Croquet Time

Croquet Time

It started for us back in the early 80’s. Croquet. Game of Kings.

A party at our new home in Newberry led us outside for entertainment. There, we found a child’s croquet set stuffed away in the dusty corner of the garage. We retrieved the set, dusted it off and set it up in the manner that we were taught as kids: stakes on each end, two wickets in front of each stake, and various wickets placed in the middle of the yard. And we started playing. We played till dark, brought out the lights and played until midnight. The beer and wine were flowing and we were suddenly hooked on this backyard game. We invented new styles of play as we progressed. Can you jump the sidewalk? Oh really, you can? Then let’s include the neighbor’s yard as well. So we expanded our territory. Now it was jump the sidewalk to the other yard, where we had setup several more wickets, back across the sidewalk, around the “George” bush, over next to the rose beds, and finally to home. We got pretty good at this bastardized version of the game. Then someone in the group, I don’t remember who, found out that croquet was an actual sport, with actual rules and a couple different ‘official’ versions of the game. After more study, my friends discovered a version called ‘American 6 wicket’, the game we would pick up and stay with until this very day.

The game is setup like so: Stake in the middle, 4 wickets on the 4 corners and 2 wickets on either side of the stake, about 6 feet apart from the stake. The object is to go through the four outside wickets, through the middle one, left side of the stake, through the other middle one and then reverse course by going the opposite direction around the course. Then, through the center ones again and hit the stake. Simple, right? Sure…believe that if you want.

We studied the rule book and continued to progress in our skills. As time went by, we found that we could play teams-two against two. So the teams of Durham/Reid and Ridgeway/Wilder were born. I was blue, Durham was black, Ridgeway took the yellow ball and Wilder the red. Although we still played singles (when other players were available), we always went back to team play. In 1988, we had a championship with trophies and t-shirts awarded to the winners. We continued this tradition for a couple of years. We took miles of video footage from these games, drank more than our share of after-match beer and generally had a great time. Finally it was decided to go to a place where croquet had real followers – Bald Head Island.

Unfortunately my partner, Larry Durham, was unable to attend this event. I decided to partner with my lovely wife-Long shot Laura for a couple of games. The greensward was beautiful! Manicured as if some elf had come down from on high and close-clipped each blade of grass separately, making the perfect playing surface. The wickets were made of iron and were so tight that a ball would just fit through it. The sand fleas and biting gnats were the only thing about playing at Bald Head that were a distraction, otherwise it was the perfect weekend of croquet. I don’t remember who won or lost those couple of days – Wilder or Ridgeway could probably answer for that. I do remember that from that point forward, I would be a croquet geek.

Fast forward to 2015. This past weekend, the team of Durham/Reid witnessed glory. Unfortunately, the glory belonged to Ridgeway/Wilder. In what was the most amazing comeback in all my years of playing this damned game, Ridgeway and Wilder put on an amazing display of wicket making to come from way behind and kick booty. After that, it was all over but the crying. I know that after all these years of playing; after  hundreds of games we’ve played and all these hours that we’ve dedicated to this pursuit, this weekend will be a mere footnote. That’s a good thing. And I hope that this will be but a shining moment in a dark future for the other team. But whatever happens, if you look over at that empty field in the burg of Possum Kingdom on a hot summer day, imagine four old men doing what they love – cursing at one another while trying to stay away from the dreaded “3 ball dead”. Easy, right?

Balls!

Gonads. Cojones. Balls.

These are the words that come to mind when I think of what my youngest child did in the winter of 2003. Michael was a 25 year old, accomplished musician who threw caution to the wind, boarded a plane with four strangers and flew almost 7000 miles to Asia to play in a band who entertained troops stationed overseas. I should probably set the scene.

Michael had been earning a living as a guitarist/keyboardist with several local bands. Gigs were frequent as he was very talented. When he broke out the solo for Stevie Ray Vaughn’s “Pride & Joy”, if you closed your eyes you would swear that Stevie was on the stage himself laying down those soulful licks.

