The Greatest Audible Ever Called

This Week's Song - Mean to Me by Brett Eldredge. This song was written by my great friend, Mr. Travis Hill, and it's climbing the charts. He has a few number 1's and is still gunning for the top. He is a great song-writer but the worst wide receiver to ever play the game of football. Check out the song - Mean to Me.

Audible - a change in the offensive play called by the quarterback at the line of scrimmage.

Nancy and I went out to hear a band a couple of weeks ago. The hour was late. The dance floor was crowded. "Wintergreen!!" she yelled to me above the crowd. "What does that mean?" a good friend asked. I smiled. It was time to go. It is a code word with the most interesting of origins. 

1990 was the year. The country was on the brink of war with Iraq. Michael Bolton's glorious voice was belting out  How am I Suppose to Live Without You on the radio, and The Cincinnati Reds were on their way to a World Series victory. However, in the Fall of that fine year something else was brewing in unit 18 of Lake Terrace Condominiums on the campus of the University of Tennessee - the formation of one of the greatest teams in modern history - Captain Bob's Fabulous 14.  

Not Captain Bob's Team

This band of unlikely heroes was thrust together two days after the team-submission deadline for on-campus intramural flag football. The idea to form a team came late and after a long football Saturday. It was around 2:00 a.m. when the first call was made. Due to our late arrival on the scene, my brother and I were forced to look to a list of candidates who had not been chosen by the many teams already in existence. Quite frankly, none of the candidates considered and ultimately signed by Captain Bob (me) had been real considerations for any other team. The finalized roster was a veritable who's who of kids picked last on their neighborhood teams growing up. There are no photographs of this team. No one would take our picture. But, if you close your eyes, the team sort of looks like the fraternity formed in the movie, Old School.

Preseason projections were not good. Our starting inside linebacker was an uncoordinated and slow hemophiliac who'd never played organized sports. Our projected starting quarterback ended up missing most of the season due to pre-game anxiety. The roster included a suspended member of the Golf team, several on academic probation, and at least 5 players who could not run under a 10 second 40. We had one guy who could really punt well, but kicking the ball was not part of Flag Football. Half the team smoked cigarettes on the sideline and all but a couple drank to excess before kick-off. There was an aversion to practice so fierce that it was not even mentioned. We had no uniforms. Our only fan was my girlfriend, and "fan" is a strong word. Looking back over the roster, we wouldn't have been preseason favorites at anything unless it was a team hot-dog-eating contest. As the season approached, we found our strength - drinking beer and talking about our various theories of how success could be accomplished on the field. Travis, the dreamer of the group, became our chief play designer. John, my brother, became the designated driver. As our first game approached it became apparent that I'd be the starting quarterback by default. Our starter wasn't prepared for the bright lights and crowds numbering in the tens, and no one else could throw it beyond 10 yards. 

A couple of weeks before the first game, Travis designed a play that would alter the landscape of football in a profound way and create a code word that would become part of my everyday vocabulary. The play was a wide-receiver audible. Yes, a wide-receiver audible. An audible, usually called by the quarterback, is a change in play called at the line of scrimmage immediately before the ball is snapped. Usually, again, the quarterback changes the play after assessing the defense. He does so by calling out codes to inform the players of the new play. Our play, code named - Wintergreen - was a true innovation in the game. The code word would emanate from Travis (of course), not the quarterback, if he believed he could blow by his defender. Travis was a receiver. It was a hot route (Wedding Crashers reference) to Travis where he would run a straight fly pattern to the end zone. Suffice it to say, I didn't think this would ever come up. Primarily because I didn't believe we had one receiver, including Travis, who could run a fly pattern without stopping for a Gatorade half way down the field. "We'll use it later in the season," he said, "when we've gotten use to our positions." In the weeks leading up to the first game, Wintergreen was often discussed with great reverence. There was great speculation about how the play would be called and what circumstances would qualify it as a viable option. 

The first game finally arrived.  Beneath stadium lights on a cool Fall evening, Travis and I walked to mid-field for the coin toss. I sized up our opponents. They were wearing matching shorts and shirts, each player with a new pair of cleats. They looked to be members of the university's track team, a team that would go on to win the SEC Championship that year. Our team, clad in Fruit of the Loom white t-shirts with sharpie-written numerals, looked like prisoners of war being returned to a defeated nation.The coin was tossed and possession granted to us. 

We trotted out onto the field of battle and huddled up for the first time. The faces staring back at me reminded me of the faces of the men in the opening scene in Saving Private Ryan as they huddled inside the troop carriers about to land at Normandy. Some vomited into the dirt, others prayed. In order to lead men it is important to be stern and confidant. It is also important not to go overboard on the "Rah Rah" stuff. Striking the balance is what being a leader is all about. "Ain't gonna lie, boys. It doesn't look so good" I said. With that and believing we were at a real speed disadvantage, I called a short pass play, took a deep breath and said "here we go." As we approached the line of scrimmage, unified only in our belief of impending doom, I held back in the shotgun position and assessed the defense. Every defensive back was up in press coverage and the linebackers, who had the physical prowess and crazed looks of tigers in the wild, were set to blitz me, each of them easing up between defensive linemen. Travis was being covered by the reigning SEC 400m champion. I realized at that moment that I'd never seen Travis so much as run to the mailbox. He could play guitar and tell jokes, but I'd never seen him engage in an athletic endeavor in my life. I adjusted my flags on my waist and looked over the mismatches at every position, preparing to run for my life. "Down... Set..." I began. Then, suddenly from my right, on the first play of the first game, came a booming call from a familiar voice - "Wintergreen!!!!!!" rang out into the night and echoed off the fraternity houses. Everyone on our team suppressed a laugh. Our opponents looked at each other dumbfounded. It was one of the most hilarious moments in my life. "Hut!" I called. Travis sprinted by his man and as the ball left my hands, I knew it was true. Travis was five yards beyond his confused defender when the ball hit his hands, his chest and then the ground. We lost a lot of good men that day. (Wedding Crashers) 

We went on to make the playoffs that year. We had some great games and Wintergreen was used to greater success. Since that night, Wintergreen has been called many times. It has been mine and Travis's code word to leave a party. It has been used to signal trouble among my friends. I recall one night in a famous musician's palatial home where it was used to signal "let's get out of here!" It has been used by my wife and I when we need to signal each other that we don't know someone's name at a party or, as it was the other night, to indicate to each other it is time to leave the party or event. I've given that name to basketball plays when I'm coaching my son in AAU. Anytime I hear the word I am filled with laughter and happiness. This is the legend of Wintergreen. Thank God for good friends.

The Perfect Day

This Week's Song - All I Want is You - by U2 - My dear friend, Travis Hill, performed it at the funeral of our friend and brother. I'll never forget it.

"I have the opportunity for hope. I have time to pray to God and thank him for the wonders of my life." - Eric Kline

On a Summer day in my fourteenth year, beneath a gray sky peppered with the figures and sounds of seagulls, I  stood with four of my best friends looking out upon the unusually placid Atlantic Ocean. The waves, which roared only  moments earlier during a storm, diminished beneath a light rain. It was as if the great ocean was resting while vacationing families waited inside their condominiums for the poor weather to pass.  No one else was on the beach.

"What do you want to do?" Andy Watts, age 11, asked. "Let's build a sandcastle," Eric said.  Before anyone consented to Eric's idea, a small fish jumped out of a cresting wave, its shinny skin reflecting in the dulled light of a hidden sun.  John (JW), Andy's 15- year-old brother and oldest among us, turned and said, "I'm going to get my net." 

He returned with a rather large casting net. It had a draw string at the top and small weights lining the opening. Not one of us knew how to use it properly. JW put it between his teeth while grasping the edge, poised to cast it into the next wave. My little brother, also named John, known as "Big Man," helped JW pick up the net and position it for casting.

