As April became more and more pregnant by the day with our youngest daughter, Gracee, and sleeping less and less, I tried to give her all the time to rest that I could. So I took on the responsibility of getting the girls up and dressed and then delivered them to school before I left for work every day. Waking them up? No problem. Getting them some breakfast? Easy. Getting Emma dressed in clothes that wouldn’t embarrass her mother to the point of not wanting to go out in public? Not quite so simple. If left to her own devices, Emma could easily go to school looking like Cyndi Lauper and Boy George had a secret love child and then hired George Clinton to be her stylist. It’s gonna be funky and cool. Trust me.
One sunny day in March, tragedy struck. Now, I had definitely let her get to school in some questionable outfits before. The occasional raised eyebrows from April when we got home were a telltale sign of disapproval. Generally, in the mornings, I was more concerned with getting them out the door and to the school before the bell rang. So she may have flown under the radar a few times in Moon Boots and a tutu. But on this day, I’ll admit, it’s possible I simply wasn’t paying attention. I was talking on the phone as she came out a minute or so after Abby and climbed into the back seat. Off to school we go. “Bye, girls! Have a great day!” I said. And then I headed to work.
Well, that morning, April began to have a few contractions, and I was afraid to get too far from home, so I worked from home that afternoon. Around three o’clock, April and I went to get the girls from school. First we picked up Abby and then headed to the elementary school to get Emma. We pulled up, and as Emma walked up to the truck, my world began to change. She was wearing a yellow shirt. So far, so good, right? Red hair bow. Okay, probably not the best choice, but we’ll take it. There were sparkly pink-and-silver Toms on her feet. Yeah, it’s getting worse. However, on bottom, she was wearing a pair of old faded-yellow dollar-store pajama pants with green writing on them that were much too short, coming only just below her knees. But then there were black tights protruding beneath the pajama pants. The poor girl looked like a tiny hobo.
As her teacher walked her up to the car, April wheeled around on me like a mama bear: “What did you send her to school in?” I stumbled and stuttered for an answer, but I simply didn’t have one. “April, I swear I’ve never seen those pants in my life. That’s not what she was wearing when I dropped her off this morning!” As Emma got in the truck, April turned to the back seat. “Emma, what in the world are you wearing?” Emma rolled her eyes and said, “Well, Mom, I was bent over my desk signing my homework, and Mrs. Elliott came running up to me and said, ‘Emma, you can’t wear those pants because I can see through them.’ And then she sent me to the nurse’s station, and they told me I had to put these stupid pajama pants on because I was only wearing pantyhose! And these pants are the ones they give to the kids who pee their pants at school. But I’m pretty sure they’re clean.”
April spun back around. “You sent her to school in pantyhose?” My mouth opened and I tried to speak, but no words came out. In my defense, the sun hadn’t been all the way up yet, and I couldn’t see her all that well. And where the heck was my backup? Abby was supposed to watch me and make sure I didn’t do something stupid! She totally let me down.
Well, I learned an important lesson that day. Pantyhose, and only pantyhose by themselves, are extremely inappropriate attire for school. Or, really, for anything. At all. Anywhere. Well, now I know. Next time she tries that with me, I’ll be all over it. I’ll say, “No way, José. It ain’t happenin’.”
Yeah, next time. Like a boss.
Never Let You Down
Ihave always enjoyed writing poems, songs, and short stories. Most of them never see the light of day, but this one, well, this one’s different. I hope you enjoy it.
She sits staring out the window
Watching for his truck to pull in the drive
He said he’d be here at three thirty
But now it’s fifteen after five
Her sister sits in her bedroom
‘Cause she knows that he won’t show
Too many times left disappointed
She quit believing long ago
A girl needs a daddy
And he’s just never been
He hasn’t done what he said he’d do
Since I can’t remember when
But I’ll be right here waiting
So that when you come around
I’ll do everything a dad should do
And I’ll never let you down
Years have passed. He still ain’t here
So I’m your ride to the mall
I see you staring at your phone
To see if you missed his call
You tell me “Thanks” and hop on out
I’ll just come back to pick you up
I whisper “I love you” under my breath
As you walk away from my truck
A girl needs a daddy
And he’s just never been
He hasn’t done what he said he’d do
Since I can’t remember when
But I’ll be right here waiting
So that when you come around
I’ll do everything a dad should do
And I’ll never let you down
The preacher says, “Who gives this woman?”
My voice trembles, “Her mother and I”
Next to me, your mother is sniffling
And you’re there all dressed in white
You kiss my cheek and tell me, “Thank you”
And you whisper to me, “Don’t be sad”
I grit my teeth, fight back tears, and say,
“Thanks for letting me be your dad”
A girl needs a daddy
And he’d just never been
He hadn’t done what he said he’d do
Since I can’t remember when
But I was right there waiting
And when you finally came around
I did everything I knew to do
I hope I didn’t let you down
We Bought a Farm
In February of 2012, my job relocated our family from northeast Oklahoma to East Texas. We had always lived in the country and always had animals. Unfortunately, we had to make the move quickly, and a home in the area with any amount of land, not to mention barns, was near nonexistent, or at least way too expensive.