Michael had indeed come a long way since I’d heard his first few notes coming from his upstairs bed room before he was even a teenager. Mike’s mom and I both played guitar, mostly around the campfire, entertaining those few campers who enjoyed a good sing along as much as Laura and I. We certainly encouraged both kids to pick up an instrument but Michael was the only one to do so. He began with drums, on a cheap toy set that we got him to test his interest. By this time I had set up a small studio in the house with a four track recorder and was testing my recording abilities. Michael expressed interest early on and would sometimes play along with dad and just jam. Later, I moved the studio upstairs to a more soundproof environment and decided that he needed a better drum kit. This is when I started introducing my son to the world of seventies era rock bands. Little did I know that his knowledge of the era and genre was already far superior to his contemporaries and I was also surprised to learn that he had become a Beatles fan.

Some of my contemporaries were musicians whom I had met after moving into our small town and some were from my musical past. I had been in a couple of bands prior to and just after getting married, even playing a Battle of the Bands one year in my hometown of Greenville, SC. Marriage and parenthood would change the trajectory of my life and I had to make do with the occasional campfire performance. One thing that I really enjoyed was jamming with my new found musician friends and inviting a couple of the old friends down for a day of partying and playing tunes. I actually recorded one such session with these friends, consisting of Christopher Crowder (who has since gone on to record several excellent releases of original material); Greg Hutto (former bassist with Up Spook Hill and now bassist for the legendary band GodStar out of the Myrtle Beach area); and Dave McCullough (former bassist/guitarist with a variety of bands and recently relocated to the Las Vegas area to ply his trade). These jams were always fun and spontaneous and produced ideas for several tunes that I had banging around in my head. Michael was always hanging around these sessions, drinking in the knowledge that these fine players would impart upon him. As he got older, I would take Michael to jam with other musicians in the area, to hopefully give him a taste of the joy that playing tunes with other talented folks would bring. Meanwhile, Michael had switched to guitar and had discovered Metallica, a band that took me several years to fully appreciate. Listening to the sounds coming from his upstairs bedroom, I had to imagine what my dad probably thought of my attempts at playing Black Sabbath in the early seventies…”WTF is that?” Also, Michael had introduced a couple of friends into the mix and the upstairs noise became a great reason for Laura and I to visit our upstate friends or go out for a good dinner. One of these friends had a family member with an empty building and soon our son and his entourage had moved all the gear to that location. The last time I really heard any bad notes coming from the band was on a visit to the new practice location…they were getting better but still had a long road ahead of them.

Fast forward a couple of years. Michael is in high school and is a sousaphone-playing  member of the award winning Newberry High School Blue Brigade, led by the legendary Lorraine Paris. Miss Paris certainly didn’t suffer fools lightly and her teaching skills were beyond reproach. Being from my hometown (and coincidentally my neighborhood), I got to know her pretty well during Michael’s time there. I also spent countless hours with the band as I videotaped nearly every performance and practice to put together a year-end commemorative videotape as a fundraiser for the band, and was with Miss Paris as awards were presented and honors were awarded. Whenever we talked about Michael and his progress, she assured me that, while he was certainly struggling with conforming to other subjects and the rules of various teachers, he was a whiz in the band room and a very promising musician…to the point that he could probably make a good living doing it. When his class graduated in 1995, Miss Paris retired.

 Now South Carolina is not known as the state where you go to break into the music business and, at that time, there were not a lot of opportunities for a musician to make ends meet besides playing bars and weddings. So bars and weddings were played.  Michael also supplemented his income pulling duty at a Columbia area music store, pushing amps and guitars to established and up-and-coming musicians.  It was here that Michael started making connections and would see new opportunities arise. He met one guy who needed a guitarist for a CD he was producing which led to a CD release party, which led to the need for a commercial to announce said CD, which led to me producing my first-ever  CD release commercial for and with my son. That was fun! After Michael cut the voiceover, and the spot was completed, we celebrated…say no more…say no more!

Fast forward a few more years. By now we have been watching our boy play bars and had seen his skill level increase beyond our wildest imagination. He was in demand as a guitarist and was fast becoming known as the go to guy if your sound needed a scorching guitarist. Bands are kind of like girlfriends – you change them as often as you change your underwear. Some last for years, but since it is an ego-driven business, egos clash and bands break up. After several incarnations, certain members may drift back together, and good relationships are established. This happened with Michael. Two drummers come to mind: Jason Summers and Mark Riebe. Both superb drummers, I’ve heard some excellent music coming out of bands comprised of Mike, these two drummers and various other excellent musicians that have popped in and out along the way.

