One Buggy Love

This Week's Song - In Spite of Ourselves - by John Prine (accompanied by Iris DeMent) This one is a real classic. Hilarious. I'm sure there is some "One Buggy Love" in there. 

"She's my baby, I'm her honey,

I'm never gonna let her go"

One Buggy Love

The fellowship room at Concord Presbyterian Church filled up on Valentine’s Day for the annual Sweetheart Banquet. Mike Berger made a special Chicken Cordon Bleu with rice and roasted vegetables. There was a Strawberry Pretzel Salad. I’ve never been to a church social or potluck dinner where  Strawberry Pretzel Salad wasn't on the menu. Perhaps its origins can be found in Leviticus. The director of the night’s festivities called in November to invite me to serve as the featured speaker at the banquet. “You’ll follow Peggy, who will play a few pieces on the piano,” Jim Shawn told me. “And, of course, we’d love for you to bring your sweetheart.” 

Given the occasion, I knew what Jim was asking me to do. Jim’s daughter, Amy, was my first wife’s best friend growing up. Amy and the future Cheryl Pryor grew up in the same Farragut neighborhood where skinned knees were healed with a mother’s kiss and the sounds of children at play danced on the branches of the Pines and Sugar Maples. Mrs. Shawn was my 7th Grade teacher. Jim relayed that I was her favorite student in a long and distinguished teaching career. No surprise there. She did say “favorite,” not “best.” The Shawn’s loved Cheryl, and in the Fall of 1984 I began to join in the sentiment. What Jim Shawn was asking me to do on this day of Love, was talk about Cheryl and Nancy, the only two sweethearts I’ve ever had, and the compelling story that goes along with us. He expected me to inspire, to cause laughter and tears. I suppose I shouldn’t complain. When you are crazy enough to write about your life, you should expect to be asked to talk about it. I accepted. When my kids asked what Nancy and I were doing for Valentine’s Day, I told them I was giving a speech about LOVE. “Why?” asked the always inquisitive Cori. “Don’t ask silly questions, girl. I am an expert in the field.” Eyes rolled.

There has been one constant in my life for 48 years - Love. My story is not a secret - Boy meets beautiful girl, they fall in Love. High school romance turns to Marriage. They have babies and start to build a life. Girl dies unexpectedly, boy is broken. Sadness ensues. Then, lightning strikes - boy meets another girl, and an unexpected and great Love follows. If you want the details, read my blog (One Last Prayer, parts 1 and 2) or stop me on the street. The first Epistle to the Corinthians proclaims “Love is not proud,” but give me a minute or two and I’m sure to disappoint the Apostle Paul. I love telling my story. It celebrates Nancy, the most magnificent and remarkable woman on the planet, and it keeps Cheryl present and warmly remembered as the special woman, wife, mother, daughter and friend that she was. Not to mention, I get to brag a bit about the two amazing women who had plenty to choose from but chose ME. So I sat down to craft an inspirational oral history of my life and the great Loves that have been visited upon me when the phone rang - It was my Dad. I set my pen aside and listened as he told me about taking my mother to the grocery store. During the recounting of that momentous event, I was reminded of the origins of my understanding of Love and the fact they came along way before Cheryl and Nancy graced my life.

"She's My Baby, I'm Her Honey"
One Buggy Love

“You take half the list, and I’ll meet you at the register,” my mother told him. Her knee needs to be replaced. She’s already had one of them replaced and avoids the subject. My father struggles with recurrent Atrial Fibrillation and some arthritis in his knees. “Nope,” he said with enthusiasm, “we’ll take one buggy and do the whole thing together.” The two of them meandered through the grocery store, aisle-to-aisle, each grasping the cart and each other at times for support as they carefully selected the ingredients for a meal they would prepare together. During the trip to the store and while making dinner they talked about their children, grandchildren, and their two golden retrievers (Maggie and Molly). As Dad shared with me the major event in his day, the subject matter took me back 16 years when I first heard him speak of this kind of Love. 

I sat across from him in his office in the Winter of 2001, just weeks after Cheryl died. We were trying to understand something incapable of understanding. The focus had been on the children, but my father took this opportunity to tell me how he mourned for me. He spoke of his sadness that I hadn’t been able to experience the ultimate stage of love. He described it as the Love that is formed in the fires along life’s road, that takes a place above and beyond the puppy love of adolescence, is far superior to the life-altering passion of youth, and more transcendent than the work-horse love of raising children and seeing them to adulthood. I made the connection between the two conversations as I listened to him, smiling through the phone, talk about his walk with my mom through Publix. After 54 years together, they are in love. It is a love forged by time, perseverance, and patience. Those who have acquired it celebrate with linked hands and walks on the beach. It is found in the aisles of grocery stores and in the silence of reading the Sunday paper next to one another. It was also noticed within the confines of the banquet hall at Concord Presbyterian Church on Valentine’s Day while Peggy’s hands dance on the pearly keys as I watched these older couples smile at one another. It is a peaceful and quiet Love, confident in its origins and strengthened by the battles it has won. In its purest form, it is incurable and contagious. As I looked around the room from the podium and spoke of it, I saw it. I was in its midst.

While a story about my path must include my beloved Cheryl and Nancy - the heartbreak of loss, the solitude of grief, the rising of hope of new romance and, without doubt, the dress Nancy wore to a Latin dance class in the spring of 2001- Man, that dress was something else - it is Bob and Norma Pryor who deserve the ultimate salute. Simply put, they have shown the way. My siblings and I were raised in a home where love and dance and laughter resided, where we bore witness to the power of love and the light it could shine into the world. I told the people at the Sweetheart Banquet as they moved on to their coffee and chocolate lava cake.

After finishing the talk and another helping of Strawberry Pretzel Salad, Nancy and I said our goodbyes and headed home, stopping by Kroger for a bag of dog food, a gallon of milk and some ice cream for Cori. We used one buggy. 

The Push

This Week's Song - Butterfly Kisses by Bob Carlisle - Ya, I know. I hate this tear jerker too, but Shelby and I loved it when she was a pup. Never thought I'd end up with two girls, but boy am I lucky. 

In the dawn of a new life, after a bold move by Nancy and I to marry and merge families after less than six months of dating, we loaded up our Ford Expedition with our four young children and new puppy and headed off to the panhandle of Florida. This would be our first vacation as a family. My children (Shelby and Andy) and her children (Cliff and Cori) had become acquainted during our whirlwind courtship, stood with us at our wedding, and lived with us during our brief time prior to the trip. We were slowly becoming a family. Kids don't get to choose, but I was going to do my best to make this an extraordinary family.

