Thank You Travis

Eight years ago, while building a retail center in Gwinnett as the PM for Integra Construction, I was working late on a Friday alone in the job site trailer when someone began beating on the door.  The site had been deserted for hours and I hadn't expected anyone to be out there late on a Friday.  I opened the door and there stood this young guy in plaid Bermuda shorts, flip-flops, and a "colorful" golf shirt.  Before I had a chance to speak, he introduced himself as "Travis", the owner of a fledgling hardscape company I had recently contracted to install the architectural sidewalks on the project.  I took a long inquisitive look at him and barked "You do realize you're on a commercial job site?".  See, hard hats, boots, safety vests, long pants, and eye protection were the minimum dress code for anyone setting foot on the job site; MY job site.  With a nonchalant dismissive wave of his hand and an "Eh" from Travis, he began to ask about the job.  I was still a little taken back by all of this, so I walked down the steps and introduced myself with all the arrogant condescension I could muster.  He didn't blink.  Instead, he started to tell me all about himself...incessantly.  He talked about his company, he talked about Charlie, his right hand man, and for the next 30 minutes, I got a crash course in Travis 101.  Somewhere in the first five minutes of this conversation, Travis had won me over.  I don't know what he said or if it was his words at all, but he had this passion for his company and what he was trying to do.  He laid out for me his vision for Hemma concrete and told me how I was never going to use anyone else to do my work other than Travis Roberts and Hemma Concrete.  He got bored with me and left as quickly as he had appeared.  A half-dozen unreturned phone calls later, I finished the job, got laid-off, and never thought about him again.

Six rough years and 3 jobs later, I had an opportunity to go to work with Travis at Hemma Concrete and even though he didn't remember me or our conversation that day, I hadn't forgotten  about his passion and his vision.  Here I was, being offered a job helping Travis and his company to grow into a much larger, more sophisticated contracting business.  I jumped at the chance; a decision I will never regret.  It was less money than I was making, but the opportunity to grow the business and fulfill the vision was too great of a deal to turn down.  I started working there shortly thereafter.  My first "office" was a desk that sat outside the hallway to the "Bathroom of Shame"; the bathroom in the way back of the office where all the guys go to take a dump.  I call it that because anytime someone would head back there, they did their best to avoid eye contact with me because we both knew they were about to blow it up back there and that I was about to be subjected to their "essence" for the next 30 minutes.  Travis never used it, he preferred to use the restroom designated for the ladies because, well, that's what Travis does.  Every time he'd come to talk to me, he'd promise me an office, ask if I needed anything, wonder aloud why I didn't use two computer monitors, and do his best to say something shocking to gauge my reaction.  He was great, a real rock star, and we quickly became friends.  When I would go ape-shit on someone or something, as only I can do, he was always there cheering me on.  He liked my brand of Crazy and I liked his.  He was flashy and flamboyant, often wearing neon lime green pants and equally "electric" shirts; I wore blue jeans and either navy blue or black shirts, but what we shared was a passion for Hemma Concrete and The Vision.  Travis also was somebody who would just say anything to anyone, myself included, and he had a knack for being both brutally honest and loving in the same breath. He dubbed me "Mr. Grumpy Pants" because of my usually foul mood and less-than charming disposition.

Travis was a salesman and it was no secret he could sell ice to Eskimos.  He had a way about him that  disarmed people and was as charismatic as anyone I had ever met.  Travis started Hemma with $300 and a vision.  He got knocked down at times, but never quit pursuing his vision.  The year before I came to work there, Hemma was doing about $6M-$8M in sales, which was great, but it wasn't the vision.  With Travis' vision of the business and the hardwork of every Owner, partner, and employee, Hemma's sales last year reached $27M.  All from $300, a vision, and a guy who would not listen to anyone who said he couldn't do it his way.  I read a great quote this morning that said that, aerodynamically speaking, a bumblebee should not be able to fly, but nobody told the bumblebee, so he just keeps on flying.  It made me think of Travis and Hemma.