We were a group not all that interested or necessarily experienced in the ways of fish. We were kids from the suburbs, experienced in bicycles, big wheels, imaginary gun fights and kick the can. Football games in the yard followed by meatloaf in air-conditioned homes were the hallmarks of our life. If left alone on an island like Tom Hanks, not only would we have been unlikely to catch a fish, we would have perished from sunburn in the first 48 hours. The Watts brothers were the most experienced of the five in outdoor life, but that wasn't saying much. Eric Kline, who was 12, had little experience with reeling in the fruitti' de mare, and the Pryor boys could only claim several visits to the Cross-Eyed Cricket as the highlights to our fishing resume. On those handful of occasions when we ventured to the "Cricket" with our father we cast our cane-pole lines into the heavily stocked pond and pulled the trout out at an alarming rate. I thought that was how you fished.We'd been downright unstoppable in the trout catching business, but these were the open waters of the Atlantic. I didn't think that casting a small net into its shoreline had much potential, especially since the sight of a fish near the shore was such a rarity. However, we were bored and JW, the eternal optimist among us, saw one fish and was ready to go get it.

The net was thrown.

Two hours of pure adrenaline followed. When JW pulled the net taught it was filled with surprised and uncooperative fish. They were not minnows or bait fish. They were Whiting, each measuring a good 6 to 10 inches in length and weighing as much as 2 pounds. The sound of ecstatic boys filled the air. "What are we gonna do?!" I yelled. "We need a bucket," said JW our leader. The tide was out, leaving over 200 yards of beach between the water and the boardwalk. The Big Man volunteered for the assignment of acquiring a trash can for our collection and ran to the vacation complex as fast as he could. We didn't know if another cast would result in such a bounty. Therefore, we couldn't bring ourselves to throw any of them back. The Big Man returned with a garbage can from our condo kitchen. After we placed the catch in the make-shift live well, the net was gathered up and released once more into a wave. JW jerked the string, and it nearly pulled him over. It came back so heavy with fish that it took three of us to drag it back to the shore. All of our parents and other friends were either shopping or in their condos. The beach remained empty except for the audible excitement of five friends, the waves falling into the sand, and the flopping of the conquered Whiting inside their plastic prison.

Eric, or "Kline" as we called him, lived two doors down from the Watts boys back in Knoxville. I don't remember ever being in the Watts home when Kline wasn't there. He was like another brother for Andy and John Watts and, subsequently, he became our brother. Kline had only an older sister and welcomed being the playmate of two sets of brothers. We'd grown up together and all of us were aware of his diagnosis of Hemophilia, an inherited disease that sentenced him to a lifetime without contact sports. Whenever a football game or wrestling match broke out, Kline would refrain from participation, fighting the natural boy inside. His condition made him cautious and quiet. It allowed him to find the artist in him. Kline may not have been allowed to play linebacker, but with a pencil or brush in his hands, he was an All-American. On that glorious day in the Summer of 1983, he ran with his four brothers in reckless abandon as we darted into the surf and carted the net and the fish to our garbage can. The shy kid with the sharp and dry sense of humor was as loud as any of us as we dragged the net in with a large share of the New Smyrna Beach Whiting population.

We smelled of surf and wind and fish. We tackled and high-fived each other in the water as our bounty thrashed and pushed against the sides of our garbage can and each cast came back with more to join them. We were overcome by a sense of accomplishment, amazed at our dominion over the great ocean and all of its creatures. Once the can could hold no more, we pondered the next step. "Let's cook em and eat em!" Andy said. I'd never cleaned or cooked a fish in my life. JW thought he knew how to clean a fish, but after an informal poll, it became apparent the rest of us were virgins in the fish killing and cleaning game. The Watts boys suggested we go to their condo, which was on the first floor, to carry out the next step of our master plan. The Big Man and Andy carried the fish-filled can to the porch, water sloshing over the sides, the occasional fish leaping out and onto the grass in a failed escape attempt. This is where JW sort of showed us all how to clean a fish. He slid the knife in and up, removing the guts and head. Each of us took our turn, knowing that our labors would soon satisfy our growing hunger. As we cleaned the fish, the sizzle of the pan could be heard as our Captain fired up the stove. We didn't know what we were doing, but we each one knew that we were in it together. No adults would be consulted, no questions asked.With a bit of corn meal and butter, fish which had just been swimming in the ocean and cleaned with our own hands fried in the skillet in a rented condominium on the coast of Florida. We had enough for trial and error. The five of us stood in the kitchen and waited with an irrepressible excitement to taste the fruits of our labor. We ate fifteen fish between us, each better than the last. We froze another 20 and let our friends and parents, who returned from shopping, take what was left on the stove. Nothing I've ever eaten tasted as good. We ate with great pride and satisfaction.

We left the kitchen in a mess. The sun fell and we'd planned to build a sandcastle that night. It was Kline's favorite time. We didn't build ordinary sandcastles. With Eric Kline, sandcastles became artfully designed and built cities rising from the coast. With the rain and cooler weather that evening, the sand was perfect - soft and just wet enough to be malleable. As was custom, the brothers did the heavy lifting. Kline didn't lift or haul sand. He didn't bring shovels and buckets. He brought toothpicks, popsicle sticks and butter knives from the condo kitchen. He always had something you'd never see on a beach. To each bucket load of sand we hauled and poured, Kline set his hands to work, carving stairs, windows and street corners with detail so fine you'd swear it wasn't sand. He wasn't a natural born leader, but when it came to this one glorious task, we all deferred to his direction, listened to his planning, and marveled at his mastery. He told us where to put the sand and how much should be deposited. He taught me how to craft the details, and I was an eager student. We worked long into the night and ended our long day standing on the pool deck looking back over our creation knowing that the surf and weather would lay ruin to our masterpiece by dawn. It had been a day where the beach and the ocean belonged to us. In a time without cell phones or digital cameras, we didn't come away with any photographs, but I can still see it, our creation, there beneath the weathered planks of the Castle Reef boardwalk. All the days of youth, beautiful and otherwise, are wiped clean by star-filled skies and left only to the memories of little boys. That day in the Summer of 1983 was perfect.

Eric Kline

Eric Kline died 18 years ago, today. His hemophilia was severe enough to require clotting  factor whenever he had reason to bleed. Factor was made of donated blood and used to control bleeding in hemophiliacs. It isn't fair that Eric needed factor before blood products were screened for the unknown and mysterious virus that began killing so many. It makes me angry, even now. He acquired HIV and AIDS simply because he had a mole removed when he was in high school. He was the kindest and gentlest soul I've ever known. He was talented and funny and loyal. He was my brother. I think of him this week for sure, but I think of him anytime I pass our fraternity house or hear the roar of a Neyland Stadium crowd. I think of him every time I'm with his beautiful sister, Ashley, who is a dear friend, or see a new post on Facebook from his widow, Emilie, who has gone on to a wonderful life full of love and children. I think of him with a smile on my face, especially when in the company of our mutual friends that he loved so much. One of the last times I was with him we talked about the day and others on New Smyrna Beach, the fish, the sand castles. He was a private person near the end, never wanting us, his friends, to see him dying. He was always thinking of others. He never complained. He always asked about me, about my family, even when he was so sick he couldn't walk.  He was always full of hope. On this anniversary,  I'll leave you with something he wrote in the time of his illness, something that tells you who he was and, perhaps, who all of us should strive to be.

"Why me?" That is the question that rolls through my head so very often. I could probably count the times that I have needed factor on both hands. And yet, against most odds, I have managed to become another victim to the world's most popular disease. So here I stand on the third planet from the sun and scream at the universe, "Why me?" Why me, when I have so much to do, so much to experience, so much to give. My goals, my dreams, my future - lost somewhere along with my CD4's and my white blood cells. Who invited this deadly disease to come and disrupt my precious life? "Why me?" 

Then it occurs to me, occasionally, as I escape the everyday sufferings and aggravations and enter that realm beyond reality that we only see glimpses of here on Earth. This is no insurmountable virus designed to eat away at me until I beg for death. Instead, this is an opportunity for a miracle. This is a chance to embrace life, to elevate my awareness, to learn, to share, to love. A chance to live a more full life, experiencing everyday moment by moment. There are those who believe that we choose our lives, along with all of the challenges, sometime in Heaven, long before we enter our mother's womb. That perhaps we have predetermined our pain, and that through this pain growth is found. I find comfort in the belief that something positive is coming from my circumstance. 