The Push

The SUV was packed tight. Bicycles hung on the rack attached to the back of the car as we made our way down highway 331 in lower Alabama. The drama and psychology of traveling with four newly-acquainted kids at the ages of 9, 6, 6, and 3 was a daunting task, and a magnificent and frustrating experience. Nothing amplifies the flaws in familial relationships better than an eight-hour drive with a beagle pup crammed in one vehicle, followed by 5 days in a condo. We knew the trip would be important. It would help forge our relationships for years to come. Nancy and I would exchange plenty of "What-have-we-gotten-ourselves-into" looks that week. Each child’s struggle to establish identity within a new order was apparent and something Nancy and I had discussed before deciding to merge our families. We even visited a child psychologist to help prepare. It was like preparing for a tsunami. Things had gone smoothly, all things considered, but the relationships between the kids were evolving. 

Shelby and Cori are the same age, but our daughters could not be more different. They had actually been classmates in preschool before Shelby’s mother tragically died and Cori’s parents divorced. For a child, divorce is a different kind of death. It requires its own adjustment and form of survival. Death and divorce must both be grieved and they must be accounted for in each step of forging on. Johnny Cash would say that Nancy and I had been married in a “fever,” but we were adults (at least we thought so) and we knew that throwing four young children in a stew and mixing them in could turn out delicious or utterly unpalatable. 

Tybee 2016

After a day in Destin, the seven of us went on a walk to a place called Jolee Island where there are swing sets, hiking trails and plenty of places for all to run about and get exhausted. When kids are that age getting everyone exhausted is an integral part of the plan.  As the kids were climbing on the playground equipment, Shelby posed the idea of a foot race with Cori. Shelby was the child who planned what everyone was going to do. Even at 6, she always had an agenda and was pleased to offer up the schedule for the afternoon. She also looked for advantage in every situation, like the time she would leave Cori a letter in her stocking, supposedly penned by Santa Claus. In the blocked and broken script of a child, the letter read “I saw what you did to yur sister. If you do it agin you’ll never get prezents.” This portended a level of brilliance I’m still grasping. Cori was sensitive, athletic and competitive. If you’ve ever had a sensitive and competitive child you know that wins come with a great sense of inner well-being and losses…well, they are simply unacceptable and a catastrophic event bordering on the end of the world. Cori was fast, Shelby was calculating. Shelby negotiated a head start which Cori graciously, if suspiciously, conceded. Nancy and I eyed each other with absolute dread.

Wedding day 2002

The race meandered through palm trees and tropical brush along a sandy path. We could hear their footsteps and Shelby’s giggles as Cori closed the gap. We caught glimpses of them in the trees under a warm Florida sun. If God has a favorite song it is the sound of six-year-old girls laughing and running. They emerged in a clearing closing on the designated finish line. I held up the camera taking photos furiously as they approached. They both held looks of determination as they gained on the end of the race, fighting as if their lives depended on the outcome. As they crossed and Cori claimed victory, Shelby raised protestations of cheating, “She pushed me at the end!!” she claimed. “I did not!” Cori retorted. I counseled the girls on the values of competition and their bond - the fact they had each other to compete with and talk to the rest of their lives. I told them the value of having siblings. They always cause you to try harder, to be your better self.  I thought it an unbelievable opportunity to impart this lifelong wisdom to two beautiful and loving girls and counsel Shelby on making excuses, especially in light of the fact she received a head start. "I did not push her!" Cori continued to insist.

Shelby is now 20. Cori is 21. Both are Juniors in college. When I toasted them at their graduation, I said, "To the father of daughters, they are always 10 years old in pigtails," but I should've said they are always 6 racing through palm trees. Each is an honors student at their respective college. Shelby is my spiritual baby, following her heart and her savior wherever they lead her. Cori was on four-state-championship-finalist soccer teams and is a social butterfly. They could not be more different, but they love each other as…sisters. They competed with grades in middle and high school. Despite their differences and the lack of shared blood, they have made each other better. They have been the best of friends and watch out for each other. They keep up with how the other is doing in school and in other aspects of life. As I write, they could not be farther from me unless they were on the moon. One is in Idaho, the other is in Australia for a semester. As far away from each other and me as they are, they are so close to each other. Their relationship is a great source of pride and one that will survive my existence on this planet. This is a meaningful consolation given my selfish and broken heart.

I sat down later that evening after the big race and looked at my photos from the day. The photo above is legend in our family. It is blown up and has had a prominent place in every home we’ve owned over the years. In it you can find the joy, the determination, and the competitiveness that defines my girls. In it you can find the very essence of my happiness. It never fails to make me smile...or cry. It is simply called, “The Push.”

Hope

This Week's Song - I've Got a Wet Nose, How Bout You - by Robbie Pryor - It never hit the charts. You've never heard it. But it was number 1 with two little girls between 2007-2010. A pretty good run. 

I once rolled my eyes at people who talked about their dogs. That was until I got Hope. Roll your eyes if you must.

Sophie disgusted Hope is in her chair

Two years into my marriage to Nancy and our new life with four kids we decided “why not add to the chaos?!” We decided to get a dog. We had a couple of “trial runs,” trying both the puppy route and an older rescue dog. The most unforgettable was a Beagle mix named Peanut. She was the cutest puppy ever delivered upon this Earth but apparently a Beagle mated with Satan. It became increasingly clear there was a strain of Great Dane and schizophrenia in the lineage. That dog tore up the house, the landscaping, and, finally, Nancy’s leg. Shortly after our baby, Andy, turned 5, I looked out the front window to see Peanut dragging him from the front yard into the shrubbery like a lion would an antelope. Finally, in an attempt to save the situation, we hired a “dog whisperer.” She left our home in tears, a broken woman. Peanut went to a nice farm - really. Nancy and I had given up Hope. Then she arrived.

Nancy found her online at the East Tennessee Golden Retriever Rescue. We invited Hope for a visit. The people at the Rescue don’t mess around. They make home visits. There were many requirements. We were vetted and interviewed over the phone like potential Supreme Court Justices. We scurried around getting the house ready like we were getting a visit from the Queen. After some subtle but healable heartbreak with the previous attempts at canine addition, we decided to lie to our children. It is often the best policy. “A nice lady is coming to talk to Daddy about a case” Nancy said. “she might bring her dog with her.” We didn’t want them to think this dog was staying.

nap time

It was love at first sight…for all 6 of us. She answered to Hope and had recently been found with her litter mate, abandoned in a cold world. She was the deepest red I've ever seen in the breed. She changed our lives. She collapsed at the feet of my four kids, who proceeded to climb all over her. I don’t think the lady was there four minutes before I blew the cover and said, “We are keeping her!!!” Years of beautiful chaos ensued.