When Travis got sick it seemed so surreal and unfathomable that through all he's been through and all the times when he had persevered that there was yet another person telling this bumblebee that he couldn't fly.  We rallied around him, we fought along side him, not in the chemo chair or the Doctor's office, but at our desks, in our meetings, and in how we conducted business.  Never once did I think that this deadly, unpronounceable, disease stood a chance of killing my friend.  The statistics said otherwise, but the statistics didn't know him, hadn't seen him in action, and had never seen him fight. I had and I, as were my co-workers, was as defiant to these statistics as to anything I had ever faced. As the disease and the "treatment" began to wear Travis down, the possibility of him losing this fight became more and more real.  These last two weeks have been full of praying, pushing back tears that would try to erupt every time I thought of T, and hope that there was one more piece to this miracle.

Thursday night after getting the news that Travis was in his last days with us, I sat in this big empty house playing my guitar and singing Worship songs, something I had never done before.  I had played bass on them a hundred times at Church, but I had never played and sung them just by myself and just for The Lord.  But I sang them that night, all night, and I never went to sleep.  Friday came and the news hadn't changed and last night I got my guitar out and I sat here for hours singing and praying for my friend.  I asked God that if he was going to take him, then take him now with no more suffering, no fear, no more pain.  I sang the songs and sang my prayer until my fingers were raw and somewhere in the early morning hours I laid down only to be awakened by a text a couple hours later telling me that Travis had gone home to be with the King.  My hands started shaking and just when I had thought there were no more tears left in me, they began to flow again.  I tried my best to squash them to no avail.  I thought of my friend, his wife, his three beautiful small children, and all of his family who have all lost so much today.  I haven't prayed yet today and I don't know if I can, not just yet.  I don't know how I will get through playing at Church tomorrow.  I don't know how I will face my co-workers and Travis' family without losing it.

But then Matt called and for an hour we talked, cried, and laughed as we talked about our friend.  We talked about all the things that made Travis so great and why we loved him so much and the one thing that kept coming up is how so much better Travis had made our lives; how he had changed our paths for the good.  Knowing Travis Lee Roberts as a boss and as a friend has had a profound effect on me and so many others that he has touched and for that I am forever grateful.  I just pray that on the day that I get called home, that I leave as much of an imprint on people's lives as Travis has done on mine.  I pray that I learn to love people the way Travis did.  Although Travis' soul left us today, the things he has given us and taught us, his legacy, the culture of Hemma Concrete, and all of the laughs we shared will always be with us; he will always be with us.  Friday afternoon, I ordered myself a pair of neon lime green pants and I'm gonna wear them with baby blue shoes and a bright orange shirt  and I will never be as proud to step out of my comfort zone and honor my friend.  I know Travis is in Heaven and that he took Matt's dog with him and I know he's sitting there thinking I'm a shitty writer and that "insomuch" is not a real word, but I just want to hug him one more time and tell him I love him and to say Thank You for never listening to anyone who said he couldn't fly; he flew home today.  Rest in Peace Travis, I love you and miss you.



P.S.  Did you have to take Matt's dog with you???

When Men Were Men

During the last two winter weather events, I started to watch the TV series Mad Men and one aspect of the show really appealed to me; the men on the show acted like real men.  There is an overtly sexist atmosphere as the show is set in the early 1960's America, but that doesn't appeal to me.  The characters in this show are strong, confident, decisive men who are very adroit and assertive; essential qualities in my opinion.  They don't spend an inordinate amount of time talking about their feelings, looking for the approval of others, or second-guessing themselves.  They are not whiners, they are not excuse makers, and they are not sniveling, weak men.

Maybe I've been watching too much figure skating, but it seems that 2014 version of a man is anything but those things.  They're are exceptions to everything, but men today just seem weaker and less-manly then they used to be.  Less decisive, less confident, more egotistical, more feminine, more whiny, more needy, less assertive, and less self-assured.  Just ask yourself who is more manly, you or your grandfather?  Society has changed and continues to devolve to some strange unisex being.  To win his woman, your grandfather probably fought a bear with his bare hands and on your first date with your woman you probably both wore the same unisex perfume.  I know some ladies like the sweet, sensitive type guys who are in tune with their feelings and femininity, just don't expect them to kill spiders or snake the toilet.

That's not to say men can't be compassionate or caring, introspective and of high emotional intelligence.  I think men can be all of those things.  In fact, they should be all of those things and more.  But first, above all else, they should be self assured, confident, and brave.  Maybe this is just me aging, getting old, and working on my "GET OFF MY LAWN", but I found it funny that we don't identify with the portrayal of men from the '60's.  It probably started when we stopped keeping score and started handing out participation medals; when we started valuing participating over winning.  When we as a society learned that saying, "I did my best" was the Get Out of Jail Free card for failure, we became Pavlov's dog in our expectations of ourselves and others.  Often we exchange our expectations for the fear of hurting someone's feelings.

