The Dawning of September

Author's note - 

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

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

Stanley Morgan

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

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

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

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

Larry Seivers
I still have his jersey

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

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

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

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

One Last Prayer - Part 2

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

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

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

Destin 2004

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

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

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

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

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

Aruba Pier Bar

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

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

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


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

Wedding Day

January 18, 2002

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

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

on the pier

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



    

Litchfield Beach 2010

Christmas 2006

Easter 2004

November 2013

One Last Prayer...

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

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

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

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

with Shelby and Andy - Summer 2012

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

  

Spring 2014

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

Shelby and Andy
2000

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

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

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

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

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

Where is the beauty I promised?

June 2000

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

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

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

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

Abbie Skladan and her baby brother, Ryan
2014

Precious Time

This Week's Song - Precious Time by Van Morrison. Van's voice is ear candy.You cannot help dancing to and/or feeling uplifted by the basic lesson held in its lyrics. Try it out and take to heart the message in the words, but make sure the furniture is out of the way and your girl/guy is within arms reach. I've danced some great swings with beautiful women to this one.

The Author and The Coleman
 July 3, 2014
Fripp Island, South Carolina

The glorious bridges of Beaufort County, South Carolina, traversing miles of lush, undisturbed marshland, delivered us to the shore of Fripp Island this past week for the annual Ackermann family vacation. On Thursday morning I sat in a beach chair watching the back end of Hurricane Arthur out on the salt as it moved north and away from our island, sparing our final days in a magical place. It was my time for reflecting on the enormity of my good fortune to be among the Ackermann family. For the past 12 years the Ackermann children (Dori, Nancy, Andy and Jill) have gathered beside a large body of water with their spouses, children and parents to enjoy a week of sun, water, laughs, and love.  In recent years, as the children age, we are sometimes without one or two. This year we had the full lot - 22. In 2002, my young children and I were graciously invited to enlarge the group by virtue of my exquisite and easy decision to marry Bert and Judy Ackermann's second-born child, Nancy. It is always a wonderful week. It is also time to renew my intimate relationship with a gray Coleman cooler.

Before me and before the trip became an annual event, Andy Ackermann walked into a Galyon's in Atlanta in September of 2000. She sat among those other brands of coolers in a display, poised like an orphan, waiting for a prospective and loving parent to pick her from the others. She was a bland gray among much sexier and higher priced competitors, but fate was to intervene that Fall afternoon as my future brother-in-law was on a mission to find a cooler for a Tennessee-Georgia tailgate party in Athens. Red wasn't an option. Orange was no where to be seen. A price-efficient-nondescript-basic Coleman seemed to do. Destiny was set in motion. In the last 14 years, the gray Coleman has seen tailgate parties, neighborhood functions, family reunions and a myriad of other celebrations and happy occasions, but it is that one week in July every year where she is put to the full test of service and where my loving relationship with her is annually renewed. I met her in 2003 when my arms were stronger and my hair darker. Since I was the new kid on the block, I took it upon myself to fill her up and get her to the beach, a task of strategic planning and hard physical labor. The rest is history. Each and every morning she waits patiently for me to remove yesterday's sand, empty cans, and bottle labels from the two inches of warm water sloshing on her floor to clean her anew, fill her with beer, water, Diet Coke, Mountain Dew and other beverages so that we may escort each other on the long walk to the beach. Down boardwalks, through sand, along gravel paths, and across lagoons I've dragged, carried, floated and pushed her to a place beneath a tent where she sits contently in the shade watching this extraordinary family age, serving as silent witness to the precious time slipping away. Despite the abundance of men, young and old, I rarely relinquish control of the glorious task and always take offense when she holds the hand of another. I'm a jealous man. The right of passage has become ritual and worship. I know she is smiling along with me as we go. She has been there for it all. Boys who wore life jackets and drank from juice boxes now have facial hair and jobs. Girls who wore swimmies and said, "look at this shell Daddy," wear headphones and talk of college orientation and sorority rush. If you think about it long enough it will break your heart. The gray Coleman continues to serve us through it all, even now as we curse, accept, and brace ourselves for the escalating effects of a terrible disease that steals memories, the memories we have worked so hard to cultivate, from our sweet JuJu. Judy has Alzheimer's disease.

