STICKY DOORKNOBS

What goes on behind this door is anything but gross

Sometimes we send our kids away to college and wonder if they're going to be OK, take it seriously or just make it from one day to the next and come out all right on the other side.

We did.

And then we went and visited our oldest last weekend and were given a whole new perspective on not only her, but on a lot of things.

Our oldest is studying occupational therapy. She began the program in earnest in May and has been chin deep in studies, practicals, tests and non-stop homework. It seems, for good reason, they front load the course with the toughest stuff in order to separate the do-ers from the others.

One other thing they toss at the students in the first semester is gross anatomy, perhaps a misnomer if ever there was one. What goes on behind this door is truly fascinating. It presented to us a new side of our daughter we didn't know was there, but I guess had suspected all along. To see your kid pull on a pair of latex gloves and touch and move limbs, torsos and heads will honestly do a parent proud. We thought we would become squeamish at the site of cadavars.

No.

That squeamishness, though perhaps in the back of our minds, was replaced instead by watching a 22-year-old kid -- who just a short time ago could blow milk through her nose when she laughed -- act with a high degree of professionalism, care and total respect that I thought improbable of someone her age.

Seeing what goes on behind this door gives a parent a sense of pride, and a profound sense of respect for those who donate their body to medical study.

There is much good being done in this world. And it's uplifting to see.

As a matter of fact we did just spend the weekend in Oklahoma, what gave it away?

Watermelon seed spitting contests do make for some award-winning photography, wouldn't you agree? (Thanks to my lovely bride Karen -- the closest relation to all these yahoos, btw -- for the photos).

Graduations: Stories within stories make celebrations memorable

NORMAN, Okla. -- I don't know her name but I watched her throughout the night. Just walking wasn't very easy for her; she was maybe five feet tall and although I don't feel entirely comfortable making such an assumption it is probably safe to say that she had been met with many physical challenges over her life. When she crossed the stage last Friday night, there was only a small bit of applause that came from a tiny corner of the auditorium. It was a notably quieter acknowledgment of effort than the hoots and whistles some of the athletes, cheerleaders and class clowns received.

I watched the girl walk back to her seat. She would frequently glance up at a couple I assumed were her parents. Between those glances into the crowd, she would look at the diploma she held in her hands, cradling it every few moments. And from time to time she would shake it gently, as if it to say, "Yessss!" A couple of times, I even caught her pumping her fist and opening the diploma to read her name on the sheepskin.

I admit it was emotional to watch this young woman react with such enormous pride at her accomplishments, and then to look up into the crowd and try to share that moment with her loved ones. It was even more priceless than any Mastercard commercial you can imagine.

I'd noticed the girl early on last Friday night because we sat close to her, but then I saw her and the other 500 or so graduates up close because the ceremony was held at the Lloyd Nobles Arena in Norman and used the Sooner basketball arena's giant diamond vision screen. If your local school district hasn't yet obtained such a screen for the purpose of graduation, do all you can to lobby for it. It's worth the expense, and it will make you an instant fan of graduations.

I used to not care much for graduations. I certainly attended my own children's ceremonies and it was  wonderful to see them step across that stage. But after that, watching as so many anonymous people -- all of whom had no doubt accomplished a great deal just by being there -- walked across a stage at such a great distance made for a more impersonal celebration. Watch the ceremony on a large screen with zoom in shots of the students' faces, however, and it becomes instantly obvious: There are so many stories inside a high school graduation. You may not know all the details of each of those stories, but just seeing kids as they accept the ultimate high school award for their accomplishments is a wonderful thing to watch.

There was another person at this particular ceremony, a teenager who stood maybe three feet tall. He received his diploma and then went one-by-one down the front row giving high-fives to all of the teachers at the school. And there was another young man in a wheelchair, smiling and apologizing for his cumbersome mode of transportation, He collected his diploma with a polite smile, a thank you and an excuse me. I may not know his story, but I could tell a lot about the kid's character through watching his simple reaction on the giant screen.

And then there was the story I heard from a family member last Friday night. The principal of the school, Mr. Tipton, had somewhere along the way, informed the senior class at Mustang High School that they had made him "lose his marbles" during the seniors' four-year journey through the school.

Friday night, as each of the 500-plus seniors went to the front to receive their diploma, they dropped a marble in a large glass bowl. The marbles will no doubt be on permanent display in the principal's office beginning this morning. And probably for hundreds of mornings to come.

If you are bound by duty and family to attend a high school graduation this weekend, watch and see it for what it is. Don't look at it as a big nameless, faceless celebration. See the multitude of stories unfolding. It is real life drama playing out in front of you.

Congratulations to all high school seniors this year.

Sittin' one out

It's finally dawned on me with certainty Monday just why statistics aren't necessary in Little League. The Boy, a ballplayer since he was 5 -- simply out of a love for the game -- came to his mother and me and said he was going to "sit out" this year.

A friend warned me about this day a couple of years ago. Talked about how it was a blow to the gut when your kid tells you he's done. And if the first day or so after the news is any indication, he was right.