I'm sure by the time I die, I'll probably be buried in a skirt at the rate we are going, but at least my tombstone will carry one of my more prominent mottos: "Be a Man, not a [wuss]".

Who Are You Trying to Fool?

I am often amazed to what lengths men will go to convince themselves that their actions and/or decisions they make are righteous, justifiable, or both.  We are masters of shifting blame, misdirection, and rationalization.  Not unlike statistics to a mathematician, we can compile and select all the "facts", scriptures, case studies, and scenarios necessary to make the "numbers" add up to what we want them to say.  Then we rehearse our story to the point that we convince ourselves that we are righteous and just.  Once that is done, we can then, with impunity and conviction, set out to convince others just how "right" we are.  It's a marvel to watch from any seat in the house.  The most adept of us have learned that if we can first convince or sell our inner circles of our righteousness, then these unquestioning disciples can then cheer us on and help further the flawed logic.

If there is a spectrum for measuring theological knowledge and on one end is a Theologian and on the other there is a noob.  Well, I am a noob.  Sometimes it's good to be a noob; to see things with new clear eyes.  In my very limited and often one-sided understanding of the stories I read in my Bible, I have developed a couple favorites that contain some very real and useful lessons.  In my first attempts to read the bible, I had no idea where to start or how to study what I was reading, so a great and wise and snarky friend told me to start by reading The Book of John.  So I did...in one day...and I eagerly asked, "Okay, what do I read next?"  She said, "Read it again."  Huh?  I just read it, is it going to change?  What I didn't understand then was that the more I read it, the more I "saw".

In John 8:1-11, you'll find one of my favorite stories.  The religious teachers of the day brought before Jesus a woman who had been caught in the act of adultery.  The Law dictated that this women be stoned, so the religious teachers wanted to see if Jesus would follow the Law or disobey the Law.  There is this group of men, stones in hand, surrounding this sinner, this adulterous woman wanting Jesus to confirm what they already knew in their minds was righteous and just.  There was no doubt in these mens' minds; none.  In their minds, there must have only been two possible outcomes; either Jesus would agree and take up a stone himself or he would defy the Law in front of all of these religious men and scholars.  If Jesus disobeyed the Law, then how easy it would be for these religious scholars to discredit Him publicly?  But what Jesus said was "The sinless one among you, go first: Throw the stone." (John 8:8, MSG).  One after the other, these religious men dropped their stones and walked away starting with oldest among them.  Jesus continued by telling the woman to go and sin no more.

Great story and one I usually think of when I see Christian leaders on TV speaking out against gay marriage or preachers speaking about moral failures.  I simply would ask them if instead of an adulterous woman encircled by religious scholars toting stones there was a homosexual man or another sinner, would Jesus then have thrown the stone.  The answer is simple: No, the story would not change.  I'm sure people with much more knowledge and experience than myself might refute my assertion and overload me with evidence to the contrary, but that's not the point of this blog post.  The part of the story I want to focus on is the mob of Pharisees, these religious scholars, modern day preachers, pastors, priests, etc.

What we know is this mob of Pharisees shows up at Mount Olive with this woman.  But how did this start?  Who was the leader, the organizer, and the person who took The Law and manipulated into this test in which to try and entrap Jesus in breaking the Law?  We know they dropped their stones one by one and walked away starting with the oldest, so it's safe to say these older more influential men were the ring leaders.  They weren't wrong in their understanding of the Law.  They were wrong in the purpose they created and manipulated the use of the Law to entrap Jesus.  That is the wickedness of man.  The elder convinced himself that the plan to entrap Jesus was just and righteous.  He used the Law to convince his brethren that he was "right" and used his influence he had over them to create this righteous rock-toting mob of respected men.  They all had stones, they all were convinced they were righteous.  They were adept at convincing themselves and convincing their peers that their wickedness was justified, rational, noble, and even Godly.  They adulterous woman was the misdirection.  Focus your eyes upon this sinner so their own wickedness would be concealed.  But they could not fool Jesus.  They could not misdirect His eyes, or conceal their wickedness from Him.

