WACKY WEDNESDAY WISDOM- Getting in Full Christmas Mode

     I have fantasies. There, I admit it. Before you report me to the proper authorities and I am subjected to public humiliation and frivolous lawsuits, please know that my fantasies are neither illegal nor immoral, at least not in my mind. One of those aspirations was partially fulfilled a few days ago while I was driving in our family car. I wasn't alone- our dog Flash was in the back seat. Before the writing of this column, only Flash and I were aware of the events that took place that day in the Honda. Brace yourself for the revelation.
     First you must know I have a Bucket List of things I want to do in my lifetime, and some of them are way out there. And some I have aged out of such as performing with a rock and roll band in a concert, dunking a basketball in a game (real or pickup), and parachuting from an airplane. Come to think of it, deep down I haven't given up on any of those yet.
     Much to the chagrin of my wife and three boys, I do stuff other 54 year-old men don't do. I still watch cartoon Christmas specials- Charlie Brown Christmas, Frosty the Snowman, and of course, How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Since 2001, it has been a family tradition to watch the movie version (Jim Carrey as the Grinch) sometime before Christmas Day, as well as all of the aforementioned cartoon classics. I'm proud and embarrassed to say I know most of the lines to the Grinch movie version and can recite them on command, which is highly annoying to my family members. 
     Things haven't gone well for me lately in the "Let's watch the Christmas specials" family tradition department. The boys have aged out and the wife has lost interest. I have been forced to carry the torch all by my lonesome. This year I offered to pay the boys to watch but they preferred empty pockets. I tried shaming them but to no avail. Exasperated, I finally declared, "Someday, you bunch of Scrooges, when you bring your kids to visit, I'm going to make them watch Christmas specials and they're going to love it!" No reaction.
     My wife came downstairs, saw I was watching The Grinch, and felt sorry for me. But not sorry enough to join me. Instead she praised Flash for watching with me. She is, however, partially in the spirit. She yelled to me from upstairs later and informed me that Charlie Brown was on. I immediately switched channels and caught the last few minutes. When it's on, I can't not watch it.
     All that being said, the thing my family dreads most is my singing in the car, especially during the Christmas season. It's a beast they can't stand in the least, but I can't contain myself when the good tidings of great joy crank up. I sing. I play the drums a lot, too. My middle son had his wisdom teeth yanked out recently, smack dab in the middle of the Yuletide season. On the ride to the dentist, he made it clear that on the return trip home there would be no singing, no humming, and no drumming on the steering wheel. I don't think he was talking to Mom when he said it.
     Which brings me to my recent ordeal in the Honda with Flash. One of my Christmas fantasies is to conduct the Trans Siberian Orchestra in the performance of Carol of the Bells. I'm certain I've been hypnotized somewhere along the way because every time it is played, my body leaps from its current state and lands in an alternate reality, one in which I am the conductor of the orchestra in question. I have discovered that my routine (Yes, I actually have an established routine) works better for me when I'm not driving because it not only takes two arms, it requires full body engagement.
     So when it came on the radio that recent day, I sprang into full conductor mode, with Flash serving as my audience. Okay, I will probably be stripped of my Man Card by admitting to all this, but I care not anymore. The world must know. I am a closet psycho with strange unfulfilled childlike fantasies (Reminder: they're all rated G) and one of them is to conduct this particular orchestra playing this particular song. So I feel the need to practice every chance I get in case I'm ever afforded the opportunity. Especially when I'm alone and there's no Grinches there to chastise me. 
     The song started casually then built to the crescendo. Despite the distraction of piloting an automobile, I was still able to perform most of the movements by trading the steering wheel back and forth between hands. I realize this won't win me the Driver of the Year Safety Award, but at that moment I was locked into full conductor mode.
     During the crescendo part, I got carried away and, on an upward arm swing near the sun visor, my right hand collided with the garage door opener, flinging it into the backseat where my audience of one was enduring the performance. I snuck a quick glance in the rear view mirror to see her reaction. Flash didn't yelp when the controls hit her. No bark, no whimper, no complaint. She simply glared . . . at the most deranged human being she had ever encountered- which is saying a lot because she has major issues with delivery men and Jehovah's Witnesses when they come in our driveway. (Not that she considers them deranged, she just doesn't like them).
     The absurdity of the situation struck me and I laughed out loud for a brief moment then quickly returned to the business of orchestrating and conducting. The show must go on. Flash agreed and chided me to fear not about the controls. She then ate them while we completed the drive home. Okay, she merely sniffed them a few times, but it would have made for a better story had she eaten them.
     Psalm 98:4 tells us to "make a joyful noise to the Lord" and then gives us permission to do it at high volumes, regardless of the quality of it- even using trumpets and horns if we wish, like the ones they play in the Trans Siberian Orchestra. And Isaiah 44:23 says to sing and shout praises to celebrate the redemption accomplished by the Lord. Therefore, as long as I have a workable tongue, I'm going to take the Lord up on all that and sing my fool head off in the car, shower, and everywhere else. And as long as my arms work, I shall conduct fantasy Christmas orchestras when the right song comes on. And as long as my eyes are operable and my TV produces Christmas cartoon specials on its screen, I shall watch.
     Someday I may even be blessed enough to have a grandchild sitting next to me during one of those specials. And when the child requests that I refrain from singing, conducting, and drumming during the songs, I'll try to contain myself. But don't count on it. I'll  probably be in full Christmas mode.  
     

