learned and gained, and that I may never have the opportunity to tell her that she was the reason for it.  

Love y’all.

Truck Song

I’d forgotten how great it feels to mop my melting brow with the hem of my shirt, grit in the creases of elbow and neck, grinning at your buddy when you KNOW you’ve done the job and it turned out well, even if it took a few tries peppered with don’t-tell-Momma expletives and chuckles that started on the floor of your belly.  Harold and I had a DAY this week—spreadin’ dirt, buildin’ fence, buyin’ out the Home Depot (who makes AWFUL coffee, by the way, but it’s free and it’s strong, so there ya go), and building brotherhood over bobcat’s roar and the whine and grind of a Ryobi.  

My favorite part of the day would have to be riding in Harold’s ’72 Chevy short-bed pickup truck.  It had lever door handles and cranker windows, the chrome pulling away just enough to reveal the spongy goldenrod of the foam padding underneath; the seat belts you kept trying to yank from the retractor, but only pulled about eight inches before the THUNK let you know it was an exercise in futility—your life was in the hands of your driver, son, and may the Good Lord go with you; the sliding rear window that may or may not come all the way together if a storm blew up.  I couldn’t tell you—we were blessed with sunshine all the live-long day, don’tcha know. That little silver nub-button on what coulda been the glove compartment if there was anything behind the door panel; but it surprised you with a peek into her guts where you expected to find a yellowing, dog-eared owner’s manual or service records dating back to the Reagan administration.  How ‘bout the stiff stitches in that sun-dried, crackling river bed of a vinyl interior with the alternating striped panels, guaranTEED to leave you with a severe case of waffle butt, no matter how thick your coveralls?  And the SMELL—that mix of vintage diesel and aged Southern summer sweat, the ghost aroma of a foil packet of Red Man or occasional whiff of a Dixie cup stuffed with tobacco-spit-soaked sheet o’ paper towel from Granny’s kitchen, one pilfered while she shook her head and clucked with disapproval.  “Nasty,” she’d whisper under her breath.  But she’d still kiss her husband, even with a mouthful of the stuff.

I’m four years old standing by PawPaw McCoy in the seat of his old Chevrolet (pronounced SHIH-vuh-LAY) in the carport at their house in Blount County, Alabama, bumper Keds and short britches, Garanimals polo and a smile, arm around his ENORMOUS bull neck, feeling his doorknob elbow in front of my chubby knee—as secure as any punkin’ seat, I assure you.  I’m ready to go with him to town to get whatever 50-pound sack o’ something we need from the Co-Op.  He’s pushing those pre-set buttons on the radio and orange needle slicks from gospel to country to gospel, his throat rumbling an off-key basso profundo that makes me feel as safe as that tree-sized tricep holding me by his side.

I’m nine years old, and I’ve gotten too tall to stand in the cab, so I’ve graduated to standing in the bed, belly button mashed against the cargo light, arms splayed across the roof of this machine, ROASTING that tender white underskin against the sun-baked steel, river breeze pushing my white-blonde Beatle bangs back from my forehead, cruising through the Swann Covered Bridge, boards creaking and popping as we roll over, pleading for PawPaw to push the button—the horn *I* like to think he had installed just to thrill me, heartily endorsed by both Bo and Luke Duke:  “I WISH I WAS I THE LAND OF COTTON!”  And a few years later, when that one started to distort and stutter with age and overuse, an even better one took its place. “YAY ALABAMA!  CRIMSON TIDE!”  My peals of laughter would echo off the walls of that bridge my other PawPaw—James Edward, the Original—helped build.

Now I’m 17, screaming like a scalded dog down this old dirt road, JUST-graduated from high school, Aerosmith BLARING.  I take a corner too quickly, the back tires meet gravel, and suddenly I’m slingshot, hurtling toward a neighbor’s grandpa, as he’s push-mowing the lawn.  I yank the steering wheel HARD to one side and bounce into the ditch, ricochet up the bank and back into the street, now facing the opposite direction.  I jerk the keys from the column and leap from the cab to check on him.  All internal combustion has stopped, and only the tick of that GM engine, the long, high tone of a door ajar, the thrum of crickets, and the pounding of our hearts can be heard—

That smell takes me back to summers of hoeing watermelons, remembering the SHEETS of sunburnt skin that molted from my ears and the back of my neck after the water blisters burst; peeling the sweat-soaked cotton from my body after a day of wringing ears of Silver Queen corn from their stalks or chucking overripe okra pods at cousins while they ducked, giggled, and hollered when you tagged ‘em with those projectiles armed with at least two layers of injury:  the size and weight of the weapon and the itchy burning of those fine white hairs that covered ‘em and buried into your hands and arms, both as hunter and prey.  And bouncing around those grass-green, manure-piled pastures feeding the fattest, sleekest cattle you’ve ever seen, opening and holding gates as that blessed old truck would pull through, the taste of malt in your nose and the shuffle of pellet and cube in a bucket, or that rogue morsel rolling around the corrugated bed.