No matter how many times I read that chapter, I think about men I know, myself, people I love and respect and how we are more like those Pharisees.  When the Pharisees disbanded, the Bible doesn't tell us they recognized the evil in their ways or the wickedness in their actions.  These men, more than likely, still felt they were following the Law.  They dropped their stones and walked away not having been enlightened, but because light was cast upon the evilness in them.  In their hearts they had convinced themselves they were just because it says right there in the Law that an adulterer is to be stoned.  The manipulation of the Law for the purpose of trying to bring destruction to another human being is evilness.  Trying to bring destruction to others under the guise of righteousness is the wickedness of man, especially those who use their influence to cause others to go along with them.

We all have done things and convinced ourselves we were righteous and just.  Today, this week, last month, we've all been in the position where we've got to convince ourselves things we know in our hearts are wrong are justified.  We saw, "Look at what you've done" or "Look at what you haven't done" to take eyes off of us.  We say things like, "She doesn't love me enough", "My boss doesn't understand", or "If it wasn't for so-so, I wouldn't be doing this."  My personal favorite I hear men say is, "You brought this on yourself."  Classic shifting of blame/misdirection.  But you can't fool everyone; you can't fool Jesus.  Sometimes you have to look down at your hand and visualize you're holding that stone.  You have to have the guts to drop that stone on your own accord.  As a leader or a follower, you have to know that you're holding that stone and that you made the decision to pick it up on your own.  Whether you broke a promise, lied, cheated, betrayed someone, or conspired against someone is one thing, but to try and fool yourself or others into thinking you're righteous is truly a sign of a wicked person.  Who do really think you're fooling anyway?

Chocolate Cake

I've always thought that at some point in my life I would have figured things out and perfected my personality and character to be the type of man I have always strove to be.  That it wouldn't be a lifelong journey of  corrective measures to stay on a path to a destination that always proves to be over the next hill.  When seasons of great personal growth aren't followed by a digression back into old habits, old failures, and old ways of thinking.

For months now, I've been spinning out of control back into my self-centered arrogant ways.  It's been a slow digression, but an obvious one.  For me, it's akin to a fat kid knowing he shouldn't eat all of the chocolate cake but he does anyway because he lacks the self discipline to not eat it.  It would be one thing to not be aware of his behavior and its repercussions on his waistline and another to be fully aware of the consequences of his decisions and to continue the behavior will hating the resultant.  That's me, I'm the fat kid, both literally and figuratively.  I know when I'm being arrogant or acting in a manner that is egocentric, but like the fat kid, I can't stop shoveling in the chocolate cake.

It's unattractive and it undermines my influence, which effects my ability to be an effective leader at work, at home, and in the community.  It affects my relationships in a negative manner, makes work harder at times, and makes people who don't know me not want to invest in getting to know me.  The people who love you will continue to love you, but I'm probably not getting everything I could out of those relationships.  It is the rock that has caused all the ripples in my pond and yet I keep throwing it in.

The good news is I have a great emotional awareness of it and wonderful role models and men whom I respect and strive to emulate who surround me almost daily.  Men both younger and older that have figured this out already.  Men who may have other shortcomings other than an insatiable fondness for chocolate cake, but whose hearts are rooted in humility, Godliness, and righteousness.  Men whose view of money, success, and the trappings of the world are from a perspective of something other than their own self gratification.

It's a not a self deprecating ideal either.  There are many great things about me, but the first part of pushing away from the chocolate cake has to be the realization that there is chocolate all over my face and it needs to be wiped clean.  So, if you want to help and you see or hear me being arrogant or egocentric, just say, "Hey, you got a little something right there on your face, it looks like chocolate cake."

Why?

I'm a protector; always have been. Maybe it's because of my size that I've always felt the need to protect people who maybe couldn't protect themselves.  People I love, friends and family, it really isn't something I'm conscious of doing all the time.  I have friends I just feel a need to protect, to lift them up, and to take care of them and they're grown adults who don't need my protection, so I kinda force it on them little by little.  Because I have this protector's spirit, my biggest fear in life is not being there to protect those that I love.  I am not afraid of dying, losing all my money, my house, the cars, guitars, or any earthly possession.  I don't fear losing friendships or jobs.  My single biggest fear in life is not being there if my loved ones every needed my protection.