As my children came of age Hope pulled wagons, dressed up for Halloween and was a reindeer every Christmas. She was equal parts pet, confidante, friend and child. She played multiple roles in homemade stage presentations and plays. She healed broken hearts and warmed cold feet. As the red on her face turned white, Nancy decided we needed a puppy. I thought it was a terrible idea and, as a seasoned trial lawyer, argued my point with both logic and supporting facts. So, we got a puppy. Sophie blew into our lives like a tornado. As docile as Hope was, Sophie was "energetic." Hope, first annoyed by her, began to mother her, train her if you will. The two of them provided constant entertainment. Hope was scared of the fireplace, Sophie wasn’t. Hope loved tennis balls, Sophie didn’t. Sophie slept in an old chair, Hope on the floor. Neither could swim and both thought they were humans. Every night we adhered to ritual - I came into the girl’s shared room with a guitar and the two dogs for a “Hope Prayer.” It was a 30-minute (sometimes longer) goodnight. A play of sorts ensued where I spoke a prayer as though Hope was talking to God. The girls would giggle with their heads bowed and their eyes closed as Hope prayed for various things. "Please allow food to be dropped from the table" and "Please help Sophie sleep more." Songs were made up and performed with my poor guitar accompaniment (two favorites were “I Have a Wet Nose, How bout You” and “I Love Cinnamon Rolls”). It was my favorite time of the day. I think Hope and Sophie loved it. They anticipated it like it was a meal. Whenever I picked up my guitar, they were on the march to the girls' room, where they would jump up - one on each of the twin beds - and expect the love that was so eagerly given by the adoring children.

The crowd

In the final year of her life, Hope threw caution to the wind. Never a beggar and ever obedient, she ate an entire hickory sausage log off the coffee table without permission. She began climbing into Sophie’s chair. Sophie was okay with it. The two of them were inseparable - Sophie loving Hope, Hope tolerating Sophie - until that inevitable day came.“Something is wrong with Hope,” was the text. Pet owners understand. It is the day we all dread. After all, it is usually the biggest hurdle to owning a pet - you have to give your heart over knowing that one day it will be shattered. Isn't that what love is? Risk - Reward.

Hope and Sophie

The little girls, who’d been smitten when the nice lady walked Hope into our lives, were Seniors in High School when that day came. They held vigil with Nancy and Sophie until I got home. The boys disappeared into their rooms while decisions were being made. Women are stronger than men. I’ve always believed it. Nancy, Cori, Shelby, Sophie and I sat with her until Hope’s predicament made it obvious a trip to the vet was needed. We left Sophie with the boys, and in the middle of the night, in a room of a pet hospital, the four of us linked hands and sat on the floor surrounding our Hope. We put our hands on her. We laughed through tears as we shared our favorite stories and cried unrestrained tears in one last concert for our girl. It was a beautiful moment. We were all brokenhearted children in that room.

Hope Prayer went too long

Sophie was devastated, but recovered, perhaps sooner than the rest of us. She is now 8 and every bit the puppy she was when she came to us. We are convinced she kept Hope young during the years they shared. Sophie and I mope like babies when the girls leave for college and rejoice when we are all together. She sits at my feet when I’m writing and working in my home office. She listens to closing arguments and opening statements. She follows Nancy around the house. I take pictures of her and send them to the girls far away in their new worlds so they won't forget we are there, loving them. Hope opened a world to us we had not previously known, and the two of them together have brought so much joy and love into our family. My parents ended up getting one…and then two Golden Retrievers, all because of Hope. Shelby arrives home for Christmas today. Our family will be complete for the next few weeks. Sophie is going to the airport with us. I might have to dust off the old guitar tonight. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

My Gatlinburg

This Week's Song - In My Tennessee Mountain Home - by Dolly - Who needs her last name. This week my Tennessee Mountain Home emerged from the fire and smoke. You can't burn magic and you can't kill a spirit like ours.

The Smoky Mountains

Pigeon Forge ended at the water slide, the one made of concrete that left cuts and scrapes. Sitting with my siblings in the back seat of the family station wagon in 1978 with the attractions of the gateway to the Smokies in our rearview, the Pryor kids adjusted to focus on the scenery outside of our window. That stretch of 321 into Gatlinburg has always been my favorite part of the ride from Knoxville. As we disappeared into a canopy of trees covering mountain sides, my father playing Bill Monroe and Flatt & Scruggs on the stereo, I felt like I was being transported to my very own Neverland. The path was cut by a river that rolled over rocks seemingly placed by the hand of God. Twists and turns and a final climb opened to a wondrous little town, our East Tennessee Magic Kingdom, where the taste of a candied apples and freshly woven taffy waited to dance on our tongues - A place where pancake breakfasts in front of giant fireplaces started a day filled with believe-it-or-nots, wax museums and putt putt. Chair lifts and alpine slides, a babbling brook and an indoor pool - oh, the indoor pool - transformed every short trip into a vacation. We didn't have money, but we never knew. We had Gatlinburg.

Gatlinburg, Tennessee

My parents, like so many East Tennessee couples, honeymooned there. As a family, and with several other families, we rang in many a New Year in Cobbly Nob in the 1980's. Uncle John died there in his little house, his sacred last breath drawn on the mountain air he loved so much. I was too young to understand but old enough to never forget. It was, for me and my siblings, our first encounter with death.  My brother and I stood in the front yard listening to the wails of my sweet Aunt Lucy through the screened porch door, the one that slammed on rusty springs when we would run back and forth to the creek.  I was sad, but even at that age I knew it was a special place to live and a better place to die. I think Uncle John would agree.                  

Taffy and Candied Apples on the Parkway

Gatlinburg is our secret place, a land of magic and mystery unknown to the rest of the world. That's what we thought then and how I feel now. Children of the Valley share it with the world but it is ours. The images of it burning this week would not register, its streets and businesses, hotels and chalets, all a haven of childhood memories that simply cannot be erased. How can you burn that down? As I watched it burn on news coverage and social media, I thought of it all - the wedding chapels, the mom and pop motels, and the handcrafted pocket knife I got as a kid.  I thought of high School dates to The Burning Bush restaurant and the skating rink at Ober Gatlinburg, where grace escaped me, but not the girl. There were fraternity formals at Bent Creek Resort and day trips with my babies, when they were still babies, to see the great aquarium. Then there was a magical day with Nancy and all four kids in the river, skipping rocks and exploring the forest followed by a night in town exploring its beloved streets and sharing our childhood memories in order to carry out our obligation as children of the Valley - to sprinkle the pixie dust of the spirit of the mountain on the next generation. For those of us raised up in East Tennessee, Gatlinburg is both a right of passage and a an accessible bit of Heaven, a piece of our sugar-laden heritage and hickory-smoked birth right as "mountain people." It is, quite simply, happiness - East Tennessee style.

August 2007

This too shall pass, for in the realm of our world tucked firmly in the shadow of the Smoky Mountains, Gatlinburg's light can no more be suppressed than that of the stars or the memories of a child.