In 2002, our daughter passed away quite suddenly after contracting a vicious virus. Michael and his sister had been at odds for years as siblings tend to do, but now their maturity had brought them together and they were both healing old wounds and making amends, or that’s how I saw it. When she died, Michael sought out friends to help with the grieving process…family seemed a bit too much to handle at the time. He seemed to be moving on and accepting that which seems so unacceptable. Losing a sibling anytime would be difficult, but at only 27 years old, I can only imagine.

Meanwhile, Michael told me about an opportunity that may be coming his way. He had heard about a band that toured overseas and had gotten to know one of the founding members. I didn’t give it much thought at the time as I had a variety of things on my plate, but thought that it may be a great opportunity should it ever arise. It would arise soon enough. The founding member, however, had decided to not tour again and that they would be looking for a guitarist/keyboardist who wouldn’t mind being away from home for an extended period of time. Michael would spend the next few months mulling it over, wrapping up previously booked engagements and working a notice for his day job. I got a call one evening after work.

“Dad-I’m going overseas”

What brings this story to mind is a series of messages that I received from Michael when he was in Japan and Korea. After re-reading these, I drifted back to that time and wondered how he had managed to keep it together during all this. Or was he running away from a painful situation? The answer would hit me all these years later after reading his messages – he needed to go. He needed to perform. He needed to expand his horizons. Below is a short message I received after they had opened for the band Quiet Riot in Korea:

Hi dad! It is great to get mail from you. Things are going well

here.

It is monday evening at 11:00 now, tommorow I am going to Tokyo for sightseeing. I am going on a high speed train. Very cool because I have never ridden on a train. I have pics to mail of the quiet riot show and korea. I will do that soon. That is about all so far. I play wed. and fri of this week. Love, Mike
p.s.   I showed my ass onstage sat. Just had to whip it behind my head for pride and joy! got pics of that too!

Another message from Japan:

Hi dad,

It is great to receive mail once again.

Things here are beginning to pick up. We all 

chose a cover song so I made them do working man.

Last night I became an honorary 517th squadron firebird. 

The fellows took me out to bar row and got me tanked. 

The funniest thing about it was 

that little ol mikey outdrank them all!

Leaving sunday for yokosuka, which is a naval base. 

Apparently the carrier just shipped out 5000 guys leaving 

loads of women! :) That will prove to be interesting.

Well, that is about all for now. Mail me soon! I love you guys.

Mike

Side note: I was able to get in touch, by email, with a soldier stationed at a base where Michael was playing. As a long-running joke, Michael and I would flip each other the bird in a very subtle way, hoping to make one or the other 'look down' to see the bird. I explained the game to the young female soldier and asked her if she would carry out this task, as I could not be present to do it myself. She agreed and I waited patiently for the resulting picture. When I received a picture from her, I opened it and waited for it to download. While waiting, I was patting myself on the back for such a clever prank. As the picture downloaded from the top, I could see the heads of the band members, then the smiling faces, then - all of the band members and the soldier were flipping me off! Backfire! Michael later explained that, not understanding my request, the female soldier had handed him my email...the picture was Mikey's idea.

Mike would go on to do two more tours of the far east as well as a couple of tours stateside, entertaining troops the world over. For this, I am not only very proud of my son, but I know that he has balls…cojones…he’s fearless! And what a musician!!