    

WACKY WEDNESDAY WISDOM- Have Yourself a Wacky Little Christmas

     It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas . . . in front yards, on front doors, and up on the rooftops where Reindeer tend to pause. Lights, camera, action. That sorta thing. I've always liked looking at Christmas decorations. The wackier the better. When my boys were little and still responded positively to most of our parental suggestions, my wife and I used to microwave several bags of popcorn, throw the boys in their pajamas, pile in the family van and ride around looking at the decorations people came up with.
     On one occasion, a cultured friend of ours advised us as to which neighborhoods to visit to see the lights. She warned us against some of the lesser neighborhoods that were a bit "ticky tacky". We yawned our way through the ritzy neighborhoods looking at the same white lights and lit up wreaths over and over. Then we bailed and ventured over to the forbidden ticky tacky areas, where we remained the rest of the evening and had ourselves a blast.
     That being said, I have decided to share with you this week a list of wackily decorated homes, ranked in no particular order, other than #1, which deserves first place, which is why I will list it last. (I'm pretty sure wackily- see above- isn't really a word, but as you know, I make up words all the time, and common folks like myself seem to understand what I'm trying to say- even though my computer just now underlined it in red).

#8- UPSIDE DOWN CHRISTMAS TREES- I don't really get this one but, hey, I'm all for non-conformity. Where to put the star is a dilemma but it does leave room for more presents underneath. Incidentally, when I was growing up, our family had an artificial tree. (Say it ain't so! Yes, it's true- Sorry, tree purists) One year my older brother and I put the branches in the center pole upside down. Who knew all those years ago we started a fad that would reveal itself a couple of generations later. I'm crediting (blaming) him. Younger brothers follow the lead of their wiser older bros.

#7- COLOR WHEELS AND ALUMINUM TREES- Oh how I miss those awesome color wheels. If you're under the age of 40, you probably have no clue what I'm talking about. It was a circle-shaped contraption that turned when you plugged it in. A light shone through it that changed colors as it turned. I think it was a combination of green, yellow, red, and blue. When it spotlighted a silver aluminum tree, the tree became that particular sparkling color. Stunning. Incredible. Life changing. If your family was cool enough to have all this hooked up in your front yard instead of inside, your dad would receive several write-in votes for mayor in the next election.

#6- HUMILIATED DEER HEADS- Hunters especially are guilty of this one. People take stuffed deer heads and attach various sorts of objects to their antlers in an attempt to portray the animal as an active participant and enjoyer (not a word) of the spirit of the season: sunglasses over their eyes, baseball caps on their head, bells hanging from an antler, fake beards with Santa caps, or donning some other gay apparel. When you think about it, it's kinda morbid. It's a dead entity. It doesn't enjoy Christmas. It was shot dead, probably around Christmas time. It is being ridiculed (though it doesn't know it). It can't fly anymore, much less prance or dance or dash or anything like that. And we expect it to look happy. By the way, the Stroupes have one in our house (11 pointer, currently sporting a camo Santa cap)

#5- GREEN BOTTLES OR CANS ARRANGED TO RESEMBLE A CHRISTMAS TREE- This is a recent phenomena that typically involves strategic stacking of beverage bottles or cans that were previously filled with some type of alcohol such as a Heineken or another green-themed beer. Others prefer Mountain Dew containers, but if you're a true Southerner, you insist on Sun Drop cans.

#4- DUMB DAD HANGING LIGHTS- This decoration involves a stuffed but lifelike dummy that looks like the dad of the house. Wearing a plaid shirt and blue jeans, he appears to be hanging on for dear life to the gutter with both hands, while a ladder is tipped over below him and white lights are dangling above and next to him. It's pretty clever but on behalf of all dads, I'm offended. We would never use white lights. I can assure you they would be color lights and when I fell from the roof, I would be wearing a sweat shirt and sweat pants, not a plaid shirt and blue jeans. Get it right, people.

#3- DIRTY SANTAS- I'm not talking about stealing gifts here, I'm referring to the Jolly One being placed in decorative situations that appear to be rated PG or above. There's the one where Santa is standing on top of the roof next to the chimney with lights protruding from his "midsection" that extend all the way to the ground, an obvious attempt to make it appear Santa is relieving himself on the lawn after consuming too much egg nog. In the rated G category, there exists a politically correct skinny Santa whose belly doesn't shake like a bowl full of jelly when he laughs. Come on, Man! Leave Santa alone. If he wants to be big, let him be big. We like him that way. Don't body shame the poor guy.