The Fire Stick

This week's song - You've Got a Friend in Me - Randy Newman - Toy Story is one of my favorites. So is Christopher Leach

The ground was still wet with dew. I looked down the fairway trying to envision my shot. The stakes were huge. When my new driver struck the ball, it rose against a late-summer sky and gently faded over the trees that stood at the corner of the dog-legged par 5, landing safely in the fairway. “Good one,” my competitor said. It was his common compliment - short, to the point. There would not be much conversation during the round. This wasn’t our first rodeo. The game was on. He teed his ball, and after he struck it, Chris Leach’s drive flew mine by 10 yards. We picked up our golf bags and walked stride for stride down the fairway. It was 1988. I was 19. He was 17. I was starting my sophomore year at UT. He was the star senior quarterback at Farragut High, bathed in the glow of all that befits the age and position.

Money Players

Because of my close relationship with my brother, John, his friends became my friends. My friends became his friends. Chris and my brother were in the same class. As kids, we all played golf, tennis, billiards, basketball - well, anything - together. Chris and I were usually pitted against one another, inevitably for money. I like to think I taught him how to gamble, but in hindsight, I think it was as much a genetic predisposition as hair or eye color.

We often played for large sums of money, despite the fact we didn’t have access to more than pocket change. But, on that day, we played for something more - The Fire Stick. The club, manufactured by Wilson, was the hottest driver of the day. The beautiful and intimidating red fiberglass shaft ran down into a titanium/metal head. Every golfer wanted a Fire Stick in their bag, and I was one of the fortunate few. My father had given it to me the week before as a gift. It was a good club, but it was also something else, something players like Leach and I couldn’t resist - flash and status. Bad golfers would look silly trying to play it. People paid attention when it was carried onto the driving range. Rumors flew around our club about which golfers were going to get one. A friend of my father’s approached me at my grandmother’s funeral, extended his hand and said, “Sorry about your grandmother,” then leaned in to whisper, “How do you like that Fire Stick, kid?” 

I’d lost to Leach the day before and he came up with the idea that, instead of having me pay, he wanted to play for the Fire Stick. “Absolutely,” I said without hesitation. Money players don't hesitate or turn down a challenge. It was a beautiful day. We strolled down the fairways of Fox Den Country Club with the confidence that tomorrow was promised and the world belonged to us. We were good. We knew it. Our bodies were lean. The inevitable tragedies and storms of life had never earned proximity to us.  We were boys playing a game we loved. It was a 9-hole match. We battled back and forth like it was the Ryder Cup. It is always serious between friends upon the field of battle. We pulled for each other, conceded the right putt, and made club suggestions. It came down to the last hole. When I tapped in for par, we shook hands and walked to the clubhouse, laughing and reliving the match that resulted in my retention of the desired Fire Stick.  

The Fire Stick

The years slid by faster than those infinite summers of my youth. Chris would become my little brother in the fraternity. He stood with me at my wedding to Cheryl. I toasted him at his. We have so many close friends. When a money game was being put together, it has to include Pryor and Leach. We’ve traveled to football games and multiple locations to play golf with my brother and other friends. And, then he and his wife gathered with many one fall afternoon, outside the emergency department of Park West Hospital, awaiting word about my wife’s condition after she’d been rushed there from our home. When I exited to deliver the news of her death, Leach was the first. The first face I saw. The first friend to rise. The first person I embraced. The first of many to come unglued with me, as the eye of the hurricane arrived in defiance of our presumed exemption from such things. Long before that terrible day, we had been dear friends and rivals in all manner of games.  The storm transformed us into brothers. A Storm turns a friendship into something greater, something deserving of its own temple. 

It has been 28 years since we first played for the Fire Stick. The club has long been obsolete. Driver technology has gone through the stratosphere, but the ole Fire Stick is still around. I looked over at Chris’s bag this past April to see its red shaft and gray titanium head protruding as we stepped onto the first tee in Destin, Florida. It has been our tradition, our temple if you will, for 21 years, that the first day of our big golf trip is the day we annually renew our competition for the relic. The Fire Stick Round. One round of golf. The club itself  hasn’t touched a golf ball for a quarter of a century. At the end of the tee box, away from the others, he approached me for the ceremonial conversation. “I see you brought it with you,” I said. He smiled. During the past year he’d had his picture taken with it on his travels, texting the image to me with very little if any caption, each photo serving as both a good-natured jab and a nod to the institution of our brotherhood.“We’ll play straight up as usual?” I asked. That is how it has always been, how it shall always be regardless of the fact his game is much better these days. The winner always keeps the Fire Stick for the next year. “Alrighty. Good luck,” he said, winking as he turned to walk away, still the cocky kid I taught to gamble on the golf course, the one who would roll out for a pass on fall Friday nights and then keep it just to run someone over. He is the same cocky kid that never gave up the ball on the basketball court and the same confident man who told me everything was going to be alright after he and five others carried my Cheryl to her place on the hill where the leaves still fall with a certain grace this time of year. 

I leaned over and placed my ball on the tee then struck a slow-rising shot that drew slightly around the fairway bunker and into the plush green fairway. “Good one,” he said. A Good One, indeed. 

The Bandits

This week's song - Lose Yourself - by Eminem. No particular meaning here, except for the fact that every time I hear it I'm transported to an SUV driving boys to basketball games. 

“Time-Out!” I yelled as I ran toward the referee at mid-court. The Shockers had just scored to take the lead. I needed to calm my team down and draw up a big play.  The Bandits were down three with only 6 seconds remaining in the Championship game. AAU travel basketball gets intense. My players gathered around me as they always had, each of their expectant faces looking up, trusting I would come up with something that would lead them to victory. No one in the Powell gym that night expected us to compete with The Shockers, much less lead the entire game. Their faster and more athletic players had annihilated the rest of the field on their march to the championship. We had played an incredible game. Everyone played. Everyone contributed. Now, we were seemingly yielding to our fate, relinquishing our hard-fought lead with seconds to go. I was so proud. I told them. We’d played a great tournament. We’d made it to the finals. The rosy cheeks and excited eyes of the 11-year-old boys gazed up at me. The gym was on fire with excitement and expectation. Connor, the tallest of the kids, circled the huddle nervously. “Connor! sit still! What are you doing?” I asked. “I’m just so excited, Coach! This is awesome!” It was awesome. I grabbed my dry-erase clipboard. There was still fight in this team. It was the spring of 2009.

The Bandits

Those little boys are now young men, most of them Seniors in high school. Connor Arnold is 6 feet 7 inches tall and an All-State forward at Grace Christian Academy. Caden Harbin is Mr. Everything at Halls High - an All-District and All-State football player. Isaiah Sulack broke the Arby’s Classic (a nationally recognized tournament) three-point record earlier this year, scoring 39 points in a single game for CAK High School. The kids, most of whom played for me for the better part of a decade (more than half of their lives) are scattered across the city. Griffin Hicks and Ryan Lee are at Webb. Tyler Parker is a talented golfer at Catholic. Haydn Tanner is a two-sport star at CAK, and Tyler Young, aka Big Mac, is also a Senior at CAK. Alex Majoras, the quietest kid I’ve ever known, is at Bearden. Shawn McKay, who I held as a newborn, will graduate from Farragut in May. Then there is my baby boy, Andy Pryor, who is a Junior at CAK and my all-time favorite Bandit. Most still play basketball, but not all. Dozens of other boys have played for me at one time or another over the years - too many to list here. All of them are great kids with wonderful, loving parents. Several have earned athletic honors, but very few, if any, will go on to play basketball in college. The core group has been with me since they were eight years old. 