Ruth Elizabeth

She came into the world red and screaming on March 4, 1975. Her first sight was her mom, a strong, independent woman of seventeen.  She was named Ruth Elizabeth, after her maternal grandmother and a bookish, spinster great aunt with a heart of gold and a laugh that would melt you. She was also welcomed by two wonderful grandparents who doted on her, two aunts who thought the world of her and an uncle who was still a child himself. She was surrounded by love and wanted for nothing.
As she grew, her intelligence started showing in ways that were odd to some folks. She started walking earlier than most babies, loved to listen to stories and was talking very early on. She was reading by age three and would inquire about almost everything that caught her eye and attention.
I entered her life on her first birthday. When I first held her, she threw her arms around this stranger and made me feel right at home. I can't explain the connection, but she had me wrapped like a birthday present and I was captivated and captured by her spirit and her smile.
By the time she started school, she was so far ahead of her contemporaries that we were concerned that she would quickly become bored. She didn't. Her thoughtful teachers recognized her above average abilities and adjusted her studies as needed. She got along well with her fellow students and soon became a pretty popular kid on campus. Life was indeed very good for Ruth E.!
When she was two, her mom and I gave her a baby brother (well, mostly her mom, even though I contributed some). She loved the little brother and treated him well. As they grew, they began the brother-sister rivalry that would lead to conflict, but deep down they had much respect for each other. That respect would come to light after they had both grown and moved away from home. The teenage years became difficult for her as she struggled with the many things that teen girls are faced with. She had, by then, developed a sharp sense of humor and it served her well as she faced her difficulties. One thing that I could always count on from Ruth E. was a sharp verbal jab after some bone-headed statement had left my lips.
After winning the county spelling bee in eighth grade, she was recognized as a Duke University gifted scholar and had an opportunity to attend that institution after high school, had she so chosen. Her mom and I were so sure that she would take this option that we visited the Duke campus the following year. That was not to be.

In high school, Ruth E. really excelled. She became editor of the school annual in her junior year and served again in that capacity her senior year. She was again, like her previous academic years, a very popular kid. Her gathering of friends at our house read like a small town who's who of scholars, jocks and cheerleaders.
After high school, Ruth E received a scholarship to the University of South Carolina. We were quite relieved that she didn't go with her other choice of a school in England or somewhere else overseas. Columbia was, after all, only forty miles from home. I'll never forget the day we moved her into her dorm. She wanted to carry all of her possessions and had packed almost everything she owned. When the reality of the actual size of the dorm room hit her, she was heartbroken. I spent most of the day moving her excess back to the car for the trip back home. When we left her that day, her mom and I cried. She probably never shed a tear as she was finally away from home for the first time in her life.
Life. It gets away from you. Ruth E.'s mom had gotten a new career in Columbia as had I. We carpooled whenever we could and would make the crosstown trip to see Ruth E. whenever possible. After a few years, Ruth E., as well as our son, had permanently moved to Columbia. We worked long hours, went home after work and kept up with the kids mostly by phone. Life does indeed slip away.