I have a prayer, or a part of a prayer that I say almost every day and in this prayer for family and friends, I always ask God to send any blows destined for them to me.  Any sickness, pain, disease, heartache, despair, or any other hardship, please God spare them and send it to me, I can carry that burden so they don't have to.  I pray for that every day.  I pray for it every time I read a post on Facebook about little boys and girls fighting horrible diseases, every time I hear about a parent losing a child, and every time I am reminded just how fortunate we've been to not have to endure those unthinkable tragedies.

I was up early this morning, spending some time meditating on my protector's spirit, my fear, my prayer, and I began to think about my children, Taylor and Bo, 8 and 4 years old respectively, I thought of Bill's kids, Zoe, Tripp, and Jasper.  I thought about Julianna and Samantha.  I thought about AP's two sweet kids, I thought of my nieces and nephews, I thought about Micheal and Amy's kids, Micheal and Melissa's kids, I thought about Patrick and Krista's kids, and I thought about all the pictures of these kids I've seen on Facebook, all the times I watched them run around the Church on Thursday nights, and all the proud comments and funny anecdotes their parents have shared in the relatively short time I've known them.  And then I thought about the children and the parents involved in yesterday's tragedy and I began to weep.  I don't know any of them.  I have purposefully avoided watching or reading anything about this horrific shooting; I haven't seen the images, heard the stories, or seen the faces.  I don't have to watch.  I already know 20 kids and parents just like the ones who lives were lost or forever changed yesterday in this senseless act of violence against the most innocent of us.  I wept for the mothers and fathers who didn't get the chance to take those blows; they all would have.  I wept for the fathers who biggest fears were realized yesterday.  These aren't people I know, but we all know them in some ways, they were just like us up until yesterday.

I was left with one prevailing thought today; WHY?  Listen, I go to church a lot and I pay attention most of the time.  I read a lot of posts yesterday from people who are considerably more well-versed in the Bible than I am, but I'm not sure they will ever convince me that a merciful God would ever allow something as horrific as what happened at that school yesterday.  These were children, the most innocent of people who walk among us, the ones who need our protection the most.  You can talk about a broken world with inherent evil, you can quote Chapter and Verse, but you will never ever convince me that any of that makes sense.  I don't understand it and I never will.  I have doubts about my faith and most of the time I feel really unworthy of being on that platform on Sunday morning because of those doubts and my own shortcomings.  Today, I am at a loss for any sort of understanding or rationalization.  Today, I am just left with WHY?

My Dog, Harley, and Me

12 years ago, just a few weeks after getting married and moved into our brand new home, I answered an ad in the AJC for German Shepard puppies.  I was building the Avenues down in Peachtree City and the ad was from a “breeder” about 20 miles away, so I went to the bank, withdrew the asking price and started out on a trek that lead me past Atlanta Motor Speedway to a rundown duplex.  The “breeder” led me out back where I found 2-3 rag-tag puppies following their mother around the backyard.  The yard had no grass and the dogs were orange because the mud had become so entangled into their fur that you couldn’t really tell what color they were.  These were not reputable breeders, but rather puppy-mill type people who made a considerable living off breeding their two adult German Shepherds.  The dogs were not well kept or loved on at all.  All the dogs trembled when the redneck, err, man of the house spoke and I found my fists clenching up when I observed his demeanor towards the dogs.  You know the type, loves to yell at women, kids, and animals because they lack the ability to punch him in the nose.  One of the puppies caught my eye though.  He wasn’t the biggest or the fastest one; he was the one that was most frightened at the man’s voice.  My heart was taken by him.  I scooped him up, paid those rednecks their money, and put him in the front seat of my single cab 1992 Ford Ranger, mud and all.

On the ride home, he shook with fear as he huddled on the floor board of my truck.  I’m sure my voice was just as frightening to him as his previous “Owner”.  I told him how I would never hurt him, how I would always take care of him, and I promised him that we would have great times together.  He didn’t seem to be buying any of my spiel; he just stayed curled up on the floor board, occasionally peeking at me through the mud.  There was no way I could present him to my new bride covered in mud, so I called my Mom, who is the one who instilled my love for German shepherds in me in the first place, and I drove him straight to her house to give him a bath.  He was definitely less afraid of her than he was of me, but he was still frightened.  We cleaned him and got all of the mud out of his coat and discovered his was almost entirely black except for some “leggings” of tan on his legs.  He looked regal.  Not a traditional German bloodline, but I couldn’t have cared less, I loved him already.