Coaching

We’ve burned up the roads of this state, singing rap and pop songs and talking about the finer things in life - video games, Krispy Kreme donuts, and girls. We’ve eaten a lot of pizza in hotels, where boys with boundless energy took over indoor pools while parents washed uniforms in bathroom sinks and dried socks on hotel-room air conditioners. The Bandits have spent many a night at my house and my son has been welcomed in each of their homes. When I started coaching them, I thought I was simply coaching a game I loved and bonding with my son. When I hung it up, I realized that I’d made my own friends for life. I am the beneficiary of a gift I inadvertently gave myself. Coaching these kids has been one of the great privileges and honors of my life. One of my players wrote a school essay about how I influenced his life. Another said I would be one of his 8 invitees on NBA draft night when he would be taken in the first round. I text them after their wonderful high school performances and, more importantly, after the poor ones. They text me to give me a hard time when they see my commercial on television or an appearance on Legal Lowdown. I sometimes just text to check in. Andy and I go to their high school games. They often come to his. They tell me they love me. They hug me whenever I see them in public. Even though it has been over a year since I put down the clipboard, they still call me “Coach” or “Pryor.” 

On that night in March of 2009, the Shockers thought they had us. They didn’t know what a good play I had drawn up. I knew the shot was good before it left Parker’s hands. He was a great shooter. They all were. When the three-pointer passed through the net as the buzzer rang out, the gym erupted. Tie game. We were going to overtime. A few minutes later, after Connor slid down the baseline and drained a three pointer two minutes into overtime, the game was over. We were the Champions. As Connor said, “It was awesome.” There are few better things in life than watching 11-year-old boys celebrate an unexpected and hard fought championship. I became one of those 11-year-old boys. 

My boys

All good things come to an end. Boys turn into men and seasons conclude despite our begging. I miss it all, but more than anything I miss the sideline huddle with the excitement of a game hanging in the balance. Should I one day be granted the gift of reflection during my final hours on this planet, I shall consider the many blessings in my life. Included among them will be my years with the Bandits. I will reach for memories of my precious time in the company of such fine boys and smile gratefully for our days together. I shall immerse myself in the echoes of shoes squeaking on gym floors beneath the hum of fluorescent lights and intermittent whistles, and desperately grasp for the vision of their youthful faces encircling me on sidelines. And, should anyone ask who I would like to carry me to my final resting place, I will without hesitation say “The Bandits.”

Dance Like Nobody is Watching

I've taken some time off from the blog. I've been writing other things and living life. Here is something I submitted to a periodical I write for. Hope you enjoy.

This Week's Song - Mambo No. 5 - Lou Bega's dance hit from 1999 gets the heart pounding, the feet moving, and for some of us, the tears flowing. Turn it up! 

Shelby

“Play it again, Daddy!” she implores. At four years of age, she is my little rosy-cheeked-head-strong first born. I push the button on the CD player that returns the electronic thump to its starting point. Shelby’s feet begin to shuffle across the hardwood floor while I do my best imitation of John Travolta in Pulp Fiction. I take her hand and swing her wide. The giggles float skyward. We both dance like nobody’s watching. I’ve taught all of my kids there is no other way to dance. Find your beat and turn it loose. Then, suddenly, someone is watching. Her mother, Cheryl, summoned by the familiar words of a song we cannot remove from our heads, bounces down the stairs to join in, the three of us effortlessly falling into the throws of what has become our small tribal ritual. We are at the mercy and direction of a four-year-old child. “Do this, Daddy!” she implores as she waves her arms. We move around the coffee table in familiar rhythm, singing along with Lou Bega - A little bit of Monica in my life, A little bit of Erica by my side… There is laughter in abundance as our little creation laughs at, mimics, and directs her parent’s moves. It is the spring of 2000.

This memory plays in my head like a movie reel as I look out on the landscapes of the Lolo Pass in Idaho this week, the last miles of our journey passing beneath the Michelins. I usually bring it on myself, conjuring the scene from another life and planet. It generally makes me smile. For a father of a little girl, she is always four years old, dancing in a living room, the envied and unknowing possessor of pure innocence and joy. The emotion of the memory is amplified today, cutting and exact, hitting its mark as we make our way to her new school, her new town, her new life so far away. She is 20 years old.

Shelby, the author, and Sophie The Dog

The living room from the memory no longer exists, our first house having been leveled years after our move to make room for a church parking lot. The adoring mother, who was born to be her mother and who executed the complexities of the privilege with overwhelming love and skill, suddenly and shockingly departed life on a sad fall day before the melody of laughter and song faded into the doomed hardwood floors. Cheryl will always be 31, dancing to Lou Bega on Belleaire Drive. The music-laden memory is immortal as long as one, or in this case two people remain. And though I know Shelby has little if any memory of the moment or the mother she lost, here is Lou Bega’s hit emanating from the speakers of my little girl’s car from a CD she made. She’s heard the story. As I write this from the back seat, occasionally glancing at the beautiful Snake River to wipe hidden tears from beneath my sunglasses, I’m struck by the cruelty and beauty of parenthood and the power of music. Over the past four days, we have seen things we’ve never seen - the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains, the majesty of Grand Tetons and Yellowstone National Park, the wide open skies of Kansas and the glorious majesty of Montana. Nancy, the courageous and loving woman who married me and who has expertly and lovingly mothered Shelby since she was five, the woman who not only inherited but earned the vaunted title of “mommy,” rides along next to Shelby, gaping at the brilliance of our country. I am a blessed man, no doubt. Yet, while they are taking in the scenery, I’m in the back seat trying to figure out how I can somehow speed up this damn song or, in the very least, find, kill and dismember Lou Bega.

This child who provided a reason to dance, a reason to rejoice, and for a period of time, a reason to breathe, sings along with Lou just like she did when she was four while I shore myself against the storm of emotion brought on by the most upbeat song I’ve ever heard. The practical and seasoned lawyer in me has fled and is hiding somewhere in the mountains just beyond the horizon. I feel like the dad in the recent McDonald's commercial, the one crying in the shower about the son who has gone to college. Perhaps it is the journey of all parents. We go to soccer, basketball, and football games. We go to recitals and plays, followed by dinners with siblings and grandparents. We shop for Christmas presents and work harder to buy the perfect birthday gift while the clock ticks. We pay the orthodontist and give driving lessons while the sound of the ticking of the ever-present clock escapes us. We rarely heed the call or soak up the song. The next thing is always “about” to happen. How can we not see it coming? Those of you with adult children know of the moment you realize it. Those of you with young children should heed the call, pay just a little attention to the ticking of the clock and turn the music up. Way up. And, put on your dancing shoes.

