Santa, Sex and the Easter Bunny

This Week's Song - Rockin Around the Christmas Tree - By Brenda Lee. The music of my youth. Best there ever was. Merry Christmas to all!

Santa Claus was taken off life support for good on a South Florida beach in the summer of 1980. With kids over the age of 10 Santa's popularity had been fading, but I just couldn't give up on him until I received verification. It came on what remains one of the most memorable days of my life.

The original 5 - Christmas 2018

We were on a family beach trip. My father called me and my brother down from the condo to sit with him in the sand. I am the oldest of 3 and my radar was immediately up and operational. Poor John, who was but 9 years of age, was clueless and ill-equipped for what was to come. I've struggled for 38 years to grasp why my wonderful father chose the manner in which he delivered the news. Maybe he needed something interesting to go with the bad news. Perhaps it was because he had boys who were a mere 3 years apart. Maybe he just wanted to knock out two of the hardest parts of parenting in one quick strike. Whatever the reason, the wonderful man decided that on that day, in one sitting, he would set out to reveal to his boys two life-changing bits of information - the fact that Santa did not exist and the reality of the "Birds and the Bees." Why? Why?

He asked us to sit in the sand. I stared into the Atlantic, not knowing why we were there but knowing a moment of great import was at hand. My brother dawdled in the sand and played with an action figure. Santa died quickly. "Boys, I have good news and bad news." I braced myself. Had someone died? Was Mom leaving him? Had our baby sister, Amy, been kidnapped? "The bad news first - There is no Santa." What served as confirmation to me must have been shocking to my brother, but due to the straight-forward delivery we both sat quietly, heads down, stunned. The boys at school were right. Dammit. In the previous two Christmases my inquisitive mind required me to stage an investigation - Dad left on Christmas Eve to pick up the gifts at the Smither's house. I'd stayed up, heard the engine of our station wagon fire up and timed his departure and return. The Smithers lived in our neighborhood. It was the only answer. A father's duty is painful. He'd just ripped the bandaid off.  In his kindness, his attempt to soften the blow, he said that we should all still act like Santa exists for the benefit of my sister. I was blessed to have a sister who was 7 years younger. "It's very important for you to keep Santa alive for her," he said. Once he said that, I took a deep breath and went back to believing. I had to. It was required. For Amy. I exhaled and checked in on John, who was obviously in profound shock and deep thought. He had a look on his face like a 3 year old with a Rubik's Cube. What could be the "good news?" I wondered. I didn't have to wait long.

Santa and the Easter Bunny

"Now I want to tell you the good news. I'm going to talk to you about Sex." My heart stopped. Wow, what a swing! Just as there were rumors of Santa at school, there was talk of a great mystery emerging in the halls of Farragut Middle School for 12 year olds like me. The talk coincided with the development of lumps beneath girls sweaters and hair showing up under the arms of boys. The talk at school was scandalous and fascinating. Where Santa's execution had been swift and taken but a few seconds, my brother and I were introduced to the "good news" for the better part of the next hour. John kept playing in the sand, eventually drifting off into the mind of the 9 year old he was, the traumatic suppression of the event already setting in. I was fascinated and horrified. I wanted off of the rollercoaster, to climb into the fetal position and tell Santa what I wanted for Christmas. With the patience of a saint and the precision and detail of an engineer at Ferrari, my father went to work. He detailed the male and female anatomy and its purposes in great detail. He used the sand to diagram all manner of things, and I couldn't avoid the vision of cavemen using the same method thousands of years before. He spoke words I'd never heard and explained the function of each body part. He spoke of function and biology and, then, of pleasure and romance. In some aspects of the subject he jumped from the basic course to upper level advanced courses. It was overwhelming. I'd not brought along enough legal pads. He certainly wanted to knock it all out at once. It is the first use of shock and awe. Five minutes in, I'd long forgotten about the disappointment of Santa as he both confirmed and expanded on the things I'd been hearing from those boys in the dangerous halls of Farragut Middle. Neither John nor I uttered a word. I don't know that I breathed during the presentation. Years later I would be glad that Power Point wasn't available. I wanted it to stop while at the same time formulating a great many questions and a desire for more information until he reached a point where, I have no doubt, the look on our faces let him know that we were just incapable of absorbing or processing any more information on the subject. We were exhausted. He paused. "Do you have any questions?" he said, and I was horrified. I immediately looked at John and with my eyes said, "If you ask a question I will kill you in your sleep," but John's never taken well to my cues. "I have one," said the youngest of the two traumatized boys. My father braced himself and nodded his head. I closed my eyes and prayed for a comet to land on me.