#2- THE BEST SANTA I'VE EVER SEEN- His presence drew all eyes to him immediately. He was proud and unashamed. He went where he had to go. He lived in the front yard of a small house near the old Carlton Mill in my hometown of Cherryville, NC. I was a kid but I remember this particular Santa as if it were yesterday. The family inside had obviously done some interior home improvements because a defunct sky blue porcelain toilet was sitting in the front yard a few feet from the porch under a tree. There may have been a plant growing out of it but you would have never known. That's because a stuffed Santa had placed his rear end on it and was enjoying a few moments of relief from a long night of work. Apparently someone had spiked his cookies and milk with Ex-Lax, and when nature called, Santa answered.

#1- THE CHILD WHO CHANGED THE WORLD- You can't beat Baby Jesus in a manger when it comes to decorations. Of course we're not supposed to worship or create false or graven images, but the symbolism of a child in a manger is acceptable, in my opinion, especially when it represents the child that was the most important human in the history of all history. And we know that he wasn't just human, but was Divine as well. Luke 2:10-11 informs us that the Angel proclaimed to the Shepherds, "Fear not, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord". The thought of the Savior coming to Earth as a poor child in an animal's feeding trough is totally wacky and maybe a bit ticky tacky, but it happened. And that's what the decorating, celebrating, and the fuss is all about. Or at least it should be.

    

WACKY WEDNESDAY WISDOM- An Anniversary I Wish Didn't Exist

     I am a college baseball coach by profession. One of the things I have done for all of my 31 years of coaching is throw batting practice before each game. Normally I throw the entire 40 to 45 minutes without stopping. I'm proud to say I've never run out of gas and pulled myself out in the middle of BP. But I came awful close when the song "Every Little Thing She Does is Magic" (by a group called the Police) blared over the loudspeakers that Saturday afternoon at Coastal Carolina University in March of 2009.
     Perhaps some background is appropriate here. My best childhood friend was my neighbor Kent. We spent most every afternoon together, normally playing whatever sport was in season. We did other stuff, too, like watch Batman and Robin on television. When the show was over, we ran through the woods between our houses fake-punching trees and pretending they were villains intent on destroying the world as we knew it. He was Batman. I was Robin. And I was cool with that.
     We shared dreams for the future, bags of potato chips, and good-natured jabs with each other most every day. We rode to school together, double-dated, and played together on the junior high and high school football, basketball, and baseball teams for several years running. He broke the record at the time for passing yardage for a quarterback and I broke the receiving record. We were the two leading scorers on the basketball team. He was the starting pitcher and I was the shortstop for our state champion baseball team our senior year. When he pitched two games in two days to lead us to that championship, he went from being Batman to Superman.
     Guys wanted to be him and girls wanted to be with him. He was the All-American dude and I was the tag along in his shadow who soaked in some notoriety of my own along the way. We played football and baseball together in college as well, and roomed together part of that time as well. We were groomsmen in each other's weddings. I always thought we would end up living near each other and grilling out a lot.
    That wasn't meant to be. We both left our hometown to seek our fortunes and lost touch along the way. (Social media didn't exist much back in those days). But alas, in early 2007, we reconnected by email and cellphone and promised to get together often. That wasn't meant to be either.
     Less than a year after our reconnection, in December of 2007, my best childhood friend and teammate forever, died tragically in a domestic incident at his residence. He was 44 years young. I spoke at his funeral. "Superman is no longer with us", I told the devastated friends and family who gathered that day to remember our hero.
     Time heals wounds but it doesn't erase memories. So I was caught completely off guard that day during batting practice when the Police song began. The longer the song went on, the harder it became for me to convince my right arm to reach for the next ball to throw and my legs turned to wet noodles under the pressure of a heart that was breaking all over again. It was one of the songs our senior year in high school that neither of us could get enough of. You know, the kind that when it comes on the radio, you crank the volume up as high as you can and scream the lyrics to each other while pretending to play the instruments involved.
     Ultimately I was able to complete the batting practice session without totally collapsing. But when it was over, I was physically and emotionally exhausted. I snuck behind the dugout, said a few words to my departed friend, wiped away a couple tears, and gathered myself in preparation for the day's responsibilities. It had been fifteen months since my friend had died, but it was the most challenging emotional moment I had experienced since his departure. Somehow I was able to press on for the rest of that day, knowing that he would want me to go coach my rear end off to honor him. I've never mentioned that experience to anyone until the writing of this column.
     So why now? Because this week marks the tenth anniversary of the death of my best childhood friend and teammate forever, Kent Alexander. It's an anniversary that I will simply remember, but not celebrate. Instead I will celebrate his life, not his death. December 6 would also have been his 54th birthday. And I will remember it by gathering with a group of his friends like we did on the day of his funeral and like we've done on or around his birthday every year since. And I will always keep my favorite picture of Kent and me in my office where I can see it each day. In it he's hugging me during the final game of the state championship after I hit one of the few homeruns of my career. Priceless.
     Philippians 3:13-14 reminds us to forget what is behind and press on toward the goal for which God has called us Heavenward in Christ. I don't think that means we should forget those who have gone ahead of us and who have touched our lives in so many ways. I think it means when your knees are buckling, your eyes are misting, and your heart is breaking, you summon the strength God has placed within you to carry on. And you reach in the bag, pick up another ball, and throw the next pitch.