On the road to Idaho

She completed two years at Tennessee as an honors student, but needed something else. She was led to serve as a counselor at a Christian camp in Washington last summer and now to a new chapter with a new set of friends on what feels like the other side of the world to a father who has done everything to keep her close. I’m once again reminded of my lack of control over life. I’ve ostensibly supported her quest since she told me her plan several months ago. During that time I've lived in constant fear of the airport goodbye, the blow of separation from this joyous and beautiful creature. Silly Daddy. While the selfish side of me is dying inside, the practical side of me is so proud and knows she is doing exactly as I directed - She is dancing like nobody is watching. She has found her beat and is turning it loose. She is happy. What more could a father ask for?

After Midnight...

Alright, alright! - lets have some fun. My father always said, "Nothing good happens after midnight." He is a good and wise man, but he missed this one.


This Week's Song - Oh Sheila - Ready For The World - this song topped the charts in 1985, but on a cold night in 1989 it blazed a path to the moon. Turn it up and play it over and over.

The Pi Kappa Alpha House
circa 1989

The dilemma was a big one.  It didn't look good. I stood just outside the circle of decision makers watching the worried look on the faces of the elected officers as they brain-stormed solutions to the great crisis. It was Friday night on Fraternity Park Drive which meant one thing - The Pikes were having a band party. Thanks to the fact my fraternity dedicated 90% of its budget to "social" events, coupled with our election of the greatest Social Chairman in the long history of Pi Kappa Alpha, our house was the place to be in the Spring of 1989. This wasn't just any band party. It was Pike's Peak, a week long party complete with band parties every night, commemorative t-shirts, and no classes to attend. School was in session. The "no class" thing was self-imposed and not officially sanctioned by the University of Tennessee. Fraternity life was simple - go where the party is. These were the days before press conferences and "Butt-Chugging," and a band party was a sacred event. There were other great fraternities and we all went to each other's party's, but during Pike's Peak we were the only game in town and the crowd gathering was testament to that very fact.

Brett Shaw paced in the middle of the circle as all of his subordinate officers and wanna-be advisers harbored looks of panic and despair. "What are we gonna do, man?! We can't have a band party without a band!" said one concerned frat boy. Though there were extreme actions taken to contain the catastrophic news, the whispers of disappointment had already started to run through the ranks of co-eds gathered in the courtyard -  the excellent and heavily anticipated alt-rock band Brett scheduled had been unable to cross the North Carolina mountains due to early spring snow. They weren't going to make it. It was 9:30 on a Friday night. The band was suppose to start in thirty minutes. It looked as though all was lost. The courtyard outside the house and the entire first floor were covered in eager college students who'd been "getting ready" all day. So much hung in the balance.

Shaw wasn't conceding anything. He went to his room, closed the door,  pulled out his magic book and got on the phone. At approximately 10:46 p.m. he emerged from the situation room, clearly worn by the night's events, and announced "I have a band on the way." A collective sigh of relief emanated from the small group and congratulations were bestowed upon the man who had once again come through. Then, as a reflection of how spoiled we were by Brett's efficiency and good taste, our attention quickly turned to what we might expect from a band that was the only one in the book still available at 10:30 on a Friday. "They are called the Chevettes," Shaw announced with a lingering doubt behind the usually optimistic eyes, "and they weren't in the book." Brett was good, and he knew it. He took great pleasure in standing before the chapter during Monday meetings to announce the "excellent" and "in-demand" bands that would be coming. Although things were beyond his control, he simply would not accept this mark on his administration. "These guys were actually referred to us by another East Knoxville band who heard they were looking for gigs." Concerned looks among the group were exchanged. "What kind of music do they play?" asked an exasperated kid from Memphis. "Not REM!" he said to the kid, who listened to almost nothing else. He turned and made his way to the courtyard to make an announcement which would hopefully save our party. The house was packed. The rain began to fall and everyone moved inside. "This is going to be a disaster," said our Treasurer, looking toward the heavens.

After what felt like hours, a collective roar came from those gathered in the house and courtyard as a 1970’s white cargo van pulling what appeared to have once been a U-Haul trailer turned into Fraternity Park. Remarkably, everyone remained at the house and many more came when they heard the band was coming late. Only in college can a 3 hour delay possibly increase your crowd. Brett pointed the van’s driver to a location beside the house where equipment could be unloaded into the basement. The Courtyard was no longer an option because of the rain. A large group of pledges who had been hastily gathered and given instruction prior to the Chevettes arrival moved quickly into place and began assisting in the unloading of speakers, guitars, keyboards, drums and all manner of things that were necessary for The Chevettes to entertain. 

Basement - Men of PKA

The members of the band and their sizable entourage exited the rear of the van like clowns from a circus car. It looked like a gathering of central casting from the movie Purple Rain. Each of the men wore their hair in a jheri-curl and were adorned in short double-breasted blue and white jackets. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least if Morris Day, himself, stepped out of the van.  I shook the hand of the keyboardist, who looked like he was still in high school, and picked up a microphone stand and followed him into the basement. The young man was clearly nervous having likely been rousted from bed to play the show. He looked at me and whispered under his breath, “We’ve only been practicing for two weeks. I don’t know how this is gonna go, my man.”

This is how it went -

The tuning of instruments and sound checks rose like smoke into the fraternity house and bled into the rain-soaked courtyard captivating and drawing the throngs of college students to the stairway like moths to a fluorescent light. The earlier disappointment created by the absence of live music was wiped clean and each congregant was filled with a new adrenaline, that special kind of adrenaline held in reserve only by those of the human race under the age of 23. It was well after 1:00 a.m when the pilgrimage to the basement began. 

Basement - Men of PKA

In the light of day, the basement of the pike house could have been mistaken for a medieval death chamber. The stained and sticky concrete floor ran the length of the room beneath a low ceiling supported by haphazardly placed steel poles. A room-length-built-in bench covered the west wall above which small windows, which wouldn’t allow an infant to escape, provided what little light the room received. The bench had one purpose - to support head-banging teenagers trying to get a look at the act occupying the stage. The stage was made of plywood squares supported by rotting five-by-fives, the handy work of inattentive and distracted pledges from years past. The planks were easily transportable and creaked beneath the feet of frat-house rock stars and yesterday's fools. There was an abandoned bar area, where as a pledge I'd been instructed to mix PGA punch in garbage cans with my arm, requiring me to answer questions for days from professors and other students as to why my arm was purple. A descent into the basement, at any time of day, was a trip into a dungeon that smelled of stale beer and bad decisions. During Hell Week, my brothers and I mopped the floor until we collapsed only to find that decades of fight blood and alcohol stains were permanent fixtures. It was so bad that pledges were instructed to paint the floor at one point, an idea that proved to be among one of the worst when brothers tracked paint all over the house and courtyard after a band party. 