There have been times when I have seen stories of children dying of cancer, societies ripped apart by violence, families destroyed by the action of a drunken driver. It is in these times when I think how lucky I am. I have the opportunity for hope. I have time to pray to God and thank him for the wonders of my life. And I can pray for the chance to see even a few more. I have not lost my dreams. They have simply been accelerated. It is in these times that the question rolls through my head once more, "Why me?" Then, like a whisper from a loved one that alleviates all fear, the answer comes to me:.."because I can handle it."

I think about that day often. I escape the everyday sufferings and aggravations and enter that realm beyond reality that we only see glimpses of here on Earth - and return to the day five brothers ruled the sand and sea, where the last vestiges of innocence and childhood had one more good run beneath God's approving eye, and where my dear friend was healthy, happy and whole, and it makes me smile.

The Dawning of September

Author's note - 

This Week's Song - Tennessee - by Little Jimmy Martin and the Sunny Mountain Boys. There is Rocky Top, then there is this one. It is a bluegrass staple and, if you are a fan of the Big Orange, one of the greatest songs for a pregame tailgate ever written. Go Vols! It's time.

He didn't grow up around here, but Jeremy Pruitt understands the importance of football in this town. He is a southern boy.  He may have never thought he'd be here, but tomorrow he's a Tennessee boy. I'll be watching on TV, believing West Virginia has no chance. It is the unfettered optimism of a child who still resides inside of me. It is born of a love planted in my heart on a fall day from my childhood and rooted so deep that it will survive the negligent leadership of any coach. So many that love the Orange have a story like mine. Go Vols!

Stanley Morgan

I held on tightly to my father's hand as the crowd thickened. When we were overcome by the gathering fans, he lifted me up and onto his shoulders so I could see. I rested my hands on his golfer's hat and took in the sweet smell of his cigar, looking out over the crowd and attempting to process what I was witnessing. Thousands of people in orange moved toward gates at a quickened pace as kick-off approached. Men held tickets high into the air. Others held up their fingers indicating how many tickets they wished to buy. The latter were followed by families or friends, each with a worried yet hopeful look on their face. From inside the stadium a booming voice called out names and uniform numbers, cheers rising at the mention of certain players and coaches. My heart was pounding. My father's footsteps quickened, his voice lively as he tried to explain everything I was seeing, the meaning of his words lost among the sound of the crowd and the dizzying festivities witnessed in all directions. As we stood in line at the gate, I could hear the band playing the national anthem and then an unfamiliar fight song. My father wanted to explain it all. "That's Auburn's fight song," he said. "Our band plays it for their fans as a sign of respect." I'd never been this close to realizing a dream. It was my first Tennessee game.

Until that day, a Tennessee game was something from the radio where a distinct and welcomed voice described every leap and catch made by Larry Seivers, each cut and explosive return made by Stanley Morgan, and every bone-crushing hit by a "host" of volunteers. I would sit on my bed and envision number 21 flying down the field as John Ward told me, in a voice increasing with excitement, he was at "the 30, the 35, the 40, the 45, will he go all the way? Yes, he will. the 40, the 35..." I'd put on my uniform, complete with the plastic helmet adorned with a "T" on each side, and jump up and down on my bed as the man on the radio said, "Wherever you are in the world, it's football time in Tennessee!" He described the scene in detail as my team came through the "T" formed by the band. He gave the most detailed explanations of alignments and action and then offered up patented calls of great plays that mixed in with the sound from the bleachers as the unified voice of the greatest fans on Earth reverberated throughout the stadium. I wanted to be there. I knew I would one day be among those people, my people. September 27, 1975 was that day.

A record crowd of 74,611 filed into the stadium. Neyland Stadium was a cathedral where I'd never been allowed to worship, the only historical landmark in the registry of my mind. On those occasions my family's station wagon traveled beneath its shadow on Neyland Drive, I marveled at its size and dreamt of the day I might be allowed to pass through its gates and join the congregation of believers like me. "They would like me," I thought. I was one of them.

As my father and I came through the tunnel and into the great coliseum, the muffled sounds from outside its walls transformed into the clear cacophony of band and crowd and Bobby Denton's God-like voice. As we searched for our seats, I looked, with eyes the size of quarters, upon the Pride of the Southland forming the "T," just like John Ward said, the notes of Down the Field blasting from each instrument. "Watch them, son," my father whispered, "Coach Battle will hold them in the tunnel until we can't take it anymore." Then, while the members of the band marched in place in a perfect alley formed by their line, the restless crowd worked into a frenzy and the orange-clad warriors with the helmets just like mine moved from shadow to sun for just a moment before they exploded from under the east side of the stadium into the glorious September afternoon. As the crowd roared, tears formed in my eyes. I knew for the first time in my life that tears were not reserved solely for pain. "That's Stanley Morgan, Dad!" I said.  Number 21 caught a warm-up pass as the band marched off the playing surface. "And, there's your boy," my Dad said with a father's exaggerated sense of excitement, pointing to Larry Seivers, number 89, sprinting down the sideline to talk to Morgan. They stood together on the sideline. I thought my heart might explode inside my chest. I couldn't catch my breath.

Larry Seivers
I still have his jersey

Larry Seivers had 6 catches for 109 yards that day. He caught 2 Randy Wallace passes for touchdowns. Stanley Morgan, who had a wonderful career in the NFL as a receiver, played tailback and rushed for over 130 yards. However, after the pregame excitement, I have but 2 distinct memories. One is of Stanley Morgan returning a punt 73 yards for a touchdown. It was called back on a penalty, and I learned how quickly heartbreak could follow euphoria in a Southeastern Conference football game. The other is that my father bought me a program, a box of Cracker Jacks and a Coke.  What I felt in the bleachers on that beautiful fall day was the purest form of happiness a child can feel. I was home. How many have found "home" inside the confines of that place?

I'll turn 50 in November, clearly on the north side of that line dividing the innocence of a child and the maturity expected of a man. Yet, the dawning of September always takes me back south of that line where the weathered heart and soul of the man I've become is granted renewal and, once more, filled with the joy and excitement ordinarily possessed by children.

I've seen it all. I learned the words to the Alma Mater by 12. I stood with my brother in the freezing cold at Notre Dame in 1991 at "The Miracle at South Bend." I was sitting with Jimmy Johnston in 1982 when we ended the losing streak to Alabama and Johnny was carried across the field to say goodbye to the Bear. I was in Section Q in 1985 when Tony Robinson thrashed a number 1 Auburn team with Bo Jackson, and years later in the company of 7 fraternity brothers as Reggie Cobb ran through a driving rain to destroy the same team from the plains of Alabama. I was front and center in Section U when Al Wilson ate up Florida quarterbacks and running backs on a beautiful September night in 1998 and, again, a few weeks later when Arkansas's Clint Stoerner miraculously dropped a ball for Billy Ratliffe to fall on.  I was in Gainesville in 2001 when little Travis Stephens sent Spurrier to the NFL in what I consider the greatest game in Tennessee history (apologies to those who believe the 86' Sugar Bowl or the National Championship in 99' holds that distinction). I was at every home game and many away games between 1987 and 1991, my college years.  I've been the boy with his Dad and the Dad with his son and daughter. I've been on the fraternity date with my Cheryl and a Halloween-costume-black-jersey game against South Carolina with my Nancy. There is not one other single location in the world where I can envision a time-lapsed movie of my life every time I enter one of its many gates. It is home.
 
I like to win, but I don't dwell on the heartbreak. My brother and I, in an unscripted and unforgettable moment this past season, swayed together with arms thrown around each other's shoulders and sang every word of the alma mater at half-time of the Georgia game while many of our fellow fans were headed for the door. We sang, hats in hand. Every word. Loud.