"So... I guess this means there is no Easter Bunny?"

Merry Christmas!

10,000 Steps - A Tribute to a Friend

This Week's Song - Midnight by The Black Lillies. Check it out. It was written about a good man with a big heart who slept beneath the Knoxville sky. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LU0Aj3M2QSI

Long before I met him, I would see him carrying flowers and doing card tricks downtown. One evening, he yelled out the name “Donnie!” It took me awhile to realize he was yelling out to me, running me down from behind. I told him my name was Robbie, and kept on moving, not wanting to be hit up for money. As I walked away, he said, “I’m truly sorry, friend. I swear there’s someone out there that looks just like you. His name is Donnie.” He smiled, his neglected teeth shining in the Gay Street lamps, his piercing eyes revealing he understood my initial measure of him. He was accustomed to the response. He didn’t ask for anything. I ducked into my building, knowing I’d met someone who would come back around. I was fascinated. 

Rodney Fuson

Three or four weeks into my downtown residency, I set out one night for the office, primarily because I needed to hit my step goal on my Fitbit - Yes, I’ve become “That Guy.” As I approached my building I saw him near the entrance and prepared myself to meet the card man. My watch suddenly erupted with vibration and a showering of lights indicating that I’d crossed over 10,000 steps for the day. I pushed in all my chips and thrust myself into the interaction. “Hey, man! I need a card trick!” I said. He was a bit startled. He’d put his cards up and was heading to wherever he put his head down at night. He might not have been use to someone running him down, but he clicked to the “On” position in the blink of an eye. “I called you Donnie one day, didn’t I?” Again, the smile. “But your name’s Robbie, isn’t it?” he said. I was amazed he remembered.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Rodney,” he said, then he turned to a script he’d repeated a million times. “Here you go, Robbie. I’m gonna lay one on you, cause I know you’re gonna lay something nice on me.” 

Rodney

His voice was distinctive - something like Ernest T. Bass from Andy Griffith, true southern and tinged with a lisp. He was diminutive, flat-faced, a beggar who didn’t beg. He was a showman. He pulled the cards from his pocket. They were weathered and bent. He shuffled and the trick was on. It came with hand gestures, voice inflections, challenges and a touch of magic. I got my money’s worth. Rodney was my friend. Instantly. I asked him where he learned his card tricks, and he regaled me with stories from his youth and how some were learned from others and some he taught himself. In his performance he had a vaudevillian flair and made you to feel as though you might have stumbled into a carnival, but his act came with something special - he was interested in the audience. He looked me in the eye, moving in close, and told me he liked me. He said “you don’t judge or look down on people,” and went on to suggest that showing respect to one another is the most important thing we can do. I agreed. I gave him a ten and walked inside, ashamed I’d ever tried to avoid him. With my first show I signaled to Rodney that I was happy to talk to him anytime, but that it wasn’t my intention to pay him every time. Otherwise, I’d be broke. He processed the message. It never stopped him from talking to me. I’ve seen him at least twice a week since. He never asked for money. He would simply ask if he could show me a card trick.

I ran into him before the Florida game this year and told him my daughter was coming to visit. I told him I wanted him to do a card trick for her while she was here, and the pride was palpable. He remembered, and when I saw him after she’d returned to Washington, he asked me about her and expressed sorrow that he hadn’t met her. Every time thereafter he asked me about her. When I saw him two weeks ago, I was with my wife. I introduced her to Rodney, and told him that since he’d missed Shelby I wanted him to do a card trick for Nancy. I asked him to do his big one, the one he loved the most, the one that was the centerpiece to a story of disrespect a man had shown him one night in front of Suttree’s.  “There’s one in every group,” he said. “They run you down, call you a bum, and shoo you away like you was nothing but trash.” He did the trick and enjoyed telling how he’d won a bunch of money off the man who had disrespected him. He was proud. He walked on after the trick, promising he would save a new one for my birthday that was approaching. It was the last time I saw him. 