 Early February 2002. Part of our function as a production facility that did commercial insertion across several networks was to monitor our commercials and make sure that they aired properly. This particular day, we were monitoring a local channel and the local news happened to be on. A report came up that caught my attention. A local high school student had died from meningitis. He was only seventeen.
I don't know why this particular story stuck in my head, but on the way home that evening I thought about his parents and how they were going to deal with losing a child so young. After mulling over it for a few moments my thought process went to something else and I didn't think about it again. That weekend, I went to Columbia to help Ruth E. hang some pictures in her new apartment, which she had just moved into with a couple of new room mates. We had a good visit, she gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek as I left for the return home. A few weeks later, for her birthday, her and the new room mates took a trip to Florida to meet up with a couple more friends and party. The pictures show Ruth E. having a blast in the bright Florida sunshine. She was so happy. After her return, we visited her at work and laughed about her birthday adventures on the Gulf coast. This was Friday March 7, 2002.
The next day Ruth E. went shopping at the local mall, and on the following day was supposed to go to the movies with her new room mates. As they were preparing to leave, Ruth E. told them that she felt sick and was just going to skip the movie and get some rest. They all left her as she headed to her room. When they returned that evening, Ruth E. had been really sick and wanted to be left alone.
Monday morning, March 10, 2002 Laura and I were awakened at 6:30 am by a call. Her room mate told us that Ruth E. had been transported to the hospital by ambulance and that she was feverish and 'really sick'.
We rushed to Columbia and were met in the hallway by a nurse who immediately escorted us to a nearby waiting room. She gave us stern warning to not leave the room and said a doctor would be with us shortly.
After an agonizing one hour wait, the doctor finally appeared. I'll never forget the grim look on his face as he explained the situation. "This is bad...this is very bad", he said. Ruth E. had been diagnosed with Spinal Meningococcus, a deadly form of meningitis. "We've got her on heavy antibiotics and hope we got her in time, but this is very bad. I'm afraid that all of you will have to go to the health department for ciprofloxacin  tablets. Until then you're quarantined".
8:30 am until 11:30 am we waited in that small room. No word from anyone, nothing. Finally at 11:30 a nurse came in and informed us that the woman from the SC Dept of Health was waiting for us at their cross-town location to administer the Cipro. Laura was anxious to see Ruth E. before we left so she was able to don protective clothing and mask and they allowed her into the room. Ruth E was drowsy but fully conscious. Laura stayed with her for about ten minutes while I waited outside the room, which had an observation window. While there, a group of interns stopped outside her room and a doctor went over Ruth E's symptoms with them. He also said that it was amazing that she had remained awake this long as they had started to induce a coma. As Laura left the room, I tapped on the glass and waved to my girl for, unknown by me at the time, the last time.
We arrived at the Health Dept. a little after 12:30 that day. We were accompanied by Ruth E's new room mates, who also had to take the Cipro. The director of the Health Dept. a woman in her mid- fifties, kept us waiting for about an hour and a half. After she finally arrived, she decided that instead of giving us the medicine so that we could get back to the hospital and see Ruth E, she would lecture us on the use of illegal drugs and how this could have contributed to her disease. WTF? Are you kidding me lady?? A lecture now??? I lost my mind on her. How dare she make us wait while our daughter lay dying in the hospital. My hope was to get back and visit Ruth E before she slipped into unconciousness. It was not to be. By the time we returned to the hospital, she was in a coma.
Ruth Elizabeth passed away on Thursday March 14, 2002. She never regained consciousness.
While she lay dying in the hospital, her room mates were busy cleaning out her checking account. Two days after she passed, my brother and I went to her apartment to collect her belongings and her car. Her roommates had also cleaned all of her CDs out of her car. What a lovely bunch of people. We were able to stop payment on one of the stolen checks and retrieve her CD collection, but we don't know what else they may have walked away with. It really didn't matter-just stuff.
The funeral was packed. Standing room only with people lined outside the chapel. Her favorite tune, Tiny Dancer by Elton John was played and her great uncle, a pastor from Tennessee, said some really kind words. The service at the graveside was especially emotional, as expected. I was still in disbelief that this beautiful twenty-seven year old had been cut down so young. After the service, the room mates walked over to us with a plastic bag. Inside the bag was Ruth E's cat. He was kicking and screaming to be released from the bag-not sure how long he was confined that way. I think, for these roommates, there's probably a special place in hell that awaits them.
At a meeting with her doctor a couple of months later, I asked if they had ever found the source of the infection. After testing everyone that she had physical contact and everyone testing negative, it was surmised that, because she had a slight sinus infection, while she was at the mall someone who carried the virus had sneezed and she had picked it up in that manner. No one is really sure.
So yesterday marked our thirteenth year without her. It gets no easier. And we miss her no less. Every year we dread this anniversary. While we focus on celebrating her life, thinking of just how wonderful it was to have her in our lives, the date always slaps us around a bit.
I have to wonder-how can spring dare show it's beautiful face at this time of year? Hasn't it heard?

Granddaughters

So when August 18, 2009 rolled around, I was as prepared as I could be.
That's when we got the call that my lovely daughter-in-law had gone into labor with her first (and so far only)
child. We had known for some time that it was to be a girl, and frequent checkups had determined that she and the baby seemed to be healthy. I was looking forward to this day as it would bring my first grandchild into the world.
I knew very well how I felt about having a grand baby, but was unsure about it being a grand daughter.
While I am not, and have really never been a jock, I do identify with the masculine things in life - most sports (although football has always topped the list), a good cigar, a great scotch (The McCallan), Playboy magazine (for the articles, of course),a great prize fight (did you guys see the Thrilla in Manila?), etc.
It stood to reason that I wouldn't know how to identify with this little pink bundle of girlhood. What could we possibly have in common? How in the world will I entertain this child? These questions swam through my noggin as I sat in the waiting room, awaiting her arrival.
And then she arrived. After it was determined that baby and mom were good, my son brought her out for all to see. I have never seen my son smile as big as he was smiling that day. Grandparents all gathered round to look at this little bundle and take the first "outside the womb" pictures. When she was passed to me, she opened her eyes and looked at me, then shut them again with apparent dis-interest. I handed her back off to her father, gave him a congratulatory slap on the back and took my leave. Alright! Mom and child are healthy and happy and all's right with the world ! I then went to the local electronics store and purchased a new digital camera.