At the time, my wife had bested me in the puppy acquisition department by a week and we had a devilishly spoiled Siberian Husky puppy at our home.  I don’t think I ever asked or discussed getting another dog with her until I pulled into the driveway that night.  Whether it’s a dog, a gun, guitars, or strange women, my wife always meets me with a resounding, “ARE YOU CRAZY”, whenever I bring them home; that night was no different.  Just a minute later though, she loved him too( his new “Brother”, not so much).  It took a couple days and a couple wrestling matches, but the two puppies figured it out as well.  I named him Harley, not because I liked the motorcycles, but because it seemed everyone I knew was buying the bikes and since I had a family to take care of and I didn’t want to end up as a hood ornament, I got a dog.  He was my Harley.  It didn’t take us long to find out that Harley lived to chase tennis balls.  He was so fixated on chasing tennis balls, that I could have trained him to do anything if the reward was chasing a tennis ball.  His vet said that his tennis ball fixation is what police and others look for in a “working” dog.  I started buying used tennis balls from tennis centers, which put them on Ebay; I could get a couple hundred balls for $50.  We went through several cases of them over the last 12 years.  My wife and I both probably will need rotator cuff surgery one day; even though she always threw the ball all girly and underhand.  He would chase tennis balls until he fell over with exhaustion.  He would try to stuff 2-3 of them in his mouth at the same time to bring them back to me, so I could throw them again.  He loved to fetch them so much that he didn’t trust me enough to bring it all the way back to me, instead he’d drop it within 10’ and take off again to wait for the next projectile.  But one, little “EH” from me and he’d sheepishly pick up the deposited ball and walk another 8’ closer to me and drop it before taking off.  Many times, I would leave work a little early and spend the later part of the day in the backyard throwing tennis balls to him and conducting business on my cell phone at the same time.

We were like to peas in a pod.  My wife didn’t allow him in our bed, but when she was gone or would beat me out of the door in the morning, he would jump up in the bed with me every time.  A couple times, she would catch us in there and get all pissed about me “spooning” the dog, but it wasn’t long before she realized that I am one of those dog lovers who can’t seem to see really distinct lines between our beloved pets and people.  If he could have, he would have called Papa John’s on his own.  It was the one visitor to our house where he did not go all ape shit and bark for a half hour.  Instead, he just peered out the door quietly waiting for the transaction to be completed so that he could follow me into the kitchen for the spoils.  I once conceived a new diet plan where I would eat anything I wanted to but would cut my portions in half by feeding the other half to Harley.  I’d always leave a lot of meat on the bone when we ate out so that he could eat out too!  If his lips could have held it, I am sure he would have gotten a dip or two of Copenhagen with me.  He was happier when no strangers are around, so am I.  The only thing we never agreed upon was college football.  As soon as he’d see or hear the Michigan game come on the TV, he’d disappear because I use to scream at the TV during the games and it probably reminded him of the original “yeller” before I got to him.

Harley never got over the man with the booming voice from his earliest days.  He would not let anyone other than my wife and I touch him.  My parents and my In-laws never touched him, my friends I’ve had for 15 years have never touched him.  Oh, they got close a couple times, but Harley always veered away at the last moment and hid in the back of the house or behind me or my wife.  He was peculiar in that sense, but I’m sure he suffered abuse before I scooped him up that day.  He was never aggressive towards anyone.  Well, there was that time the little Latin boy installing our hardwood floors thought it would be a good idea to lunge at my Wife in a threatening manner to gauge Harley’s reaction.  I tackled Harley mid-air as he was going for the jugular, both literally and figuratively.  After the kids were born and grew into toddlers, Harley patrolled the yard anytime the kids were outside playing.  Well, in between tennis ball throws, he patrolled the yard.  He loved our kids, just not as much as a Penn.  As he got to be 10 years old, he’d let a group of the neighborhood kids pet him, but never too long and never anyone he hadn’t seen grow up.  Even though he was more afraid of you than you were of him, he had a ferocious bark that would scare anyone who wasn’t expecting it.  His bark was so loud and mean sounding, I used to laugh that it was meant so we wouldn’t open the door and let them in so he’d have to go hide.  There were many nights when I was on the road that I felt good knowing he was here with my wife and kids though.  There was no doubt in my mind, or in that little Latin fellas, that Harley would lay down his life to protect his family, even though he just as soon bark you away.