However it may have looked in the light of day, everything changed during those hours our house was bathed in the light of moon and stars, especially on those nights of basement band parties. Illuminated only by makeshift stage lighting and the pheromones of a Gen-X crowd, the basement became an ethereal dreamland and temple to the young at a time when magic was our province and the real world and all of its responsibilities were a distant and voluntary destination instead of an on-coming, unstoppable train. We were young, and in those moments, those nights below a low ceiling, overwhelmed by the decibels musical dreams, we learned more than we would in any university classroom.

The room filled. We stood shoulder-to-shoulder, swaying in anticipation of the arrival of music. The Chevettes entered from our right after making a pre-show visit to their van after the sound check. The crowd went nuts. The purple lighting from foot lights did nothing but amp up the level of anticipation as the members of the band all stood erect, eyes to the floor. When the percussion laden introduction to “Oh Shelia” jumped from the speakers, the room exploded. The uninhibited, rain soaked, and energized people, each of whom lived in that utopia between child and adult and stood possessed by hours of unfulfilled anticipation, liquid fuel from bottles, teenage lust, and a mainline infusion of the popping-Billboard-chart-topping R & B, moved like nobody was watching and our very existence depended on it. As the lead singer, in a mock-British accent, stepped to the microphone and said, "what's good for the goose, is always good for the gander... Oh Shelia" I thought the entire universe would collapse on itself.  The band moved in perfect unison to the beat of the electric percussion. Those of us men who didn't so much dance as try to look cool lost total control in the steaming pit. I danced with nobody and everybody at the same time, hands raised in the air, electricity running up and down my spine. When I stepped onto the bench and looked out over the crowd, I was convinced I was witnessing the greatest moment of my college life. At the close of the song, after what can only be described as a virtuoso performance by the boys from East Knoxville, the crowd - and the Chevettes - were convinced the band was the greatest in the history of R & B. Fraternity men high-fived, girls and guys hugged and all screamed in adulation. Then the second song began.

As good as “Oh Shelia” was, the next two songs were absolutely horrible. Forgotten words, poor instrumentation and missed harmonies cut into the night and sucked the electricity from the air of the basement. As disappointment began to filter through the crowd, a realization overcame the fading student body that the Chevettes were not cohesive or talented, that there was indeed a very good reason they were available at midnight on a Friday. They just weren’t ready. Then, something happened - something so simple and brilliant in concept that human ingenuity, the collective genius of human history, could not have come up with it had several weeks been given to solve the riddle.

The Basement - Travis Hill with arm raised 

My friend, my brother - Travis Hill - a man of great musical insight, a man who would go on to write several number-one hits, songs heard by millions, a man well-versed in the importance of pouring gasoline on the dying fire of a party - screamed out the greatest words of his life. “Play Oh Sheila, Again!!!!!” A great deal of debate exists to this day whether the photo to the left actually captures the greatest and most meaningful moment of Travis's life. The crowd, recognizing the genius of the instructions, roared louder than any which had previously visited the basement of the house. The band members knew immediately the request was not only a relief, a solution to their own dilemma, but that it was a revelation.  They immediately broke into the intro, assuming their choreographed positions from the first performance.

For the next glorious hour and a half, the Chevettes played “Oh Sheila” six more times, interrupted only by two terribly played and easily forgotten songs and a break. Like any great memory, that night 26 years ago sneaks up on me every now and then and grabs me by the shirt. When it does I slip my iPhone out, plug it into my living room sound system, and hit play.
 "Like they always say, what's good for the goose...." 

The Author in the Basement

The Board

*Note: I've Been away from the blog for a spell. Life happens. Thanks to all who pestered me for more and the many who've read my previous posts. Hope you enjoy.


This Weeks Song - Half Mile Hill - David Nail. This one was written by my friend Rick Brantley and  recorded by both David and Rick. It's nice to know talented people. Check them out on itunes and their websites. Rick has a new album and podcast coming out this week. Check out Facebook.com/rickbrantleymusic and discover a great talent. When he blows up, you can say you heard him first (unless you are in my presence). I just happened to be listening to his beautiful song when I recently drove by the Board.

The Board

He stood and made his way to the front of the packed chapel. This big and quiet man, this man of faith, this man I'm proud to call friend and brother-in-law rose to deliver his father's eulogy. Mike Turner has never been considered a dynamic public speaker. He is a trained accountant and great businessman, always deliberate and quiet, one who listens and is capable of cutting to the chase with a single well-considered response. However, I never thought of him as possessing great oratorical gifts. I've always respected his mind, appreciated his intellect, admired his faith, and welcomed his wisdom. So there I sat, excited to see two worlds collide in my quiet friend's public reflections on the father he adored.  His first words upon arriving at the microphone warned those gathered that he would be reading his remarks; Not a promising start to what would turn out to be perhaps the best eulogy I've ever heard. Mike captured his father's spirit and love of family in a way that only Monford Turner's son could. It was beautiful. With a scientific precision and order that defines Turner men, he chronicled the life of a good and generous Christian man. Then came the unexpected breaks for emotion. He told us what his father meant to him - the lessons taught for sure, but more importantly, the example he'd been as a husband, father, and man of faith. He covered details of his life, but what was intended to be a man's recounting of another man's life became peppered with glorious moments of a little boy simply talking about his dad. Perhaps it can't be helped when you love and respect someone like that. If you didn't know Monford Paul Turner, you would have known and loved him after hearing the ten minutes of his son's perfectly written and exquisitely told assessment. The words stood testament to and reminded me of how we are shaped by those who pass through our lives. The following day Mr. Turner was driven beyond The Board to his final resting place. The Board and I are old friends.

It's made of wood, painted black, and stands in the shade of a small tree. The white letters adorning its facade are interchangeable. The Board silently, and without a hint of apology, greets all visitors and future permanent residents of Highland Memorial Cemetery. On the last occasion I rolled by, it simply read Johnson and Hinton, announcing the ascendance of two souls and the arrival of their earthly vessels to reside forever beneath the East Tennessee clay.  I've entered many times, more often since that day in the Fall of 2000 when I buried my wife and the mother of my children. The Board always has at least one name. Always. Beyond it are many I've known and several I've loved.

Betsy Coffey became my mother's best friend during a time when a friend was desperately needed. The Coffeys lived next door to my parents when I came along in 1968, the first-born child. Betsy already had two boys of her own. While my mother was equipped with the love, dedication, and the enthusiasm required of a new mother, she was, as most first-time mothers, ill-equipped when it came to the practicalities of caring for a new baby boy. Betsy was a steel magnolia planted at the end of Columbine Circle in Rocky Hill. She was a West Tennessee beauty, a farm girl with an infectious laugh and a dominating, irreverent personality. She became my mother's sounding board, confidant and coach in all matters, including dealing with mother-in-laws, managing a grocery budget, and keeping other women away from their men. They were twenty-somethings without two nickels to rub together, married to law school buddies.