People outside of the Southeast wonder why it is that we care so much about football. Why do we act the way we do? It's because it feels so much like faith.  We stand with the congregation, one-hundred thousand strong, every fall Saturday as the Pride of the Southland marches into place. It won't matter whether I'm sitting next to a plumber, construction worker, postal carrier, lawyer, doctor, politician, student, the poor or the rich. When I enter I am among fellow believers, all of us born to the faith and dressed in our Saturday best, ready to give our all for Tennessee. The magic of September is upon us. The problems and evil of the world are melting away from me, leaving the kid with a coke, a box of Cracker Jacks, and a tear in his eye waiting for the Orange to run into a September afternoon. Beware West Virginia, Jeremy is lining them up. Go Vols!

One Last Prayer - Part 2

Author's note - This is the second of two installments. The response to the first installment has been amazing. Thanks to everyone who has reached out with a message, comment or kind word. Enjoy.

This Week's Song - If I had a $1,000,000 by The Barenaked Ladies - If you don't smile when listening to this one, get therapy. Now. "If I had a million dollars, I'd build a tree fort in our yard."

I was already awake when the first light crept into the room. It was October 23, 2000, the day after Cheryl died. I'd collapsed the night before in her spot on the unmade bed, where her scent was the strongest. The smell of her shampoo, her soap, the smell of my happiness was still fresh from her presence. I wouldn't relinquish the sheets to wash for weeks, as if handing them over would be saying goodbye, again. These are the details of despair. As she would for the better part of the next year, Shelby slept next to me. She slept the innocent and uncomprehending sleep of a child. Though I explained it to her in the clearest terms that her mother died, age erects a barrier to such nonsense. The tremors of emotion began, and I pushed my face into the pillow so as not to disturb my daughter's slumber. I felt her hand on my hair and the soft whisper on my neck, "it's gonna be okay, Daddy."  I vowed never to cry in front of her again. In the stillness that followed, I held her close until I heard Andy's waking voice.  The familiar "Momma," crackled through the monitor. This is how my new life began.

Destin 2004

There wasn't a road map for any of us who loved her. We wandered around in the fog through the funeral arrangements, a memorial service, and the incomprehensible act of placing her in a grave. Grief of this kind is all-consuming. Unless you've heard the undeniable sound of your own desperation and agony, you know not of what I speak. If you've heard the sound of your own grief, the one you cannot restrain or temper in any way, the one born of your primal self, the one we all have in us, then you understand. It doesn't knock. It blows into your life and when it does, you welcome it and place the rest of yourself in its service for it is the body's certified response to your brain and soul's failure to comprehend what has happened. Everyday life was incomprehensible. I recall standing beside her coffin as it was loaded into the hearse, watching cars across the street in line for Krispy Kreme donuts. Did they not know what was going on? How could anyone buy donuts? Surely, the world would stop, at least for a day. Grief is a personal and selfish thing, and if it was going to be my companion, I was going to become the world's leading authority on the subject. I'd just learned the concept of control was illusion, but old habits die hard. There are hundreds of books on the topic of grief. I'm the type of person who always felt like problems were solved by reading. Maybe that is why the discipline of a legal education and career appealed to me. Well-meaning friends gave me books, and I bought even more. One silly installment suggested there were steps to my grief, as if by checking each number off  I was making my way to a new and happy life. Others offered expansions on the time-honored theme of "time heals all." Then there was religion. I was a man of faith, but the constant battering of loss would challenge the greatest follower. The teachings planted in church and offered to me in abundance during those dark days did not bring consolation or comfort. The beauty and moments of peace I'd experienced on that terrible day faded beneath the murky waters of an unrelenting sorrow. Nothing ever written could explain why this happened or soften the pain. C.S. Lewis, in the one book with which I felt a kinship (A Grief Observed) echoed my feelings during those days - "Talk to me about the truth of religion and I'll listen gladly. Talk to me about the duty of religion and I'll listen submissively. But don't come talking to me about the consolations of religion or I shall suspect that you don't understand." I'd long admired C.S. Lewis and knew that if a great Christian man like him struggled with his faith after the loss of his wife, I had no one to apologize to.

All I wanted to do was hit fast-forward, anything to not live in the present, because I knew I couldn't hurt like this for long. I sought to learn from others. I wasn't going to reinvent the wheel. I was in a maze and needed directions. I reached out to those who'd lost spouses at a young age, those who'd been in the maze. Many reached out to me. It is a sad fraternity. I hungered for the insights of people who had taken on the great loss and could reveal the location of the path to happiness. They were wonderful people who taught me many things, key among them that I wasn't alone. In their number were those who'd remarried and those who were lonely. There were those who'd found happiness, or some semblance thereof, and those still in misery. They were some of the strongest and most courageous people I've ever known, but again, the empty pit in my heart and soul was deep, and the frustration in solving the unsolvable took its toll as the weeks passed. It is a big maze.

The healing began within the company of a select group of broken people, all of whom became heroes. I owe a lifetime of gratitude to each. When you love someone with the intensity with which we all loved her, the pain is proportional and unmerciful. We didn't know what we were doing and didn't know we were doing it, but we somehow began the long and arduous task of healing each other. Cheryl's parents, my parents, our siblings, our dear friends, all of us broken and attempting to find our way, leaned on each other. Cheryl's parents buried their baby girl. There is no greater loss on the loss scale. No one deserves more respect and grace than the parent who has lost a child, and as she lay dying, I promised her my allegiance to them. I keep promises. Like all of us, they needed comfort and healing.  I needed them just as much. Cheryl's friends, our friends who'd grown up with us, all were dying inside. Yet, they ministered to me. My dear friend, Jimmy, consulted a professional on how to help me. I received daily calls and letters, friends planned trips, and Cheryl's closest friends let me cry on their shoulders. Each of us in this close knit group of friends and family unknowingly, but without reservation, mustered what strength we could to support and comfort each other and in the process the healing began. Put simply, God showed up, and I was glad to see him. "I love you" replaced "goodbye." Hugs replaced handshakes and were in great supply. Prayer ascended into conversation. Hands were held, tears were shared instead of kept in the shadows. There were long nights of deep reflection replete with stories about her that brought the first sounds of laughter in our house, each remembrance overflowing with an abiding appreciation for the life to which we all bore witness. We looked for inspiration and therapy from any direction or source. My father supervised the construction of a playground in his backyard. He drew blueprints, hired workers, and stood looking out on his project. I'd sometimes find him in the early morning hours looking out over the developing playground, alone in the fog with his thoughts. He is the most generous and loving man I've ever known. He'd always had the answer and, like me, he was searching.  Sandy and David White (Cheryl's parents) kept the children in their home frequently. They needed them. They directed their actions to decorating rooms for each, complete with photographs of their mother. Our friends secured a bench in her honor at The Cove Park, a place we both loved and last visited just a few days before it all changed. We all were just searching and writhing on our own. "It doesn't matter whether you grip the arms of the dentist's chair or let your hands lie in your lap, the drill drills on." Through it all, I discovered that no matter where we searched, no matter where we directed our efforts, the true healing, the best medicine, was found in each other, and more importantly, in Shelby and Andy. Only we knew what we lost. Only we knew what two innocent children lost, and in the knowing there was a common purpose - Shelby and Andy's well being - and it bonded us with steel cables. I hate the cliche' - God never gives us more than we can handle. Don't tell someone suffering any such thing. It is ridiculous. What God does is give us other people to help carry the weight of it all. Sharing the pain is the greatest form of love, and I was surrounded by people that loved me and who I loved in return. I like to believe we carried and continue to carry each other.