He had noticeably slowed down over the last year.  I teased him about his grey beard and the tennis ball tosses were only 2-3 before he took the ball and went and laid down.  His eyes were getting bad because he could no longer catch the ball in the air or the hop; instead he preferred to pick it up on the roll before walking back to me.  I knew he was not going to be around forever, but I’d thought for sure he’d be here a little while longer.  Then last night, something went horribly wrong, and he went from having a little trouble clearing his throat to waking me after midnight with these god-awful guttural sounds that sounded like a bear.  I threw on my clothes and my wife and I loaded him into the back of the Tahoe as I rushed him to the doggie ER off Thornton Road.  In between prayers, I tried to calm him down and reassure him it was going to be okay, just like I did to that little mud-stained puppy 12 years earlier.  I knew it wasn’t going to be okay.  I prayed for God to give his pain to me and to not let him be afraid.  The doctors said it was a distended stomach, a condition that requires procedures and surgeries a young healthy dog could only expect a 50-50 shot at surviving.  He was in so much pain and was having trouble breathing with the amount of bloating in his abdomen.  I made them do all the tests.  They said I had to make a decision.  I just didn’t want him to hurt anymore or to be scared.  They brought him to me so I could spend some time with him.  He wouldn’t even look at me; it was as if he knew.  Maybe it was the pain, or maybe he knew.  I promised him on that first ride home that I would always take care of him, but I couldn’t do anything.   I laid on the floor with him, rubbed the inside of his ear the way he liked, and I just talked to him; told him I loved him and I hoped I had kept all those promises.  My hand was the last thing he felt rubbing his ear and my voice was the last thing he heard as he left us.  I drove home numb and inconsolable.  I let out the angriest quasi-prayer on my way home.  I didn’t know how I was going to tell Shannon.  I got home about 5am and she met me at the door and all I could say was, “He’s gone, He’s gone”.  We cried the rest of the night, called in to work and have spent the better part of today squalling.  My heart is broken, Shannon’s heart is broken, and my kids’ hearts are broken.  I hope he knows how much we loved him and how big a part of this family he was.  Some people wouldn’t understand the depth of our grief; I feel sorry for them. 

Matt called; told me there are animals in Heaven.  Said he thanked God for his dog today.  I never had in 12 years, but I thanked Him today for 12 years with my Harley.  I had him cremated and I will get his ashes back in 7-10 days.  I don’t know what I am going to do with them yet, but there will be a tennis ball involved.  I have my good moments and my bad moments.  Writing this helps me, but I’ve snotted all over my keyboard and my shirt.  I think its Shannon’s turn to cry (we’ve been alternating).  If you call me or come up to me and talk about my dog, I’m going to get choked up or worse, so be forewarned about snot and tears. 

Comfortable Shoes

When I was 18, I went to visit my brother who was in his mid 30's at the time.  A family man and a guy who worked ridiculous hours chasing after the ever-elusive benchmark of success, I distinctly remember my brother had a propenceity to wear the lamest shoes when he wasn't working.  You know the kind, docksiders, deck shoes, duck boots, and all forms of loafers.  When I would openly question and mock his footwear of choice, he would said they were "comfortable".  As an 18 year-old in the early 90's, I swore to myself that when I got his age, I would never wear such "comfortable" footwear.  Didn't want disrupt the "cool". 

It's also important to note, that I have never and will never own or wear flip-flops.  There isn't a more useless excuse for a shoe on the plant than a flip-flop.  Not only does the look not fit my conservative styling, I think they just send the wrong message.  "Hey, look at me, I'm cool, care-free, and have no need for traction".  No offense to flip-flop wearers, but I'll concede the fact that I'm not playing with a full deck of cards.  It's the official shoe of hippies and people who like to make and display protest signs. Again, no offense; not wrong, just different.  I have work to do and neither the flip or the flop is made for working. 