So I found us a nice home in the suburbs. It was in a nice neighborhood, sat on a large acre lot—it was spacious and beautiful. We moved in, made it a home, and enjoyed it. But something was missing. That country lifestyle we’d all grown up in just wasn’t there. We wanted to hear the horses whinny from the pasture, to smell the honeysuckle blowing in the breeze, to look out our door and see the animals playing, but to not see a neighbor in sight.
We had to get out of the burbs. We found a fixer-upper exactly four miles away on a nice piece of ground with seven acres, an arena, and two barns. The house wasn’t as nice as what we’d been living in, but we could work on it. And most importantly, it wasn’t in the burbs.
Now that we had all this room, with land and barns—what were we going to do? It didn’t take long for my animal-loving girls to conjure up all kinds of ideas. Every day—no, make that every hour—they had a new animal they wanted me to buy. They spent hours looking online at every kind of dog, cat, pig, goat, cow, and horse you could ever imagine (but no llamas).
I did my best to be somewhat open minded. After all, that’s exactly why we chose to move out to the country in the first place. But at the same time, I wasn’t ready to buy every animal on the East Texas Swap n’ Shop website. I’d seen that Matt Damon We Bought a Zoo movie, which was entertaining, sure, but also pretty nerve racking.
But, eventually, I decided to play along. First, we were adopted by a male blue heeler dog who made himself v
ery comfortable at our place. He was a handsome, polite fellow. He knew basic commands, even how to shake. Since I’d lost my canine companion several months back, I decided to give him a home. No one knew who he was, and he had no collar. He was lovingly referred to as “Dog.” We enjoyed having him around. Unfortunately, I don’t think he enjoyed us quite as much, because after a week, he ran away, never to be seen again. We were a little bummed, but I guess he was just a rambler.
Then the girls wanted a pig. No, silly, not your regular, everyday, run-of-the-mill pig. Nope, no way. Why spend $10 on a pig, when you can spend $175? We needed a spotted black-and-white micromini potbelly pig. And that’s exactly what we got. Enter Maxwell. I’d shown pigs growing up, and frankly, I was never crazy about them, but that’s what the girls wanted, so that’s what we did.
When we brought Maxwell home, the girls fawned all over him. “Oh, he’s so adorable!” “He’s just the cutest thing I have ever seen!”
And it was true. He was adorable. His little pink nose and fat round belly would soften the hardest of men. But, as it turned out, he was also an accomplished escape artist. No amount of fencing could keep his fat little physique in the yard. Every time we turned around, he was gone. The first few times, he was easy to find, but on the fifth day, he disappeared and didn’t come back.
We took to Facebook, texted and called friends and neighbors, drove up and down the road, screaming out the truck windows as we looked for Maxwell. And you know what? It worked! Someone on Facebook saw him down the road in a neighbor’s backyard, trying to make romantic advances on, of all things, a basketball. When I got down there, I saw him, but the reality was Maxwell didn’t want to be caught. And even though he was little and fat, he was as fast as a mongoose. Me, April, and the neighbor chased him around the deck, the pool, and the house for over an hour, and I said words I didn’t even know I knew. Let me tell you, you’ve never really lived until you have chased a micromini potbelly pig all over God’s creation trying to capture him with a fishing net. But we finally got him, although it didn’t feel like a victory.
Next up, the girls wanted a goat. But, just like the pig before him, it couldn’t be just a good old $20 goat. Oh, no. We needed a pygmy fainting goat. You know those cute little goats that get startled by loud noises and then faint? Yes, those. Again, yes, they’re cute. And it is hilarious when you drive around the corner on the riding lawn mower and the goat gets scared and falls over, stiff as a board. I mean, it’s super funny. But that little feller wasn’t very friendly. The girls wanted something they could hug and love and squeeze and play with. He was pretty standoffish, so we started looking for yet something else. Something cuddly.
We settled on a kitty. He was an orphan, probably three months old when we got him. He was so friendly and cuddly and happy to have a home. He was perfect. We named him Goliath, and he and Gracee became instant best friends. He tolerated her rough handling and overzealous displays of affection. Not only did he tolerate them, but he actually seemed to enjoy it. The kitty was happy. Gracee was happy. Everyone was happy.
If everyone was happy, what more could we possibly need? Well, no farm is truly complete without a horse, right? I already had a quarter-horse mare named Banjo—I’d bought her from a place in Wisconsin—that I’d been boarding at a farm down the road, and she was pregnant. On April 15, Banjo gave birth to a healthy, lively baby boy. We named him Shooter, a pretty sorrel colt with a white star on his forehead. Thanks to the overbearing attention paid to him by all my girls, he quickly became a spoiled rotten brat. His every move, buck, kick, and whinny was adored and laughed at on a daily basis.
I was beginning to think our zoo, I mean farm, was pretty much complete. We had dogs, cats, pigs, goats, and horses. What more is there? Evidently the answer was chickens. April informed me that a real farm wasn’t complete until you had some. My thought was, Okay, I can handle a couple of chickens. But then she informed me we couldn’t just turn the chickens loose as I had planned to do. Oh, no. We needed to build a coop. But not just any coop. April had a picture of a coop with a chandelier in it. A chandelier. Inside a chicken coop. Yeah, I had no words.