I learned how hard it was to be a mother and how willing those women in my life were to jump in. I feared the effects of the long-term absence of Cheryl in her children's lives, but until I was strong enough to go it on my own, women with immeasurable capacity to love and nurture were an arm's length away. My sister, Cheryl's mother, and Cheryl's friends all stepped up. However, it was my mother who without hesitation picked up the flag of the young mother she adored. Her love would not be denied. It never has been. My mother will always be defined in my eyes by the way she mothered my children in Cheryl's immediate absence during those days, weeks and months. She also mothered me, a role she has cherished her whole life. She was able to care for our daily needs while suffering immeasurably herself. She was strong when she had to be, weak only when she allowed it and accomplished it all with grace and a sweetness that could only be the work of the hand of God. There are mothers, and then there is my mother. I've never seen her equal. On the morning Andy first called out from his crib for her, it was one of the most beautiful and heartbreaking moments of my life. The children led us and we followed. They were the source of laughter and our greatest access to what was left of their mother. They were our water in a desert of sadness. By early Summer, we were all adjusting to the reality that she was not in the world. I was running and working out, taking sanctuary in those heroes around me and the two little amazing children she gave me, gave to us all, and doing my best to sweat out the toxic melancholy. As the days, weeks and months passed, I found what happiness there was in those people who loved me and who loved her, but the hole was deep, and on those nights I took to the bed by myself, I mourned just for me. I mourned that I was ruined for anyone else, that I would never share love again. I turned 32 in November. It was the first time she'd missed my birthday since I was 15 years old.

Is there a master plan? Is an invisible hand guiding and determining the events that randomly govern our existence?  A man misses his flight and his life is spared when the plane goes down. A woman leaves 10 minutes early for her weekly coffee with friends and is hit by a car running a red light. I don't know the answer, but I often wonder where I'd be today had I not decided at the last minute to go to the gym on a Monday evening in the Summer of 2001. "I'm Nancy," she said. I didn't know if she was talking to me. I had my headphones on, having just run a mile and meandering through the weights. When I adjusted and figured it out, she told me she had known Cheryl, that her daughter Cori had been in Shelby's pre-school class. As we talked I discovered I knew her sister, Jill, who was a friend of Cheryl's. To the casual observer, it could have been chalked up to so many forgettable encounters I had in those days - the nice person stopping the sad man who's wife died, followed by the offering of condolences. However, meeting Nancy Ackermann is anything but forgettable. As she was walking away I tried to place her in the landscape of my life. How did I know this kind and beautiful person. I put my headphones back in my ears and moved on. I would later learn that she received word of Cheryl's passing while dancing and singing at the Tina Turner concert the night 3 seats in section 117 stood empty.  She was a Senior at Farragut High School when, no doubt, she frequently passed two Sophomores in the hallway holding hands. She had been preparing for her own wedding while her younger brother was serving as my pledge trainer at UT and her little sister was becoming Cheryl's dear friend in the Delta Delta Delta sorority.  Just days before my wife died, she, heartbroken and scared, signed papers signifying the end of her life with another man, entering the unpredictable world of single parenthood. Then, on a Tuesday evening in October, she sat in the back of the church paying her respects to Cheryl, who'd been so kind as to give her daughter a ride to school one day, when she heard a heartbroken man deliver a eulogy to his wife. How many people dance on the fringe of our lives, just out of sight, never to know us?

Aruba Pier Bar

Now, you might not be able to tell by looking at me, but I can dance. Let me be clear - I can't get down with it like my younger brother, John, and baby sister, Amy, who have had many a circle form around them at wedding receptions, band parties, and street corner cookouts, but put me on a ballroom dance floor, and I have few peers. No, I don't watch Dancing with the Stars, primarily for the same reason Michael Jordan doesn't watch pick-up games in the park. As a self-respecting male, I don't advertise this little fact in the presence of men, but I have no shame in revealing, and more importantly, showing anyone as I escort a lady to the floor. Like so many things, I owe my Foxtrot, Latin, Swing dance/Carolina Shag proficiency to Cheryl Lynn, who dragged me, kicking and screaming, to Alumni Gym on the campus of the University of Tennessee where we honed our skills beneath the hum of florescent lighting interrupted by traditional songs on a turntable in a class known as Social Dance 101. I suppose I should also credit my groovin-fun-lovin parents who have always led by example when it comes to the art of groove, for in addition to the incomparable bloodlines, they provided a childhood filled with music, love, dance and fun. How many other kids have been forced to watch the National Shag Championship on videotape? Dancing and performing were not just encouraged, they were required. My great gift was dormant and had been locked away for some time when I met Nancy Ackermann.  I soon learned from Cheryl's closest friend that not only was she not married, but that she wanted to take a Latin dance class at our health club. I was further astonished to learn that my name had been floated in Nancy's presence by friends who knew of my dance-floor prowess, but believed I was not ready to dance, especially with a beautiful woman. I had many guards at the gate. Guards are good to have. In other words, I'd been considered a candidate for what would be a highly sought after position and not told to submit my application or offered an interview. I don't know if they were concerned for my broken heart and vulnerability or were afraid Nancy would become my stalker should she be subjected to my mastery of the floor. I suspected it was the former, and didn't necessarily find their concerns misplaced. I didn't know if I was ready for anything, much less a dance class. However, presented with such information, something unexpected happened inside of me. I wanted to chase a girl.

The admonition came to me in many forms and from several sources when I threw my name into consideration - She only sought a friend to take a 4 week class. Romance was seemingly discouraged by the gate keepers, and seemingly, Nancy herself. There was speculation that, perhaps, she was dating someone who was unwilling to take the class with her. In any event, I mustered the courage not only to submit my application, but to request a lunch-time interview. "I'm in," I told her when we went to lunch to discuss my willingness to accompany her. The fact she turned down dinner in lieu of lunch seemed to confirm her caution and established the friendly boundaries of our new relationship. Naivete' was my calling card. I learned asking a woman to dinner was somewhat presumptuous. No expectations was the mantra in my head. "What could it hurt?" I thought. We shook hands as we left from our lunch meeting, having booked our first class the following week. I would learn many things in the coming months and years, but it all starts with lesson number one - Never... I mean Never... underestimate the power of Latin Dance.

The last time I went on a first date was 1985. Then, armed only with a Camaro, a burgundy Member's Only jacket, and a mullet, I'd done alright. I had the gift of gab, and I could dance. I could do this. I knew I might be in a bit of trouble when she walked in wearing "The Dress." I give it the singular classification because she clearly indicated to me that she was a "jeans and t-shirt" kind of girl and that she didn't own one until she purchased it for the Latin dance class. My concerns for my heart were about to come into focus. In hindsight, I had no idea what I was doing. The class instructor separated everyone and instructed us to face a floor length mirror where we were to work on the steps to the Merengue before joining with our partners. I smiled as I watched her in the mirror. I already knew the steps, and entertained a thought that I might help teach the class. She was counting, nearly falling with each attempt to execute the rather simple maneuvers of the easiest of the Latin dances. The striking lack of coordination coupled with such overwhelming physical beauty was a picture I will never forget. She caught me watching and smiled, a bead of sweat forming on her brow, and I knew in that moment that many of my kind had fallen deeply and madly in love with Nancy Ackermann on nothing more than a smile. She didn't care who was watching or how bad it looked. She wanted to learn to dance, and as quickly as the smile melted my heart, a determined look returned to her face causing me to realize I was just a guy helping her accomplish a goal. How many have been entranced by the smile and mistakenly caused to surrender all sense and judgment? I was stronger than that, I told myself. It's just a dance class. Perhaps this was just as advertised and exactly what my friends, her family, my family, and her suitors wanted and hoped it would be - the nice brokenhearted guy helping a new friend out. I was simply going to play the part of the guy who helped her learn to dance, the guy who needed to get out of the house, the guy who just needed a dance or two with a pretty girl, only to bow and gracefully exit stage left, allowing the seasoned chasers their rightful place in the sun. I decided that would be just fine. I really didn't know how to chase. A man could do a lot worse than say "I once took a dance class with Nancy Ackermann." Then... the instructor told us to get in dance position.