After a couple days in the hospital, mom and baby came home. It was determined by her parents that this child should have a name, a ritual that most parents go through. It was determined that this child shall be called Fiona, after the legendary singer Fiona Apple (a favorite of my son).  So now the child had a handle.
It was perhaps the third day at home when she was handed to me again. So now, instead of just looking at the new grand baby, I was looking into the eyes of Fiona. Shouldn't have made much of a difference, but somehow it did. Fiona. Little Fi. And Fiona opened her eyes again and looked at me - this time with what appeared to be a passing interest. At her age I'm not certain that she could make out much detail in my ugly mug, but she did appear to be trying. And then she turned ever so slightly in my arms so that her tiny head kinda nestled into my arm. Uh oh...what's this? She sighed? And snuggled?? Rut ro Rorge. Okay, Okay. I can do this. After all, babies are babies - boy or girl...right? So I'll just hold this little bundle of joy for awhile until she poops or pees - then hand her off to the parents. Wait! She just clasped my finger! I'll just hold her for a bit longer...
Fast forward a few months. I am severely under-employed with a wee bit of time on my hands. The kids need a babysitter during the day while they work. No problem - I'm your guy! Change a diaper? Jeez, I used to change the cloth variety - Pampers are a breeze! Feeding time? Just tell me where the bottles are.
For the next several months, day in-day out, I was the face she looked upon when she awoke from her nap. I was the ugly mug she laughed at when I made the ridiculous faces that adults make when trying to entertain a baby. When she cried, I held her, fed her, rocked her, patted her tiny back, sang a lullaby, whatever it took to comfort her. Now don't misunderstand me, her parents, other grandparents, etc. were also spending chunks of time with her. But somehow we connected. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to spend more and more time with her.
Time passes - and we became legend. Early on, we watched Tom & Jerry cartoons and she became fascinated with these characters. Soon, I was Tom and she was Jerry. Squeak squeak - meow, meow.
By now she was walking, so I had to chase her around the house and, when I almost caught her she would suddenly spin around and hold up her hand in a 'stop now' position. Then she would clobber me in the kneecap and turn around and run to continue the chase (thank goodness she didn't follow some other T&J examples - knives, scissors, hammers-all fair game). We played hold the baby and dance to whatever was playing on VH1 Classic at the moment. We sang Thomas the Tank Engine tunes. We worked on the car and truck, her wielding a tiny hammer alongside my variety of tools. We picked up pecans in her yard, filling bucket after bucket and rewarding our labor by cracking and eating more than our share. We went to the playground and would swing and slide and run and climb till we were tired enough to go down to the drugstore for an ice cream cone or a milkshake. When it was time to go home, she made me promise that I would return the next day to play again. Then, it finally dawned on me. It wasn't about having a girl or a boy for a grand kid. Just having a grand child is good enough!
Now, she's five years old and her family will be moving over 1000 miles away soon. She will suddenly become not a daily or even weekly visitor, but a special occasion visitor. I know, I know- I will still visit with her by phone, skype and email. She will visit here, we will visit there, but it will not be the same. For the last five years, this little girl has enriched my life 1000 fold. She has reminded me of the small, yet important things that life offers - like explaining to her about wasp nests and how to avoid fire ants, and why the moon gets full and why we can't ride a locomotive every day. About picking flowers for her MaLa and blowing dandelions to the wind. Or holding a kitty the proper way, or the joys of chocolate...just not too much.
She has shown me the proper procedure for turning into a prince, how to correctly pronounce the pirate term "arrggghhhh", or how to swing on a rope that dangles from our indoor balcony.  And how the Barbies are really princesses and make great students in our pretend classroom. She has opened my eyes to the world of the child.
But more importantly she has given me that warm, comfortable and loving feeling that comes with rocking her to sleep, her arm thrown across my chest, her head nestled in my arm, just like when she was a little, tiny baby.
God - I'm going to miss that!