The unconditional and unrestrained love of this family for its matriarch was on full display on the windswept- low-country island this week. The children care daily for their ailing mother at home and, of course, on this trip, but the entire family's devotion to this wonderful lady this past week stands as a testament to what true love is. It is patient, it is kind, it does not envy, it does not boast and it is not proud. This includes the love of grandchildren. They are committed to her, asking their JuJu if he/she is her favorite, playing along with her to Family Feud, getting her beloved Sprite and peanut butter, and quizzing her about her youth, those precious memories that will be the last to go.  Then there is the love of the man from whom she has been divorced over 30 years. Bert and Judy divorced in the early 80's. Since that time, life has continued to throw them together - birthdays, weddings, births, holidays, and, yes, vacations. He has been twice more married and divorced, but his love for his family has not wavered, and his love for her has never been so obvious. It is not the passionate love of youth or courtship, the constant, the dutiful or reverent love of a middle-age, or the familiar feelings and companionship of decades of marriage, but make no mistake about it - it is love. He walked her to the beach, he made her lunch, he retrieved her blanket, he searched for "Everybody Loves Raymond," her favorite show. They do not share a home or a life together, but the strength of once-upon-a-time, cultivated and sprinkled with the magic of what and who they created together, is enough. It is enough. On Friday, she and I sat beneath the tent with the gray Coleman and sang along with the ipod. We sang with Charlie Pride and Charlie Rich. We swayed with the Shirelles and Elvis Presley. Without accompanying music she offered up a rendition of "Sweet Caroline," with the youngest grandchild, Lauren Turner, who giggled and sang along. When I hit play on the playlist I made especially for her, Connie Francis's "Lipstick on your Collar," bled onto the sand from the speakers, bringing the voices of each Ackermann child to join in, the lyrics ingrained in their memory from evenings long ago, dancing and singing along as children in the family kitchen. Not one of them can sing a lick, but the sound is as beautiful as any Hallelujah Chorus ever heard. Precious time is slipping away.

Author, Nancy, and JuJu
July 3, 2014

I know as well as any the frailty of life and the precarious nature of our existence. I suppose that is why I know, at least most of the time, when to allow myself to fall into moments of this life that hold simplistic beauty. Those moments are easy to miss if you don't "get it." Unfortunately, the gift comes with great sacrifice, for it is a gift born of death and grief and love and one which cannot be taught or simply given to another. In the wake of my worst time on this planet, a friend told me with a wink and a smile "No one will acknowledge it, but not one of us is getting out of here alive." Van Morrison delivers the same message to the beat of a Carolina Shag. So, as I sat beneath the tent atop the gray Coleman on Thursday, listening to JuJu's and Connie's voice mix with the surf and the dysfunctional harmonies of the middle-aged Ackermann children, I smiled and turned the key, locking away another memory I will hold "till Hell freezes over and the rivers run dry," ever thankful for the precious time.

Edge of Tomorrow - A Movie Review...sort of

I don't get to the movies often. This past week I randomly barked out "Who wants to go see a movie with me?" Apparently, when children turn 15 they no longer hear their parents. I'm kind of like the bell in Polar Express. My four kids, ages 21, 18, 18, and 15 seem to actually hide in the house rather than be seen in public with me. I know it's just a phase and they'll realize how cool old Dad is, again, one day, I hope. My wife, God bless her, asked what we would be going to see. "The new Tom Cruise movie," I replied. She said she had to wash clothes and clean horse stalls. So, a couple of days later, when the kids were all doing their thing and Nancy was at Supper Club (It should be called "Wine Club"), I went to the Pinnacle 18 IMAX theater and bought my $17 ticket, picked up my 3D glasses, and went in to see Edge of Tomorrow.

I know you are asking, "Why that movie?" Like most men, I like futuristic, alien inhabited thrillers with blood and guts. Alien changed my life when a friend rented it in 1981. It was my second rated R movie (my first was 1980's Dressed to Kill with Angie Dickenson, but that is the subject of another essay...or two). I didn't know much about it, but I knew Tom Cruise was in it. I don't particularly like Tom. The whole Scientology-jumping-on-Oprah's-couch-Matt-Lauer-interview madness made me wary. After he locked up that cute little Katie Holmes and held her hostage as depicted on South Park, I swore him off altogether. But, I can't help it - I still pull for Tom. I do. I pull for him in the way I still want to see Def Leppard and Motley Crue make records. I wanted the Twinkie to survive. It's the same reason I will dismember Ashton Kucher with a fork for hurting my Demi. If Molly Ringwald is interviewed, I'm watching. That little morsel of allegiance rose from and is born of the same emotion that makes me care when there is a "Where are they Now?" article. Does anyone know where Julie from the Love Boat is? Tom was a hero of my youth. He's had staying power. I'm not talking about Mission Impossible Tom, but Top Gun, All the Right Moves and, more importantly, Risky Business Tom. These movies had a big impact on my life. Men wanted to be him and women, real live grown ones, wanted to be with me in my imagination when I was him. Women my age and at least one of my male friends still pause the volleyball scene in Top Gun. I have friends who can quote the entire dialogue from All the Right Moves. Joel Goodsen from Risky Business was simply the man.  Jimmy Johnston and I modeled our entire adolescence after that character, and though we drove our Dad's cars without permission, we never could get the older women to our parties. I pull for him in every role, because if he is too old, and he can't pull it off, then perhaps I'll have to look inward. If he is too old, maybe I can no longer drink real coke or eat a whole box of Sweetarts, like I did in the IMAX last Thursday. Sidebar (I'm a lawyer): When is one of these silicon valley geniuses going to invent cool 3D glasses? I'm not saying the early days of our courtship were tenuous, but if I'd taken Nancy to a 3D movie for one of those first 3 dates, it would have been over.