There are times in life when you just know you are where you're suppose to be. I can't explain it any better. Something changed. Gears shifted. The sun came out from behind the clouds as I moved toward her and took her in my arms. We assumed dance position and moved across the floor, my hand on her hip, her hand on my shoulders, then her hands in my hands. "Don't count," I whispered. I counted for her. "Follow me," I said as I looked into her eyes. She did. She apologized for her clumsiness, but the lack of coordination I'd witnessed when she was on her own disappeared when we were together. If she was clumsy, I didn't notice, but I wasn't a good judge of such things in that moment. A bomb could have gone off in the hall, and I would've continued to glide across the floor. We parted after that first class as friends. "See you next week," I said  I challenged myself afterwards on whether my instincts were wrong. My feelings couldn't be real. How could they be? I was just lonely, right? She was just beautiful, and I didn't need to fall victim in my vulnerable, lonely state. "Get it together, Pryor!" I said. I couldn't. I imagined Cheryl, laughing somewhere. Over the next four weeks I found I was good at something else - The Chase. Cheryl's death taught the value of the now, the importance of each day. She taught me not to wait. She taught me tomorrow was not a given. I no longer was satisfied with letting the chasers chase. To Hell with them. So, I chased, and she needed chasing. I didn't know what I was doing, but I really didn't care. I gave her the gift of music. She was a runner, and I bought and loaded an MP3 player with music, leaving it with a handwritten note on her desk at her office. I asked her to run with me, and she did. We went to dance class number 2. She let me take her to dinner and we kissed at the top of a ferris wheel in a mall parking lot. She'd needed more convincing, but I was catching on. She took me to church and held my hand on the second row. We went to dance class.  I sent her emails and left her more handwritten notes, and we danced. After our third class, one more to go, my dearest friend raised concerns that she might have a suitor in the wings. "He better get his ass to dance class - quick," I said.  I believe love is exactly as Lucy McCall described it to her son, Jack, in Pat Conroy's novel Beach Music, "It's something that doesn't take to worry very well. You can't handle it too much. You let love be and it'll find its own way in its own time." With Nancy Lynn Ackermann, love's own time transformed into a sprint. It was chaotic, on fire and fully aware that tomorrow was not guaranteed. It did not lack for confidence or courage, nor was it apologetic. Before we knew it, it had kicked in doors and taken up residence, blinding us to our many broken pieces and scars, lifting us to a place neither of us thought we'd see in what was left of this life. It was surprising, mysterious, and incapable of solving. I felt like I did as a kid on the Ocoee River, sitting in a raft, frightened by what I saw before me. I did as I did then - I held on and let the river take me, and in defiance of every single consideration and measure of judgment, it took me. It was undeterred by the concerns or opinions of those around us and all consuming. And, it was beautiful. When its power became apparent, it was something we guarded our children from, unsure whether to trust these overpowering feelings to the ultimate expense of  four children who'd all been touched by heartache and loss, but we soon discovered the beautiful chaos that came when all six of us were together. We put a match to gasoline and figured out we were simply meant for the fire. "It's gonna take a lot of love," I remember saying to her on a night we visited the ER with Andy, who needed stitches from a fall during a chase through the house. It would take a lot of love. It still does. But, even after paying the tab, there is always plenty to spare when it comes to this girl . We have never looked back.

Wedding Day

January 18, 2002

In the same spot I married my Cheryl, where my Shelby was dedicated to Christ while her mother held her, where Nancy reached for my hand before a sermon, and where I eulogized a remarkable wife and mother, Nancy and I pledged the remainder of our lives to each other on January 18, 2002. We did it with our sweet children and a loving God in attendance. I have no doubt that the guards and the broken heroes were all concerned for our sanity, and I wouldn't begrudge them their concerns, but love finds its own way in its own time, and for 13 years it has more than held its own. I won't pretend to tell you that I knew it all would work. Who does? But, I will tell you that I wasn't scared and never have been with her beside me. A friend, one of the widows I'd spoken to, sent me a card with a cartoon of a bird on the front. It said, "Sometimes you don't know you can fly until you jump and start flapping your wings." We jumped. That night, Cliff, who was 9, sat in Shelby's bed with the other three, who were 6, 5, and 2, reading a book to them all. Of all the video we have from the days of our life together, it is the one I cherish most. We watched from the hall, tears in our eyes, certain our life together was going to be special, and we were right. I fell in love with two kids who already had a father, but fathering them, however it may be classified, has been one of the great joys and honors of my life. Through these years we have been the unconventional family, a family strengthened by tragedy and loss, a family forged and bonded by the love and support from three wonderful families and our friends. On a day in 2003, I heard two voices coming from Andy's room. I looked in to see Nancy teaching him to tie his shoes. He was sitting in her lap, calling her "Mommie," a word that should never be absent from a little boy's vocabulary, and one that returned quickly in the warmth of Nancy's love. As the loops were formed and his little hands searched to please her instruction, I leaned, undetected, against the frame of the door and watched until I needed to move out of their vision, the emotion jumping out from its hiding place. There have been many of those moments. Whether it's potty training or graduation from high school, whether it's a birds-and-the-bees talk or a driving lesson, there are so many moments along the way where I'm overcome by the conflicting emotions brought on by one mother's presence and the other's absence, and it is beautiful.  Shelby and Andy are now 18 and 15 years old, respectively. Shelby leaves for college next week as do Cori and Cliff. In an unpredictable life, a life that has proven me wrong on so many occasions, Shelby Pierce Pryor is exactly the young woman Cheryl and I dreamed she would grow to be while she was still in the womb. So many deserve a piece of the credit, but I'll give a lion's share to the woman who made the mistake of smiling at me across a dance floor in the Summer of my great sadness. I've come to understand how courageous it was for Nancy to love me, to take on two children not her own, to accept Cheryl's legacy, and to love and honor our families. I'm sure she'd say I'm just worth it all, but the truth is, ours is special kind of love, and we know it, for in addition to what has been said about it, it is as constant as the passage of time. When she and I pull out from Shelby's dorm parking lot next Wednesday to return to my first night without her under the same roof, I'll have one of those moments all parents have, and I won't handle it well. The nurturing child who caressed her grieving father in the morning light, who is the embodiment of the grace, poise and beauty gifted by a angel, and who helped heal the people who loved her mother, begins the next chapter of her life. She has no idea how much and by how many she has been loved.

If you come to see Andy play basketball, you are likely to see 10-20 people in the stands who are there for him and him alone. My union with the Ackermanns blessed my children with 7 additional cousins and two more loving grandparents. The bounty of our union is beyond measure. Others can't figure out who all these people are that follow the lives of our children. I'm always happy to explain it. At any given game, school play, Christmas program, graduation or special event in the lives of our children, you may find 6 grandparents and a chorus of cousins, uncles, aunts and a loving mother in the stands. Before every game, I look for two spectators in particular as the pre-game routine is played out. They are the only one's I mourned for more than my selfish self, and with rare exception, they don't miss a game. They come to see the baby boy who has their daughter's hair, her eyes, and her temper as he drives to the basket and argues with officials. They come to watch with full hearts and smiles on their faces. They sit with Nancy, who has mothered their grandchildren, and healed the heart of a man who once stood in their living room in another lifetime, hands shaking, asking for their daughter's hand in marriage. Nothing makes me happier to look across the court and see them, to see them all, and no one can convince me Cheryl isn't there, flitting unseen among the cheers and laughs. It is a good life.

on the pier

There is a wooden pier that runs from a white-sand beach out into the Caribbean Sea. At the end is a bar where people gather, live music is played and beer is served. It is where trade winds blow the salt through your hair while the delicious burn from the sun's sweet kiss settles on your skin. It is our place. Perhaps, it is the other way around, and we belong to it. Our bare feet have shuffled and turned across it's weathered planks many times. We dance until our feet bleed. It is where I first heard this week's song. Nancy and I danced to its silly lyrics on our honeymoon. I remember it in great detail for it was the first time I truly allowed myself to recognize and accept my happiness in this new life. Our kids know every word, and the sound of it in a chorus of six voices is as beautiful to me as any sound ever produced. One day, when our ship comes in, I'm going to build her that tree fort in our yard. Perspective is a funny word. People say I have it. Everyone seems to be in search of it. I don't know that I have wisdom, but I'll tell you what I've learned. My greatest pain and most glorious happiness can be attributed to one thing - Love. Relationships, with friends, family, and the human race, cannot possibly reach their potential without a full understanding of an unrecognized essential truth - We all must leave here. If we truly grasp that then we love better - we accept it when offered, give it without hesitation, and recognize it while in its company.  I know this - in the end, it is the only thing that matters. 



