Band Director leaves mark

The walk from the Athletic Department at Gardner-Webb University to my office across the road is a short one, separated only by two athletics fields. While returning to my office after checking the mail the other day, I saw strange markings on the neatly manicured grass that decorates the playing surfaces. Always one to satisfy my curiosity, I diverted my course to investigate. As I neared the markings, it became clear to me that the red, white, and black paint was placed there for a very specific purpose. Gardner-Webb University’s band director died in his campus office last week, just as his band of enthusiastic musicians and performers were preparing for the second home game of their second season since being resurrected. Sid Haton had accepted the challenge of molding these young adults into a marching, playing, performing unit. And he had done one heckuva job. The first time I met Sid, I was immediately impressed with his enthusiasm, warmth, and contagious smile. Unfortunately for me, I only crossed paths with this fascinating man two or three times during his short time at GWU. But I was privy to his passion for music and his band quite often. With my office being right beside where the band practiced, I could often hear Sid encouraging, motivating, and spewing his contagious enthusiasm. I couldn’t hear everything he said, but I get the feeling he was a perfectionist when it came to his band’s performance. Yet it seemed to me they all seemed to be having a good time, especially their charismatic leader. We held our breath the first time they performed at a football game. None of us knew what to expect from a first year band. Two minutes into their performance it was obvious the GWU band was way ahead of schedule. At Sid’s memorial service, phrases and words like “joyous, loving, passionate, inspirational, gifted, intelligent, kind, understanding, and extraordinary” were used to describe him. Sid was the same age as me-which I consider young by today’s standards- but look what the man did with his life. He inspired people of all ages and made them better at their craft. But he also inspired them to be better people. What more noble calling could a person strive for in life? Maybe he didn’t achieve the life expectancy most people have come to expect, but it seems to me he crammed three or four lifetimes of inspiration into his 45 years. I paused for a few moments the day I stood where Sid Haton, from the peak of a modest hill, overlooked and directed his precious band of performers daily. On that very spot, his name is now painted in ten foot high letters, a tribute to the direction he provided his kids each day. In smaller letters, the date of his departure provides an outline to the powerful tribute. In those quiet private moments, I lamented the fact that I wouldn’t be hearing Sid leading his band outside my window anymore. But more importantly, I prayed that I might someday be as inspirational and live a life as meaningful as this man did. There is no substitute for leading a purpose-driven, passionate life. And by God’s grace, I pray we will all live out the passion He has placed within each of us. Like Sid did.

CAMPING OUT NOT SO FUN ANYMORE

My priorities change as I get older. When I was young, I used to beg to camp out. Pitch a tent, stay up late, and swap manly stories with all my buddies. Sneak out and go swimming in somebody’s outdoor pool without them knowing it. That sorta thing.

Nowadays I have no ambitions of skinny dipping, sleeping on the hard ground, or staying up much past bedtime. But those boys of mine sure do. Problem is we haven’t always had much luck with the whole campout thing.

On my oldest son’s 8^th birthday, he invited a group of eight boys over to spend the night in our backyard. Guess which parent was obliged to grab a sleeping bag and chaperone all the little delinquents.

By 10:35 p.m., five kids- including the oh-so-brave birthday boy- had bailed out and entered the back door to the house. The remaining three giggled, belched, and performed other sorts of grotesqueness, including the old hand-under-the-armpit sound effect- for hour upon miserable hour. During those moments, a frustrated dad vowed he’d never sleep out in a tent of any sort ever again. A promise I later broke.

Sometime after 1 a.m., I ordered the boys out of the tent and forced them to run laps around the house. Tongues hanging, they crawled back into the tent and never uttered another word, also being careful to keep their bodily functions to themselves.

After moving to North Carolina, I was hoping my kids had gotten past the whole campout gig. But a child’s mind is a warped object, fully capable of contemplating and plotting methods of adult misery and torture.

The problem with campouts is the virtual certainty that a high percentage of the boys involved will bail out and make their way inside. On one occasion, eight more adventurers began the evening in two tents behind our house. I decided to sit this one out. When I got up to check on things at 2 a.m., there were strange bodies sprawled out indiscriminately on the couches and beds in our home. My youngest child, five at the time, braved it out until morning. Most of the bailers were the older chumps.

I’m with the older chumps. It’s just too much on an aging body to sleep on the hard ground surrounded by plastic curtain drapes. There’s creepy noises and boys always insist on staying up late and breaking wind. I don’t see what the big deal is. How is that fun?

And dads- whether the kids are in or out- must serve as enforcers of noise violations. “If I hear another word, I’m gonna give you a wedgie that’ll bring tears to your eyes!’ Then the friend kids will say something to my children like, “Your dad- the one everyone thinks is cool ‘cause he writes that junk in the paper- well, he’s a jerk.”

Then just when I’m sure they will never ever make it through a night outside- it happens. Nobody comes inside. And I realize not only am I getting older, my kids are, too. And for whatever reason, a part of me is sad. Not the part of me that has in the past been forced to sleep on the ground, but the part of me that wishes my kids could always remain kids.