My very first memory in life is standing in Betsy's Volkswagon Bus as we made our way to get ice cream on a hot summer day. In the world of a child, can you tell me something that holds more excitement? I couldn't have been 4-years old when I stood between the seats of the hippie bus transfixed by the woman behind the wheel, her beautiful blonde hair in a bandanna. She laughed and barked out orders to her boys telling all of us to sit down as the bus pulled onto Northshore Drive. Seat belts? I don't think so. She steered with her left hand, using her right to shift gears and hold onto a lit cigarette, its smoke pierced by the voice of a young Michael Jackson declaring "I Want You Back" via eight-track tape. The notes of the Motown sound played in harmony with the laughter of little boys and their mothers and the unforgettable rumble of rear-mounted German ingenuity. When I let the memory take me I can still smell the mix of gasoline and unfiltered cigarettes, a scent that will always conjure feelings of excitement and adventure. I know now that Betsy was the type of woman men write songs about, a poet's muse. She had a raspy commanding voice, a youthful and beautiful face and a rare confidence that captivated anyone in her presence. I cannot for the life of me remember that voice without the beautiful sound of my mother's laugh.

I was in love with and continue to crave the sound of my mother's laughter. It brings joy to anyone who hears it and has the power to heal. Betsy always made her laugh - not a polite laugh, not the laugh drawn in the company of important people - but the laugh of unrestrained and unguarded joy that comes only in the presence of a dear friend. I was never around Betsy in my life that I didn't smile, too. She continued to be one of my mother's best friends long after Columbine Circle was in all of our rear view mirrors.  Betsy was the best kind of friend - one that not only brought laughter but longed to serve. She kept and tended to my young children on that terrible Wednesday in 2000 when "Pryor" made its debut on The Board. She insisted - and when Betsy insisted, you didn't question her - on staying with my young children as the rest of my family and friends made their way to Highland Memorial on an overcast October day to lay my wife to rest on a hill. When Betsy made her journey beyond The Board for the last time 10 years later,  felled by a cancer she'd fought for years, I sat by my mother as she succumbed to the unguarded and beautiful grief that comes only in the company of a lost friend like Betsy Coffey. It was the only time Betsy made her cry.

My grandmother, Louise Pierce Hammer, had a difficult life. She was a frail and generally unhappy person, but I never knew it. None of her five grandchildren knew it. Her name adorned The Board in 1991, the same year I graduated from college. She loved me. She was the greatest example of the transformative power of becoming a grandparent. It returned her to the joyful and sweet soul she was always meant to be, one that poured out God's word and a lifetime of love whenever we were around. When I was in her presence, the light in her eyes belied the years of hardship she'd suffered. She never talked about the husband who left her with two young girls to raise or the health problems that plagued her in the last decade of life. She threw the pitches a grandfather should have pitched, once taking a line drive from the end of my bat to the face, leaving her glasses broken and her face badly bruised. She drove like a NASCAR driver without a sense of direction. She had such an abiding faith in the Lord that she trusted He would deliver us to our destination in one piece regardless of what the traffic laws required or driving conditions dictated. It was during one of these trips that I first found and secured a seat belt.

I think of her most often these days when I'm struggling with sleep. She lived on a busy street when I was a little boy. In the quiet darkness she'd put me to bed on those nights I was privileged to stay over and together we'd sing "Jesus Loves Me." Before I'd drift off we took turns making up stories about the shadows that formed on the walls of her bedroom when headlights of passing cars passed through the blinds. The power of imagination, the enjoyment of story-telling and an abiding love of one's savior are lessons she bestowed, perhaps without even knowing it. It is a hearty inheritance.

Mr. Turner joins many others I've known and several I've loved beyond The Board. I don't list them here and I don't visit them all when I go, but there is always one more who calls to me before I leave.

I never met Lily Claire Felton. She is the smallest of my loves beyond The Board. When my good friend, Johnna Comer Felton, delivered triplets just three months after Cheryl died, all who knew her and her wonderful family rejoiced. I visited Johnna and her husband, John, in the hospital in the midst of my dark days, searching for a bit of happiness in the joyous gift of children delivered to good friends. After my visit and prompt return to grief, I was shocked and saddened to hear that Lily, the smallest of the three Felton triplets, tragically succumbed to an unexpected infection only 18 days into her life. 18 days. I was further astonished a few days later when I realized she had traveled beyond The Board and resided only 40 yards from Cheryl. I placed one rose from Cheryl's bouquet on her grave that cold February day. It has been a secret ritual I've repeated for 14 years.

When I decided to write this piece I called my dear childhood friend, Johnna. I'd lost touch and wanted to tell her how her daughter's death impacted me, reveal my secret relationship, and learn how my tiny friend's family was fairing in her absence. Facebook is an amazing thing but it rarely affords us a true view of our friends. It can never replace human interaction and the blessing of sitting and talking with a dear friend. Johnna and I had lunch and discussed those beyond The Board. We shared laughter and tears, our beliefs about those we've loved and lost, and the well-being of our families. She spoke of our shared season of grief and of the years that have followed. She spoke with great affection for the two children who survived (Hannah and Kate) and the two who followed (Sadie and Jack). She spoke with palpable love of her family and the everlasting hole in the family portrait created by the absence of my little friend. People who have lost a child deserve a special place in the scrolls of the grieved. I know many. I'm so amazed by those special people who have found their footing in a world that no longer includes their child. Lily's death made Johnna an overprotective mother. She knows she says "no" too much. She's allowed. We spoke of loss, the kind you hold close for no one to see, so close that few remember you have been brought to your knees in this life. She told me about a simple lone birthday cake that sits on the table with the one for the surviving triplets on each birthday and her sacred and sweet belief that a found penny is a smile and a "Hello" from her sweet baby beyond The Board.  Then, I told her about Lily's lessons for me. Simply put, Lily taught me then, in February of 2001, and every time I visit, to get over myself. She taught me death does not discriminate, that the pain of others we walk among cannot be compared, calculated or underestimated. Johnna also reminded me of a simple universal truth - nothing abides like a mother's love.

Lily's siblings - Sadie (11), Hannah (14), Kate (14) and Jack (9)

I go beyond the board to honor one and remember others. I go because it is where I'm reminded of their impact on my life and feel them push me to the point where my thoughts of them cannot remain confined to that hallowed ground. I am pushed to find them in those places they truly reside - in the eyes of my children, in the sweet sound of my mother's laugh, in the darkness of a sleepless night's shadow, or in what others simply think of as lost pennies on the ground.