    

Litchfield Beach 2010

Christmas 2006

Easter 2004

November 2013

One Last Prayer...

Author's Note - This is the first installment of a two-part essay about Life and Death. You know, the easy subjects.

This Week's Song - Heartbreak Town - by the Dixie Chicks. This is not likely one you've heard, but it was our last dance, and what a dance it was.

Ernest Hemingway's words are appropriate as I sit to write this piece. "It's easy to write. Just sit in front of your typewriter and bleed." I have misgivings about sharing so much of myself in the essay to follow. It was the worst day of my life. However, there is a reason to share, and this week it is very much on my mind.

Andy turned fifteen this past Spring. Should a geneticist need evidence of the power of the female X

with Shelby and Andy - Summer 2012

chromosome, he need only examine this child and hold him up as Exhibit A. He is her spitting image. Last week, on the way home after picking him up at his girlfriend's house, we had a discussion we were destined to have - he asked about the day his mother died. After I caught my breath, I knew that I would have to dig in and tell it. Rarely do I find a reason to discuss it, much less write about it. When it comes to the mother he never truly knew, the focus has always been on the good times, the numerous warm and beautiful memories I keep close so as to easily reach out and grab a bit of her to share with him and his sister. Make no mistake about it, the three of us speak of her often, we always have, but it was time to drag out and dust off the one and only memory I bury deep in the cellar of my heart, just beneath the scar. While it sneaks up on me from time-to-time, and I especially brace for it on the anniversary, I've become adept at avoiding the subject with others. This was no time for cowards. So, on a long ride home, almost fourteen years after the unimaginable events of the day, I told our son the story of his mother's leaving. Whenever I tell it, I realize two things. First, I never get use to the how fresh the trauma and pain can be. I'm sure others who have endured such traumatic losses would understand. More importantly, in the telling I was reminded that something beautiful always happens. There is beauty in it. So, while I have it out and can't seem to put it away, I'll offer it to the page and to you who dare to read. Parts were written years ago when catharsis was a closer friend. I offer it as a gift to you. Yes, a gift. It has the power to change your perspective, even if just for a moment. Let it.

  

Spring 2014

"Put some salt and pepper in the shakers, honey," she instructed. She was telling everyone what to do. There was a baby shower to be thrown and a leader was necessary. It was her role, always her role, and she delighted in it. A properly thrown baby shower in the South is handled by committee, complete with formal invitations on linen-lined stationary, a summoning of each dear friend and family member through fretted-over calligraphy to attend a gift-giving extravaganza meant to arm the expectant couple for the glorious battle, a battle they are never prepared for. On this day we were to celebrate the impending arrival of a baby girl - Abbie Skladan, a child who would be the first of two lovely children born to Jason and Lee Ann.  Cheryl was one to appoint herself the head of such committees: No election necessary. Truth be told, the entire committee was unnecessary when my dear wife became involved. The conductor of the symphony that was our life was fully animated and on fire as she tied balloons, arranged furniture, and pulled covered dishes from cool places. She seemed to levitate across the floor, setting out baked goods adorned with pink icing and arranging pastel-colored packages containing items from the Baby's R Us registry. This was a time in our lives when my operation of the Baby's R Us registry was unrivaled and the subject of legend. Employees of the store would ask for my help. She barked out instructions to those of us who stood in awe of the control, poise and beauty. Those are the words, the perfect words - control, poise and beauty. She laughed that infectious laugh at the jokes and antics of those helping her. That laugh. It is the one I extracted so many times with my silly jokes and playful nature, the one she belted out when her babies did something, almost anything, and the one I lived to hear. I have a hard time remembering her voice, but I still hear the laugh. It was a happy day. We were young people having and raising babies and celebrating those who would soon join our ranks. Nothing could bring our friends together in a celebratory mood like a Tennessee victory over Alabama the previous day and the impending birth of a first child.

Shelby and Andy
2000

Our children scampered to the kitchen door for my mother's car. Shelby was four and pulling her brother's shirt, dragging him along, "Come on, Andy!" she instructed. Andy, 19 months old, a pacifier in his mouth, his blanket dragging the floor behind him, made his way through the kitchen, stopping only to observe the cookies, and jumped into the waiting arms of his mother.  Good manners required that they would enjoy a few hours with their grandparents. I would soon be thankful for their absence. The bossy child, the one with the porcelain doll-like complexion, the beautiful blond locks, the big entrancing eyes that were a gift from her mother, was going to be an awful busy little girl that Sunday. At four, she knew when and where we were all suppose to be - all the time. She knew there was the baby shower, then a birthday party, and, finally, her first concert later that night. Mommy and Daddy were taking her to see the lady who sings "Big Wheels Keep on Turning (Proud Mary)," the song the four of them danced and sang to in the living room, around the coffee table, before dinner and after dinner. There was always so much music, dancing and singing. She was ready for the day. Cheryl, the woman who planned Shelby's multiple wardrobe changes the night before, the woman who kept a journal documenting our children's every move, their every meal, the woman who arranged play-dates, who kept detailed scrapbooks of each of their young lives, who made her husband take car-seat, CPR and infant swim classes, walked them to the car. There, she lifted them into the air, strapped them in their seats, because no one did it like her, including the man who had taken the classes, and in her sweet voice inflection, the tone reserved for the two who had once been a physical part of her, said goodbye for the last time.

"I have a headache," she said, softly, as we stood in the kitchen. I asked her if she'd taken anything. She said she did, and that was it. There was no more warning of the storm that was coming. In the days, weeks, and years to come I'd revisit the time leading up to that unseasonably warm October Sunday still looking for a clue. It was just a headache, right?  Who could possibly know that the junction of veins and arteries near her brain stem had not formed correctly while she was in the womb of her sweet and adoring mother or that the weakness was in the process of failing? How would anyone suspect a frailty of any kind in this strong woman or that an imperfection of this nature would have staying power through her adolescence, two term pregnancies, or 14 years with such an aggravating man who'd dedicated his life to making her laugh that laugh?  Everyone was there. The food was out, the guests were hungry, the conversation bounced from baby to Tennessee's victory the day before, to the house we were building, to life, to those subjects of simple everyday life. Then, she uttered a last request of me in her sweet whispered voice, "Would you say a prayer for Jason and Leanne and their baby?" I did. As I prayed, I felt the warmth of her hand on my back. The touch, as it always did, sent an electric current through my blood stream straight to the center of me giving my offertory voice power, my measured words impact. I thanked God for the friends who were gathered and the family who had traveled. I thanked him for the food. I thanked him for the beautiful day and the many blessings he'd bestowed on the entire, unworthy lot of us. I thanked him for Lee Ann's continued health and that sweet Abbie would be safely delivered to this magnificent world and allowed to grow up healthy among us, a truly special group of friends. Amen. It would not be the last time I talked to God that day.

She was confused. She had to be. Unknown to anyone and without a warning or word, she went upstairs as the packages were brought forward. What little measured bit of judgment was left, as the vessels were giving way, erred on the side of not disturbing the perfect baby shower. After all, she wouldn't want to create a disruption. As packages were opened and the strollers and cute outfits and diaper genie's were welcomed, she laid down, alone, in the floor of Andy's nursery, next to a crib where she would watch him sleep and from which "Momma" was the first word called every morning. She was within but an arm's reach of the chair where she rocked him to sleep every night, whispering that he was, without a doubt, the sweetest boy ever born as I would listen through the crackling of a baby monitor from our bedroom. I like to believe through the fog created by failure of her vessels it was her heart that led her to lay down in the place she was the happiest. I was watching the accumulation of wrapping paper and genuine "thank you's" being offered downstairs. "Where is Cheryl?" I asked, to no one in particular. She was, after all, the customary scribe - the one, in grand Southern tradition, who took down the names of the gift-givers and their gifts so the honorees could, as protocol required, write thank you notes for the items received. I searched, careful not to disrupt the celebration, calling her name as I went from room to room. I found her with her trembling hand on her head. She needed me. She said so. I went for a waste-paper basket in the bathroom. When I returned, the life was leaving her eyes.