I let a few drops of nostalgia squeeze outta my eyes as these memories pour over me, like a Sunday morning at the car wash.  It’s a song of the South—the rumble of that engine, the creak of the steel as it rubs when the door opens, the clang of a rusty ol’ tailgate left to drop.  Hearty as a hymn and as intricate as an aria—but you’ve got to be able to read the notes on the page before you can sing it for your people.  

Can you hear it?

Love y’all.

Common?

Common.  It’s a word I will use with more caution—more sparingly—from today forward.  By itself, it is what it is:  widespread, general, ordinary; usual, familiar.  But when paired with some of my favorite notions, its identity changes to something larger, more noble. 

Sense.  Courtesy.  Knowledge.

I must reevaluate what these terms mean and how broad a scope I can use to ASSUME what is a shared cultural definition.  Because I assure you, friends—these ideas aren’t commonplace any longer.

I don’t see myself as the grumpy old neighbor hollering and waving my cane at the whippersnappers that tromp my begonias on their way to the ice cream truck.  I’m the grown, reasonable man that gets disappointed by holding people, their actions, behavior, and their… ignorance overcome and/or educated… to what has proven to be an unreasonable standard.  And it seems the person who gets the worst of all this… is me.  I pay for it in frustration, shock, hurt, and often in being the very large, very squishy target of takers and fakers.

I appreciate that folks enjoy the light I try to shine in the world, but I’m here to tell you—the shadow has a place in my heart, too.  And today it feels a little dimmer, cooler to know that what I considered to be the minimum, the baseline, is changing.  I am taking off the pink glasses in order to more clearly see the worms in my garden.  But I’m still taking time to smell the roses.

Love y’all.

Find Your Passion

I was lifting yesterday and between sets, I was talking with the fella at the front desk—a bearded BOSS with a barbell—and we were chatting about personal finances, planning for the future, the ease of accessibility of the wealth of human history and knowledge, and the pursuit of security, greatness, and happiness in general.  

As a conversation with me about such topics is wont to do, it got a little…<ahem>  “rambunctious.”  I was also between heavy SKWAT sets, which only served to exacerbate the situation.

Well, the owner of the gym comes over—a petite, kinetic, and STRONG woman named Kate—to ask us what’s we’re talking about, as she “heard a lot of passion going on over here.”  

What a wonderful thing to say to somebody; what a grand compliment:  I crossed the room because whatever you two were talking about so fervently made me want to come listen, take part.

May the force that sets your world turning—drives you, inflames you, inspires you—be so overwhelmingly powerful and infectious that others have no choice but to be drawn into your orbit.  

Love y’all.

A Promise of Kindness

I’m making all o’ y’all a promise right now. When I see a stranger on the receiving end of hatefulness, I’m going to find something in that person that readily reminds me of someone I LOVE—one who stirs feelings in me I cannot repress, hide, or reason away. Victims and their situations must be made tangible, familiar, valuable, deserving of my care and protection should the need arise.

When I see someone aggrieved because of the color of their skin, I will conjure Ms. Arnetta, the memories of afternoons spent with her in the costume shop at Birmingham Children’s Theater, sharing a snack, listening to tales of her grandbabies, the latest fabulous frock she’d created and for whom it was designed, all of which she could show me in the accordion of picture pages in her pocketbook.

At the first sign of homoassholery (ain't no fear in it, just ignorance and mean-spiritedness) you can bet the memory of my cousin Brian will haunt my heart: the soft-spoken gym boss, prodigious pianist, and all-around awesome human—a life ended too soon by violence and hate. I looked up to that man so much, both in his strengths and gifts, as well as his ability to overcome his weaknesses. His senseless death still stokes the fire of anger and incredulity, and the hollow of loss, in my bones.

And when I encounter a situation where a woman is given anything less than her well-due respect, I’m gonna try to put my sweet momma in her shoes. And may the good Lord HELP you if you trespass against Donnie Sue Bullard while *I’M* around. You better relinquish your soul to heaven, because the rest of it belongs to ME.

It is not enough to shake my head, stank my face, cross my arms, clear my throat, change seats, complain to bystanders. It is insufficient to do no more than pray that the mistreatment of our brothers and sisters—religiously and otherwise—stops. I have a bad habit of reasoning why I shouldn’t make waves, how keeping my peace would be a better option than standing up and speaking out. But if I want things to be different—and I do, especially from what we’ve seen in recent events—in these types of situations, I must demand the change I want to see in the world.