So, I was a few minutes late last Thursday. I was concerned it might be sold out given it was in the main theater and was the seven o'clock show on a summer night. I was one of five people in the 300 seat arena. Five. There was an older couple, the husband wearing his 3D glasses over his bifocals, and 2 other men. Right then and there I knew what it must feel like to walk into a porn theater. I started to wonder how sad the lives of these people were when I realized I was one of them. The movie sucks (that is the legal term). Tom Cruise keeps dying over and over. 20 minutes in I wanted to kill him and the guy who sold me the $15 coke and box of Sweetarts. The special effects are cool, but I can only find 2 good things about my experience - Nancy didn't know about the Sweetarts and Emily Blunt. These aliens were really hard to beat. We lost a lot of good men. The story line was truly maddening. Mostly, it just made me sad. Sure, Tommy Boy still looks young. Hell, he looks younger than me. Though he is 6 years my senior there is not any nose hair, ear hair or gray hair to be seen. I learned that I need plastic surgery, electrolysis, and Tom can no longer pull off the action hero. Sorry ladies, there were no shirtless scenes, so I suspect a man bra. I'm just not buying it anymore. Remember Chet from Weird Science (Bill Paxton)?  He played an older Master Sargeant with a beer belly - realistic casting. Bottom line, skip it. I'm now officially old. Tom needs to review the career of Jack Nicholson to see how to age appropriately on screen, and I'm buying a bike. I rushed home and rented Risky Business on Netflix to soothe my pain. It turns out, Rebecca De Mornay was the real inspiration in that film. Is she in anything coming out soon?

One Last Song...

I was waiting in line at the convenient store on Saturday watching as people continue to buy more lottery tickets than they ever did before the big ticket was sold on Clinton Highway, as if ours is the chosen town. Just as I was about to explain how the lottery was a tax on people bad at math, the beautiful piano introduction of "Don't Stop Believin" by Journey began to leak from the store speakers. A hush fell over the busy store. A trance came over the man in front of me and the woman behind me. They began to stare into the distance as we all will when the Zombie apocalypse is upon us, and, right on cue, all three of us sang the first line "Just a small town girl..." We laughed. Upon further investigation, which I do well, I discovered all three of us were in our mid to late 40's. We talked about the song and what it meant to each of us. Invariably, we agreed the song took us to a place, a time and a member of the opposite sex. The lady blushed, the man smiled and I delighted in the stories of school dances, acne, flirtations, and first kisses. Keep in mind, I didn't know these people. The conversation continued into the parking lot where the three of us had mysteriously become 13 years old.  For a minute, I thought we were going to go have a drink at Irish Times. Thank you Steve Perry for the song and for the moment at Pilot in the Summer of my 45th year. The power of a song.

I have a dear friend who has written many songs. Some of them have been hits. I'm amazed at the volume of high-quality songs he writes and envious of his ability to form the words and music that move people. Of course, I have my favorites. One such favorite is called "One Last Song." It is about the magic and power of music in our lives (see above). In particular, it is about a guy and girl meeting in a bar and the guy holding on, knowing that he'll have one last song to get the girl. I like the sentiment of knowing that it's never too late, believing there is one last song that might help deliver your last desire. Of course, it's never too late to get the girl, and the power of a song can convince you it's never too late to change your life.

I'm a lawyer, a father, a husband, a basketball coach, and a wanna-be-writer. I write because I love to. Most writers write for themselves. I'm that way. I've written for years and published to no one except my editor and chief critic, my wife, Nancy, who seems to be a bit biased. I write emails to a large number of friends who attend a golf tournament I run, but they are a captive audience. They've all encouraged me to write. I've decided now is the time to give writing more importance, give it the place in my life it deserves. Sure, I hope for an audience. My family carries the "I-want-an-audience" gene. This dominant gene drives us, regardless of talent, to the dance floor, any place there is a microphone, and the courtroom.  Generations of Pryor's have taken to the stage, usually resulting in humiliation, but it seems to be our destiny. Like Steve Perry and my dear friend, I've always wanted to move people; to entertain, enlighten, educate or, in the very least, make people think. I'm working on larger works, but in this forum I'll write about things that interest me. I'll write short stories or essays, and I'll take positions on issues. It's never too late to make a change. There's always one last song. What do you want to do? Don't stop believin.