When did I know? When did it hit me that the world had truly come to an end? In hindsight, I suppose it was the look on Dr. Lee Ann Skladan's face when she arrived at her side, having cast aside gifts on her special day to tend to a friend in need, and after a momentary assessment of the situation. She implored me in her kind but stern way to "talk to her, Robbie." I did. I begged her to wake up. I demanded her to answer me. I told her I loved her and that her children needed her, that I needed her, that so many people needed her. As CPR was administered and emergency personnel arrived, I told her she could not leave me. My demands carried conviction, yet I was unable to convince myself she was really sick, much less dying. Nothing bad could happen to us. We were invincible. Everything was going according to plan. We were building a house. My career was taking off. We had tickets to Tina Turner. Outside, in the hall, friends and family turned away, looks of disbelief and shock covering their faces.

The ambulance took us to the Hospital where nurses and doctors, who wouldn't look me in the eye, whisked her to rooms for diagnostic films. Finally, a nice man, a neurosurgeon, asked me to come to her bedside. He explained, with props and demonstrations, that her brain no longer functioned, that only machines kept her breathing. Films against fluorescent backdrops showed circular masses where he pointed - blood at the brain stem, lots of it, he explained. Then, his words, his scientific words, just floated past me like fireflies on a Summer evening. I'd shifted focus to solutions. Pryor's have or find solutions to problems. "So, what next?" I asked, the naive let's-get-this-fix-started attitude. I felt a sense of anger. I was in control. I was always in control. He was telling me it's raining but not handing me an umbrella. He looked directly at me, and, as clearly and emotionless as a teacher telling a student 2 + 2 = 4, he said she would not recover, all was lost, and that I had to say goodbye. How do you say these things? I was speechless. What followed were topics like organ donation, preferred funeral home, and other matters addressed to me by people I didn't know on a Sunday afternoon in the prime of our life. How could I speak of donating her organs when there were still gifts to be opened? "We have to take Shelby to a concert," I thought. "We have to be at a birthday party in 20 minutes,"  I wanted to say. I wanted to fire back and ask them all which among them would tell her she was dying, because she wouldn't like it one damn bit. It would take her consent. Everything did. Nothing happened unless she allowed it. Nothing. Knowing her better than anyone, I believed that if we just told her she was dying and never going to see Shelby or Andy again that she would just sit up and say, "that's enough. Let's go home."  She just wouldn't allow it. He explained the cruelty of allowing her to stay on the machines. Her parents couldn't be reached, and were on their way home from Florida, I told him. He told me she was gone and made it clear that the trip to the hospital had been perfunctory. There was no hope. I remember asking him, "Why are you saying these unbelievable things to me?"

Where is the beauty I promised?

June 2000

Outside, they gathered. Friends from the party and from across the city sat and stood outside awaiting word. The Burris's held my hand through registration and until my family arrived. The Reeds read to my children back at the house while I was listening to a man in a white coat tell me she was leaving. Friends from far away began a pilgrimage to my side. My mother, my father, my brother, my sister, my sister-in-law, and select friends stood by her bed. The harmony of tears and wails, of unreserved, incorruptible and unconditional love, burst from deep inside each of them as I conceded the disconnecting of machines and lines. There was no reservation in the pain, no stifling of the impact of the trauma, but neither was there mitigation of the appreciation for her life and the absolute devotion of each to her and to me. There was no mistaking the meaning of her existence and her place in our lives on this planet. The joy she gave us all was returned in a glorious display of the most awful pain as they touched her and begged and pleaded and prayed. The lack of decorum, composure, and, in some instances, good taste, was beyond beautiful. Prayers emanated from mouths that had never spoken prayers in my presence. We joined in our despair in reverential harmony. Anyone there that day unknown to us left with no doubt as to how special she had been to the crowd there gathered. Outside, upon delivery of the news that she was not going to survive the blow dealt by a silent killer, I was greeted with an overwhelming physical manifestation of emotion from our friends. Chris Leach, one of my dearest and lifelong friends and one of the strongest men I know, wept uncontrollably on my shoulder - a scene that would play out with so many in the coming hours and days. People, who knew not what to say, said nothing and just held me and each other. The unleashed power of our humanity, pure 100% love, was on full display and it was so damn beautiful. I wanted her to see it all. Then, I was left alone with the only woman I'd ever loved.

The doctor told me it would take 5 to 10 minutes for her heart to stop. They told me to take all the time I needed. Can you imagine saying such a thing to someone? Again, words followed from medical people that meant nothing and were not processed. Switches were turned to the off position. The curtain was pulled, and except for the beeping of the heart monitor, all was quiet. It was so quiet, peaceful even, as if the entire hospital ceased business in reverent appreciation for the extraordinary life passing. I reached for and lifted her hand in mine as I had on so many occasions. It was warm and adorned with the simple ring I bought from Mr. Difler, the one I made payments on, the one she loved so much. I held her hand to my face, closed my eyes, and the magic came. We were in the back of Ms. Carroll's sixth grade class listening to a 45 record during recess - Whip It by Devo. She was wearing her big glasses and had the Dorothy Hamil haircut. We were smiling for a camera on a hay bail at the 1985 Sadie Hawkins dance, the glasses and haircut distant memories. We were in the commons at Farragut High School, kissing to a terrible Spandau Ballet song. We were in my camaro, T-tops out, driving down Concord Road, singing loudly to I Can't Fight This Feeling, the wind blowing her hair into her face, those eyes peeking at me between strands. We were in a room, trembling and laughing, as we attempted to solve the mysteries without any clues. We were pouring water on an overheated engine in Cade's Cove. She was laughing. We were laughing. She was walking down an aisle toward me while I was waiting and watching with tears rolling down my cheeks. We were jumping up and down to the news of my Bar Exam results. We were dancing, just dancing. We were in an apartment in Birmingham, Alabama, screaming and knocking over drinks as Sid Bream slid into home plate. We were watching in awe on an extraordinary early Spring evening as God saw fit to dump 17 inches of snow outside our window. We were laughing and crying in the bedroom of our first house, holding each other as the pregnancy test fell to the floor, two pink lines visible through the clear plastic.We were marching around a coffee table with our precious little girl singing along to a Christmas movie and then clutching our children together in a hospital bed, immediately after Andy was born, our family complete. Finally, with Shelby in our arms, head on her shoulder, we were wrapped up in each other, slowly dancing to "Heartbreak Town" just 24 hours earlier in the sun room, believing without question tomorrow was a promise that would never be broken.  If the scientists were right, she didn't hear a word of what came next, but I put it all out there. We all want one more minute. We all want to believe we said it all and that it was heard. I don't know. I simply don't. But I do know she knew everything that came from my mouth. She already knew. There were no commands, no begging, no rage, no self-pity, and no regrets; only gratitude and promises and love in the purest form. I remember every single word, and, forgive my arrogance, but it was beautiful. Pardon me if I keep that part for myself. I don't wear faith on my sleeve, but I tell you this with absolute certainty - In a moment when I'd be forgiven anger or even hatred toward God, when the questioning of his existence would be allowed and even encouraged, I never felt closer to what awaits beyond, and it is beautiful.

I walked out of the hospital into the fading warmth of Indian Summer. A long Winter was before me as I concerned myself with how to tell a four-year-old her mother was never coming home, convinced I would never smile again.

Abbie Elisabeth Skladan was born 35 days later. I continue to take particular interest in her precious life, faithfully believing that a prayer given as the last request of an extraordinary woman carries her still.

Abbie Skladan and her baby brother, Ryan
2014