I did ask April if she was serious. Did she really want me to build her a chicken coop with chandeliers and wall decorations inside of it? Yep. She was serious, and that’s exactly what she wanted me to do. So I did what I always seem to do when my girls want something. I fuss and complain loudly about it for a while, and then I figure out a way to make it happen. I built the coop the way April had imagined, cut a hole in the wall, and built a pen outside. With every crazy suggestion she made, I’d sigh, mutter something under my breath, and roll my eyes—just like I’d seen my teenager do a million times.
But I did exactly what she asked. Because that’s what I do. I’m the husband. I’m the dad. And even though I may think the things they want from me are silly, or even sometimes downright ridiculous, if it makes them happy—at the end of my day, that’s all that matters. That’s the story of our zoo, I mean, farm. Yes, the one with a chicken coop outfitted with a chandelier.
This Too Shall Pass
Ilove animals. My family’s attachment to four-legged creatures goes back several generations. My great-grandfather would tell us stories of himself as a youth, and just like my own stories, most involved an animal of some sort. Like when he was a young man working in a livery stable in Oklahoma. He didn’t have enough money to buy his own horse, so he’d board other people’s horses, and then at night he’d saddle up a horse and ride it all the way to Salina to go dancing. Then he’d ride it as hard as he could back to Locust Grove, some fifteen miles away, put it up, give it some feed and water, and have it waiting for the customer the next morning. Now, that’s not exactly an honest thing to do, but it sure made for a good story. Another time, he caught a full-grown coyote in the wild, brought it back to the ranch, and attempted to domesticate it and make it a pet. FYI, that didn’t go well for my grandpa. Or for the coyote. Those are just a few of the hundreds of stories he told us as children. And even though we’d likely heard all those stories multiple times, they were never any less entertaining, and more often than not, if you paid close attention, there was a lesson that could be learned.
I’ve always believed that we, as humans, can learn a lot by watching animals. Sometimes the lessons are small and simple, and other times they can be much more profound. Here’s a good example of the latter. I had a rather significant life lesson pounded into me, whether I wanted it or not.
Our young quarter horse, Shooter, is really well bred and was growing into a very nice horse. Since the moment he was born, he was cuddled and babied and spoiled rotten. He’s really less of a horse and more akin to a Labrador retriever. He’s a big pet. He’s gentle and calm and will normally allow me to do anything I want to do to him without so much as a flick of his ears. He trusts me implicitly and knows I would never hurt him. However, something happened. Something scary and traumatic. When Shooter was a colt, he got what is known simply as “choke.” It’s exactly what its name implies—he choked on beet pulp. Being the mischievous and ornery critter that he is, he broke into the feed room in the barn and got into some feed that is meant only for our girls’ show pigs. The beet pulp got lodged in his throat, and he choked. Now, choking in horses is much different than for a human. When we choke, our airways are blocked. We turn purple and lose the ability to breathe. That is not the case for horses. Choking only blocks the esophagus. They can breathe just fine; they just can’t swallow. So while ultimately it can cause some problems, it’s not quite the death sentence for them that it is for us. Their biggest problem is that they panic. They absolutely lose their minds because they’re scared.
When I saw what was happening, of course, I came immediately to Shooter’s assistance. My whole purpose during those ninety minutes, until the vet could get there, was to try to make him calm, reassure him, and keep him from hurting himself. He bucked, he reared, he kicked. His ey
es were wide, white with fear, and he was soaked with sweat dripping from his body. He jerked me around like a rag doll, and since he outweighs me by seven hundred pounds, there was really little I could do about it. He struck out at me with his front feet and connected on multiple occasions. I’ve got the bruises on my elbow and shin to prove it.
What he could not realize was that the biggest danger was not the choke itself, and it wasn’t from the man standing beside him trying to help, even though he seemed convinced that I was there to do him harm. The most severe danger posed to him in all this was himself. If Shooter was able to lie down and roll, which is what he wanted to do, then we could begin to have some real problems. He could twist a gut and colic, which is deadly for horses. Or he could get hung up on the fence next to us and break a leg. Thankfully, none of that happened. The vet arrived, stuck a tube the size of a water hose up Shooter’s nose, and pumped warm water into him that cleared the blockage. The entire process took twenty minutes, but it probably seemed a lot longer to my anxious horse.
My point is that Shooter had taken a manageable problem and turned it into a serious situation because he panicked and overreacted. How many times in life can we say the same about ourselves? Too many times I see people, including myself, go through difficult times—whether it be the breakup of a relationship, the loss of a job, or any other number of things—and even though those are certainly significant circumstances, they are not circumstances that will kill us, no matter how convinced we are they will. We can overcome those problems. We can beat them. We just need to calm down, take a few deep breaths, allow those around us to help, and most of the time, everything will be all right. It’s scary. It almost feels like the end of the world, but it’s not. I kept telling Shooter, “This’ll pass.” And it did.
My First Rodeo Page 10