Rodney died Monday. When I heard the news, I was stunned and heartbroken, knowing that a little bright spot in my downtown life was gone. I felt I’d discovered a downtown treat, and that it had been stolen. I searched for an obituary, knowing full well that I’d probably never discover the man’s full name, much less his obituary. I put a note in my elevator in an attempt to gather information about him. To my delight, when I pushed “enter” to my google search, my screen lit up. Facebook was full of tributes and stories. He’d been featured in numerous youtube videos. The Black Lillies and their lead singer, Cruz Contreras, had written a song about him. An article on Knoxnews - a fine tribute - ran as the result of the author’s relationship and the social media attention. The love and “Rodney stories” poured in. I was astonished. He hadn't been just my friend. He was a friend to many, a celebrity. I learned so many saw Rodney in the same light. There were many stories, including one where he wrote a letter to Judge Phillips, Federal District Court Judge, in support of Scott West, the key developer of Market Square, who was to be sentenced on federal drug charges. He asked for the Judge’s leniency given that Mr. West had always treated him, a homeless man, with respect.

A candle-light vigil is being planned for Rodney Fuson. I’ll be there. In these strange times it brings me great hope, and tremendous pride in my fellow Knoxvillians, that there are so many people who recognize the beauty and goodness in the homeless man with a deck of cards. I mourn with those who befriended him, regret he never met my Shelby, and embrace the warm feelings that will surely visit me every time my silly watch tells me I’ve traveled 10,000 steps on these city streets. Rest in peace my friend.

Credit Leslie Berez for the photos

Beneath the Interstate

This Week's Song - Will The Circle Be Unbroken - Many have recorded this gem, but I prefer any bluegrass version. The Johnny Cash/Nitty Gritty Dirt Band/Ricky Skaggs version is hard to beat. I sang it walking home from the underpass a couple of weeks ago. Its precious lyrics echo in my soul.

Sunset in my town

When the youngest of our four moved into the dorm at UT last month, Nancy and I became empty nesters. She wanted to try downtown living. So, we moved to Gay Street with our Golden Retriever. We love it. Sophie is still making up her mind.

I saw him for the first time in years. He was on Gay Street in late July. He was at a good distance, but I recognized him immediately.  The sight of his face revived great memories from my teenage years. His appearance, however, brought me great sadness. Charlie (not his real name) had been my friend.

The memories all led to a poker table at Jimmy Johnston's house in the early years of high school. Those memories always come complete with visions of dealing cards and throwing money in the pot, all of us joking and laughing, and watching football or Caddyshack on weekend nights. It was on one of those many nights in the mid-1980’s that I drank my first beer at Jimmy's house in the company of friends. Charlie was always there. We’d pass money back and forth and sip on Goebels Light, an absolutely terrible beer, acting as though we’d been drinking it for years. We were a group of walking hormones trying to find the pathway to cool.

Those great friends, many of which I still talk to regularly, would gather wherever we could freely pursue adulthood. It was usually in situations where parents were out of town and someone's older sibling could buy us alcohol.  We were growing up, a bunch of west-Knoxville kids doing our best to be good boys while pursuing manhood.  It was a great time and place to come of age. We saw the first video on MTV and wore Member's Only jackets. Our hair was worn in glorious mullets, our necks adorned with a single gold chain, and Madonna, in all of her “Like-a-Virgin” wonder, and older girls from school made their way into our dreams. We didn't have cell phones. If you wanted to talk to a girl, you had to call her from a phone attached to the wall or, heaven forbid, walk right up to her and talk face-to-face. Charlie’s shy nature and piercing eyes, the color of the Gulf of Mexico, made him popular among members of the fairer sex.  He loved to gamble and play golf and possessed a swing touched by angels. It was a swing that provided a ticket to college and could have led him even further. Charlie spoke very few words, but always made us laugh. He and I visited our first ATM together and joked about how the new invention wouldn’t last. I can place myself inside so many teenage memories and often find Charlie there - throwing cards, drinking a beer, laughing, making me laugh. He was a good friend.

I lost touch with him. I didn't know if he finished college, but I heard he joined the Army, and moved to Hawaii. He got married. Then, just like that, nothing. As I was marrying, going to law school and starting a family, I began to hear through friends that he had developed some mental problems - that he was perhaps bi-polar, even schizophrenic - and then, somewhere along the way, a rumor emerged that he was homeless. When I saw him on Gay Street at the end of July, I had my confirmation - Charlie was homeless, or at least it seemed so. He wore a dirty football jersey that was too big, pants that were too long and he was filthy. I knew I’d need to talk to him, but I didn’t know how. With me living downtown, my running into him would be inevitable. Would he know me? Would he ask for money? I just didn’t know. Why was I so uncomfortable? I think I was worried about embarrassing him. I was overcome with sadness and pity.