When I went to college, I went through a preppie phase and fell in love with the Bass Weejun; penny-loafers to the lay person, shiny pennies and all.  A lot of people experiment with different things in college and for me it was no different.  So, I tried loafers a few times.  I wasn't a hard core user, mostly just recreational and social use.  I still love a weejun every now and again when the kid's aren't around.  A weejun is still technically a dress shoe; suitable for the office, but it says you've got a playful side.  In this preppie phase, I was known to buy entire color-coordinated outfits for an event.  One-time, I was throwing an epic kegger at my townhouse off campus and for the event, I bought a pair of maroon plaid shorts and a maroon polo shirt to go with my loafers; no socks.  The outfit and the party were great up until I rode over to a neighboring apartment complex with some of the lovely lady patrons at my party and ended up getting into a fight with 4-5 guys who were upset with either the snappy-ness of my outfit or the fact that I punched their buddy in the nose for kissing one of the girls, who happened to be dating my roommate and best friend at the time.  To steal a joke from Ron White, I don't know how many of them it took to kick my ass, but I know how many they used.  I will never forget having to walk back to my townhouse that night, missing a weejun, beaten up and bloody, and my outfit it tatters.  I'm sure I got a couple of them, but it cost me a loafer.  After that night, I swore off loafers for a long long while.

My first job out of college was a Project Engineer for a large commercial construction firm in Atlanta and my footwear alternated between work boots for the field and dress shoes for the office.  Some times, I got them mixed up and ruined my share of dress shoes in the field and rugs in the office.  Only the weekend days when I wasn't at the office were reserved for running shoes.  I got married a few years out of school and someone tried to get me to try those athletic strap-on sandals and minivans, but I still had enough bravato to resist the peer pressure to just pack it in; give up.  I became a Dad and stuck to my guns about sports sandals and mini-vans.  Into my 30's and I still preferred to a good work boot or dress shoe to any sort of footweat malfeasance.  I had dreams to reach, a family to support, and I was going to need some traction to get these things done.  I've been tempted over these last few years with Crocs and the like, even bought a pair of New Balance running shoes without heels in them on a whim once; wore them once, felt ashamed of myself and put them at the back of the closet. 

In roughly 6 months, I'm turning 40.  That is a milestone age for a man.  It's erases the line between young man and man and only leaves the grim reality of old man and death.  I can longer stretch the truth about being in my "30's".  Now, there are guys than can pull off a cool 40, like Clooney is still rocking it, but I am not one of those guys, not even close.  And as the days and weeks pass into the rearview mirror on this path to 40, I find that my mind is obsessed with questions of whether or not I did it right.  Have I worked hard enough?  Have I loved enough?  Have I provided for my family to a level that is acceptable in mind, in my defintion of what a Father and Husband owes to his family?  Have I saved enough for the kid's college tuition?  Have I saved anything for my retirement?  And then there is the doubt.  I have not doubted myself this much since, well, ever.  I find myself doubting that I'm as good at my job as I should be at my age.  I doubt that I've been the best husband; the one my wife deserves.  I doubt that I've taken enough time to be a Father and I worry that college tuition payments will be replaced with Therapist bills for the kids.  I doubt that I've been as good a son, brother, uncle, and friend as I could have been.  Has life gone according to my plan; is this where I wanted to be when I reached 40?  Is this the apex of life and if it is, have I done enough?

My mind has been wrestling with these thoughts and questions for months; not constantly or to the point where I leave my wife and family for a 20 year-old girlfriend, a convertible, and those funny-looking designer jeans with the fancy stitchting on the back pockets, but enough to make me re-evaluate some decisions I made, some paths I took, and the ones I didn't.  In all of this introspection and retrospection it is clear that I made mistakes, fell short of the mark, and missed out on opportunities.  I've also hit homeruns, exceeded my own expectations, and let a few marks along the way.  Through all the twists and turns of life, all the joy and pain, the lessons, and the uncertainty, I stuck to my guns and I wore socks with my shoes everyday that I went to work.  Now, when I work long hours and six day weeks, my body gets tired a little faster and is slower to recouperate.  Burning the candle a both ends because a more daunting task when using one of those 2" candles versus the 8" stick candle.  As I sat on the couch the other day thinking of all these things and taking a momentary respite, I looked down at my feet and started laugh to no one imparticular because there they were; not a conscious decision on my part, I suppose just a statement of life, maturity, and of pending questions:  Comfortable Shoes.