Prey needn't worry much when I'm on the Hunt

I’ve hesitated to write this column before but sometimes a guy’s just gotta let it out. Throw caution to the wind, that sorta thing. Certainly in the past I’ve revealed way too many personal details about myself and my family in this column. That’s why they stare holes through me occasionally after reading the Sunday paper. But this involves my tendency, despite being overly opinionated at times, to avoid subjects which may spark controversy or cause you, the reading public, to lower your opinion of me, an amateurish weekly columnist. Inspiration to emerge from the proverbial closet has surfaced recently in the form of a female. Allow me to explain lest your imagination runs wild. Recently an extremely young lady (same age as me) from Alaska became a vice-presidential candidate. And one of the first things the media informed the world of was her propensity to enjoy the pursuit and bagging of an occasional moose in her home state. She’s not ashamed or afraid to admit she’s a hunter, so I have decided that from now on, neither am I. I don’t hunt mooses or meese, whatever they’re called, but I do chase an occasional bird, deer, or squirrel. For the record, most of the prey I pursue are relatively safe, considering my lack of adeptness at the whole hunting gig. I don’t think my luck is much to brag about either. During my hunting escapades, I have been fortunate enough to have turkeys, armadillos, and pheasants cross my path at different times. Unfortunately in each case, I was deer hunting. When I go huntin’ for squirrels, they’re holed up like beach bums during a hurricane. But when I go deer hunting, they won’t leave me alone, one even climbing on the tree stand with me at one point. I freeze to death in deer stands. On three different occasions, I have fallen asleep in them. Once, when I actually saw a deer for the first time in years, my gun jammed. My middle son was with me and heard me say a bad word for the first time in his life. It wasn’t a hot bad word, but I was still plenty embarrassed. However, my biggest flop occurred a while back during a bird hunt. As game wardens surrounded the field, I confidently remembered renewing my license the previous fall. What I hadn’t remembered is that I had left them at home 30 minutes away. Fortunately all I got was a warning and some well-deserved ribbing from my fellow hunter types. So with all the bad luck, freezing to death in winter, burning up in the summer, my poor aim, and comments from folks criticizing me for stalking Bambi, one might rightfully ask why I bother. First of all, I like hanging out with hunter types. There’s a comradery among hunters that I appreciate and respect. Second, I don’t have to shave when we go on hunting trips. But more importantly, I get to spend quality time with my boys. Some of the best days we’ve had were when the birds weren’t flying or the deer sniffed us out and headed off in another direction. And one day maybe my boys will tell their children about a dad who found the time to take them hunting. And maybe I’ll be their hero, no matter how crooked my aim.

Family Plugs in to Each Other When Power Goes Out

Just as the dishes from the supper table were being placed in the sink on Tuesday, August 26, 2008, the lights went out. There were a few teaser flickers, then the sudden realization that the Stroupes had been unplugged.

A quick trip to the front porch informed us we weren’t alone. As dusk fell on our neighborhood, not a light shone in any direction. Bein’s how it was quickly getting dark, we used our fading precious moments of light to locate candles, matches, and flashlights.

As is the tradition in our family when a crisis of any magnitude ensues, I uttered the infamous words, “All right! I’m the head of this household and I’ll let you know when to panic.” I paused for the customary five seconds the Stroupes have come to expect then hollered, “Okay, now everybody panic!”

Armed with sources of light, we made our way back to the front porch to check out the scene. In a futile attempt to entertain the masses, my middle son and I started tossing a rubber baseball up in the air to see if bats (those of the bird variety- not the Louisville Slugger type) would be attracted by the flying object. Much to the amazement of my family, the experiment proved successful.

At one point, a bat whooshed right past my head at the speed of sound. Another one buzzed my children’s heads on the front porch a few seconds later. Wow! What a wonderfully dangerous real life science lesson we lived through.

Science concluded, we moved on to literature. As the sky darkened, I placed the flashlight under my chin, producing an eerie countenance normally only visible when I first wake up in the morning. I then proceeded to use my deepest Daddy voice to recite great lines from literary works. Quotes such as “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,” followed by “Out, out brief candle.” When I drew a blank after “candle,” my wife promptly concluded the Shakespearean soliloquy quite impressively, with deep voice included for effect.

Due to our extremely limited knowledge of classic literature, the exercise quickly degenerated into family members reciting lines from “classic” movies such as The Grinch, McHale’s Navy, and Dumb and Dumber. When that form of entertainment ran its course, I did impressions of everyone listed in the Contacts section of my cellphone while other family members played the guessing game as to their identities.

Once inside the dark house, we conducted an exercise where family members had to holler out the word “Crud!” (our family’s replacement curse word) every time he/she attempted to turn on a light or appliance. Our middle son was the first violator, attempting to turn on the bathroom light to brush his teeth. We were all allowed to thump his ear as punishment. My ear was thumped when I unsuccessfully tried to get a glass of water from the little dispenser attached to the refrigerator freezer.

We went to bed that night with no television, no computer, no music, and no idea if and when our house might light up again and scare the bee-jeepers out of us during the night. For the record, that moment occurred at 11:32 p.m. and considering the night’s events, believe it or not, one small part of me was slightly disappointed.