When Nancy told me we were going to McGhee Avenue to serve the homeless, I was hesitant. In our remarkable marriage I have learned when to lead and when to follow. I have expanded my horizons and enriched my life whenever I agreed to simply follow. However, I knew Charlie would likely show up. He did. When we arrived, he was already there - working.  The sweltering summer day was giving way to a pleasant evening beneath I-40. He was wearing the same clothes from a month earlier. I watched him, and to my surprise, he was helping to set up. I told Nancy that I was going to talk to him as soon as we received our volunteer assignments, putting the meeting off to the last possible moment. Charlie didn’t wait.

“Robbie,” he said. Just the simple tone of a voice long lost to the years can thrust nostalgia back into your life in a heartbeat. I jumped at the name that very few still call me. He stared right thru me with those eyes. I asked how he was doing. "Great," he replied without hesitation. We talked. He was animated and seemed happy. He discussed how he loved Wednesday nights, the food was always good and the coffee was great. "I help out down here," he said, as though the event wouldn't take place without him. He was proud. He loved to help. I’d watched him set up tables, carry clothes and unfold chairs. I asked if I could hug him. He tilted his head, as if to question whether I was serious, and extended his hand, a move I took as a rejection of any pity I was about to unload. He didn’t need it or want it. I had money in my pocket and would’ve handed it all to him, but he didn’t ask. I got the feeling that had I offered, the gesture would prove hurtful, even seem ridiculous to him. I thought I would feel broken-hearted, that my pity would be in abundance, and that I’d worry about my friend, but I got a different feeling altogether. He was in his element. He was in a place of comfort, a place where he fit in. He had a role and was comfortable playing it. I felt this despite what I’d heard of his rumored mental problems. He wasn't drunk nor did he seem to be influenced by drugs. He spoke clearly and with purpose. Perhaps he was sad and I missed it. But, just perhaps, the life he led was the simple life he needed or even desired. How could that be? I couldn't grasp it. It was supposed to be sad. Wasn't it? Anytime his name was brought up among my friends, they all used the same statement. "It's so sad." I didn't sense sadness in him.

The conversation ended quickly as duty called. He left me speechless, with an open invitation to have some coffee with him. I was left with more questions than answers. I watched as he continued to serve others. Instead of lining up early for free clothes, he went to the back of the line, allowing others to go before him, a gesture that ensured he would not get any new clothes since his sizes were the most popular and first to go. A woman who serves there every Wednesday said, "Boy, would I love to know his story." When I told her that he'd been one of my good friends at Farragut High, she almost fell down. She quizzed me and I filled in the blanks. Then, she went on to tell me that Charlie was always the hardest worker, that he was quiet, lacked presumption or self-pity, and that he always liked to get a book from the stack of donations. She suggested that my friend was the most selfless person under the interstate. Then, I stood back and simply watched.  

The servers and the served mingled, laughed, bumped fists, shook hands, hugged and broke bread together. I don’t know what I had expected, but it wasn't the sense of joy now overwhelming me. Money had no place, either on the lips or in the hands of those gathered. Any misperceptions, discomfort, pity, or fear that accompanied me down Broadway before I arrived melted away in the welcomed shade of elevated concrete as a sense of community took over. I continued to watch Charlie, and I was overwhelmed by a sense that I was encroaching, that I represented a life he never wanted, that I represented pity and judgment, and that until I got a proper hold of the real meaning of that place, I didn't need to be there. I felt shame for judging him, for judging any of those gathered in the summer-evening heat. Who was I to judge? What right did I have to offer pity? 

As I watched my old friend move among the homeless and the volunteers, a quiet peace settled beneath the sounds of cars traveling on the interstate above. The trappings of the busy world were stripped away so that things like a good cup of coffee and a used pair of jeans took on an elevated and rightful place among the simple joys of life. In that instance the previously invisible bond of humanity revealed itself, and I realized that inner peace, that thing sought by all of humanity - in Sunday church pews, among the pages of self-help manuscripts, or inside the walls of great temples and cathedrals - was perhaps something my old friend had tucked away in his oversized back pocket. I stood next to the railroad tracks and smiled, humbled by the moment and wondering why it was that Envy was upon me. 

She Shines

This Week's Song - Sparkle and Shine - by Steve Earle. Everything by Steve Earle. Love the man and his music. 