Y’all know I love words and try to keep a few pretty fancy ones at my disposal. I’m hoping they will be my weapons in this fray. But if they’re not, well, the time is nearly upon us to shed some knuckle blood. Discussion will always be my first resort, but make no mistake, friends: it will not be my last.

Do something for someone who reminds you of someone you love TODAY. I’d do it for you. And I promise to do it more often. 

Love y’all.

I Thought of You Today

I thought of you today. I walked by that cool little coffee place we loved so much; but instead of jamming my hands deeper in my pockets, dropping my chin to hurry past, I walked inside.

The barista lit up as I entered, but clearly he was looking for you. His smile dimmed a little when he noted I was alone. You KNOW he had a crush on you, right? Of course you do—you read men like books: no words, BIG PICTURES. But you were always so great about it: kind, demure. Your cappuccino would arrive with an extra biscotti, an elaborate image in the foam, and you would smile, then reach across me for the caddy, letting your hand linger on my forearm as you plucked two raw sugars before pouring them down the side of the cup, careful not to mar the surface masterpiece before absolutely necessary. You sent a subtle message, but a clear one, nonetheless.

I order your milky concoction, though I prefer to take mine “hot, black, and bitter,” which made you wrinkle your forehead, knitting eyebrows. You’d insist I try a sip of yours, but you’d give a small, emphatic shake of your head when I offered to reciprocate. Mine was too strong, too dark, too hot. But today I want the pale sweetness that reminds me of you. I sit, staring at the small bud vase and its tiny succulent. We would argue over their reality; but you would swat at me if I pinched the leaves too hard—you didn’t want me to “hurt” it, so I never knew if these centerpieces were silk or cellulose. Without you here for their protection, I solved the mystery. But in your absence, knowing the answer isn’t nearly as satisfying as I thought it’d be.

Crisp fall days with matching coffee-flavored kisses, your cool hand scraping slowly along the overhang of my stubble-speckled jawbone and down past the racing pulse in my neck, coming to rest on the divot where my clavicles meet. Such small hands—the time it took you to span my shoulder to shoulder felt like an eternity, making me feel as though my chest were a football field, a continent. I’d flex one side as you got neeeeearly all the way across, just to bump your hand a little, and you’d giggle, teeth gently clicking with the newly-broken smiles, and you’d roll your eyes and call me stupid, but your hand never left my heart. Then my favorite: you’d rest the hollow of your eye socket against the apple of my cheekbone, and I could feel your lashes graze my skin, oh, so gently.

I only miss you sometimes. I know you’re happy. And there are days I can barely believe the amazing things I get to do, see, and experience, and with whom. But then there are times when I hear the clink of teaspoon on the inside of an earthenware mug and I remember when I was half of a contented whole and it makes my soul smile.

For the Womenfolks

I celebrate Donnie Sue first and foremost, my sweet Momma—the woman to whom all others are compared. I appreciate the strength and sacrifice she showed and made to nurture our little three family of Bullards into one of the most precious and enduring loves I’ll ever know.

I honor my Aunt Vera—her trembling hands with knotty knuckles that wrote $2 checks to me for Christmas in a hand more glyph than script; her piano-key smile full of charmingly crooked teeth, showing me how the beauty of a thing oft lies in its imperfection; for the summers I spent at her house playing Tinker Toys and Lincoln Logs stored in the kitchen cupboard, for the hours of lessons in card sharping and fair play.

I offer tribute to Grandmother Marlene McCoy, with her pillowy expanse of huggable/cryable bosom and Merle Norman-scented cheek for planting kiddie kisses; for imparting the value of hard work in eternal, mercilessly humid Alabama summers in a corn field or vegetable patch; for her countenance that showed every emotion—one her daughter, my mother shares—so that when I was in the wrong, I could feel her forgiveness but still see the displeasure at the trespass.

And I pay homage to Granny Bullard, Mettie Adelia, who lived every day of her 101 years with a sassy word on her tongue, a toughness that helped her survive a Copperhead bite in her youth, and what she alluded to being an unladylike affinity for the taste of Jack Daniels (purely medicinal, of course). I learned over a century of life through her recollections and view from her window seat atop the river hill just up from Swann Covered Bridge. Very little escaped her notice, and I benefited from the wisdom cultivated in her vigilance.

I cry—often and sometimes uglily. I hug hard and well, and for as long as necessary. I know the value of a smile and a kind word or action. These lessons are often taught—and best learned—by example. I’m grateful for the women in my life that have taken the time and made the effort to ensure their spirits were part of my nature, not just for while I’m “on my best behavior.” And today, as hopefully every day, I am thankful they, and many other outstanding women, stand by and around me to send a man in the world who knows the value of their ferocious love and profound tenderness.