She crouched and moved to the side of the stage after her third costume change. She was playing a total of seven characters in Candide, Voltaire’s novella turned comedy in an auditorium in Columbia, South Carolina. It was the perfect platform for Cori to show off her French and her striking comedic gifts. To the man with the graying hair (me), sitting smack dab in the middle of the theatre, the laughter came with a few tears. When she jaunted onto the stage laughter was not far behind. She cried out her lines in flawless French as another character shot her with a musket. It took at least 6 shots to bring her down. She eventually succumbed on the stage beneath the lights, laughs, and adoring gaze of those assembled and then went for the next costume change. Her mother and I laughed. Prideful laughter feels good. Cori Crocker is twenty-two and poised to graduate this week from the University of South Carolina with a B.S. in Marine Science and a minor in French. She will graduate Summa Cum Laude and has made many lifelong and adoring friends. As I watched in the dimly lit auditorium a couple of weeks ago I couldn’t help traveling back 17 years to when she was a kindergartner and the moment I watched her on stage for the first and only other time. It was just a few weeks after I became her stepfather. 

Zoom

No one plans on becoming a step-parent. I never even considered the concept. Then Cheryl died. No one plans for divorce or expects their spouse to die at the age of 31. Life happens. You have to adjust. Easy to say. Not easy to do - when you are 31 or, especially, when you are 5. When I met her, Cori was 5 years old. Her brother, Cliff, was 8. I had two kids of my own when I fell hard for Cori’s mother, Nancy. Then I fell for Cori and Cliff. It took them a little longer to fall for me. When she announced she wanted to perform in the Bluegrass Elementary talent show, Cori and I were just getting to know each other. I already knew her to be a soft-hearted and sweet child who was always aware of the emotions in the room. She was accepting and sweet, but still wary of the man who’d entered her life and married her mother. A baby like her is allowed to worry about life and her place in it when her parents divorce and a stranger with two more kids is all of a sudden in her life every day. It is a lot to take in for little people. I knew it was, and I obsessed about how I could be a positive influence in her young life. I didn’t want to be her stepdad. I wanted to be her dad. But, she had a father, one who has continued to love and parent her to this very day. Regardless, I vowed to treat her as my own. I wanted to play a large role in seeing to it that she grew into a confident, independent and intelligent woman. I wanted to kick down doors and provide her with opportunities. I read about blended families and consulted with a family psychologist about all six of us moving in together. I wanted to do it right. Cori was an observer and paid attention to everything going on around her during those days. When Nancy and I were dating, Cori once pondered out loud to her mother whether I might be Osama Bin Laden. She had no filter. Still doesn’t. Within a few days of becoming a blended family of six, she announced her decision to enter the talent show. We were a bit shocked when she told us she wanted to perform the Star Spangled Banner. What 5-year-old child decides she wants to do that?

When I asked if she knew all the words to our national anthem, she confidently stated that she did. She wanted to prove it right there in our living room and began to sing. Cori’s version of the anthem was unrecognizable. After “O say can you see…” she butchered almost every line. I told her it was perfect. Indeed it was. Telling her otherwise would’ve likely embarrassed her and crushed her desire to enter the contest thereby depriving a bunch of people of the cutest performance ever given. Over the next several days we practiced. I never corrected the lyrics, but instilled in her as much confidence as I could by telling her how good she was and how everyone was going to love her.  Several nights later, in front of a packed gymnasium, she brought the house down. She sang the entire song (well, it had the right number of verses) without accompaniment, butchering every line in the most beautiful and perfect way. Just like we practiced. She delivered it with such confidence that you’d thought she was Whitney Houston at the 1991 Super Bowl. I remember laughing through some tears, proud that I’d been a part of it and amazed by my new life and her place in it. It remains one of my most treasured memories.

My Girls

She loves music - like me. She loves dogs - like me. I make her ice cream cones when she comes home from school. Her mother and I followed almost every soccer game. She played on 4 state championship finals teams, winning one. I nicknamed her "Zoom," and still call her by that name. She loves that I love her mother. She loves me and has never doubted how much I love her. She told me how important I am in her life in a Christmas letter a couple of years ago - I store it with my most treasured possessions. I still think daily about how I can continue to be a positive force in her life. I will always think of myself as a father. I cannot distinguish my love based on labels. And, though I continue to obsess over the role I play in the lives of all four of them, I have no doubt as to the impact Cori has had in my life - I simply cannot imagine life without her. In our seventeen years together she has affirmed every instinct I had when I asked her mother to marry me and assuaged every fear and insecurity I had about parenting a child not of my blood. She has brought me tremendous joy and pride. Watching her grow into this unbelievable woman has been one of the great honors of my life. Step-parenting - I recommend it. 

She will board a plane bound for Africa in July. She is going to teach Science to French-speaking children in Guinea for 2 years as a member of the Peace Corps despite trepidation and admonitions from all in her life. Are you kidding me? She is defiant and independent with so much talent, love, and grace. That’s my girl, and oh how she shines.