The Boy loves baseball. He loves its history, hearing the stories about the players who were around when his old man was a kid; and when his Paw-paw was younger. From Lou Gehrig to Sweet Lou, The Boy has an appreciation for the game that few kids his age do. He loves visiting the big league parks and he remembers being taken to his first big league game, when Pudge was a Ranger and Ichiro was all the rage in Seattle. Over the years his bedroom has sported pennants from Texas to Oakand to St. Louis and the Red Sox, his favorite team.

He loved playing the game, too, and he says he's not finished; just taking a break. He may not have been the best player on the field, but he always knew who was. He just loved to play. It was a fun experience and he had some good times. Today looking back on all those years, I'm grateful no one ever kept statistics on my kid or anyone else's on the recreational level. They're not needed if it's all just for fun anyway, and technically that's what it's all about. When you look back on it, it's not the numbers that matter. It's the fun you had. That's even what Tom Landry once said about coaching the Cowboys: "When it stops being fun I won't do it anymore."

When you're done, it's not about the numbers, it's about the experience. At least when you're a kid.

I checked The Boy's calendar and it was obvious baseball would be a hard thing to squeeze in with everything else going on in his life. It's demanding being a 14-year-old these days. We asked him why he was opting out this year and he said he didn't want to miss any opportunity he would have to be an attorney in the local Teen Court program.

Great. The Boy is givin' up ball for lawyerin'.

As a friend said, "Raise up a ballplayer and he turns into a lawyer -- what's that say about America?"

His mother and I are so far OK dealing with it. We just hope one day that we won't walk into his bedroom and see his Ranger pennant replaced by a poster of Johnnie Cochran. Your honor ... I object.

Tiny cramped loud and messy. Bring it on.

Fifteen years ago, my wife Karen and I bought our first house. A modest, three bedroom, it fit our needs perfectly and we saw it as a great place to raise our young family, which at the time consisted of two young daughters,  7 and 5.

Three months after we signed the contract and moved in, the shower in the master bathroom broke. I unscrewed the fixture, forgetting just how important it was to turn off the water at the curb before attempting any repairs. The water shot out at me, hurling me against the back shower wall, kind of like the flooding surge that once soaked Larry, Moe and Curly, except that on this day there was just the one stooge.

I finally had the presence of mind to walk outside with a wrench and close the stream off at the source. When I returned inside, Karen was sitting on the edge of our bed, crying.

"What?" I said. "It's just a leaky faucet. If I can't fix it -- and I'm pretty sure I can't -- we'll just call a plumber. It's nothing to cry about."

"I'M PREGNANT!" she said and we hugged and became emotional and I got her wet and greasy and we shared in the moment and realized our family would soon number five.

In a few short months, our comfortable, warm little home became a tiny, overcrowded house, a place in which we would regularly swear to each other through the years that we would leave in favor of something larger and more accommodating of our needs. Time, schedules, activities, responsibilities all got in the way and, to make a long story short, we remain where we have been for so many years: in that tiny, overcrowded house. Except that as of last week, it is no longer tiny and overcrowded. It has become comfortable and roomy again.

Our second child moved out last week, opting instead for independence and adulthood. I hear it happens to most all of them, but that fact makes it no easier to embrace. Cold hard reality is seldom warm and fuzzy

For 15 years, we led the life millions of other parental teams lead. Busy every day; three children who kept us running at all hours and to all ends and sides of town; kids that remembered they needed mechanical pencils and $40 calculators at 11 at night and 6 in the morning; kids who have sprung on us that it is in fact our turn to drive the car pool five minutes before we need to be wherever it is we need to be; arguments on both sides of a door to a bathroom that somehow met the needs (not always well) of two teenage girls and one poor boy who has heard and seen far more than I had ever hoped.

Forgive my maudlin moment, but I remember clearly snapping a photo of two young girls standing next to a real estate sign with a SOLD sticker slapped across it, both girls smiling at the thought that they had their very own house and would now have their very own rooms. And then The Boy came along, forcing them to share a bedroom for several years. Ultimately we would convert a living area into a bedroom so the children could have their space and their mother and I could have what passed for sanity.

Our oldest moved out about two years ago, headstrong and head smart. I knew from the moment she came home from a Midland College field trip to Austin and told us that she had engaged the Speaker of the Texas House of Representatives in some verbal sparring about the excessiveness of college tuition that she would be just fine on her own, thank you very much. Had I ever developed any doubts about her ability to make it, I knew I could pick up the phone and call Tom Craddick himself just as a reminder. Somehow, because she always seemed so independent and sure of herself I was comfortable with her making it.

But last week, when our second one packed up, it was a different feeling. The feeling in the house is one of emptiness. The Boy is there every day and he remains as active as his sisters were combined, but strangely, we lack people. The complete family is no longer there. It is there, scattered, but it is not there, where I want it.

I suppose there are advantages. The kids' bathtub will no longer clog up with our daughters' hair. I will no longer have to walk into that same bathroom and see enough bottles of shampoo and body wash that I could play chess with all of the empties. I will no longer have to buy macaroni and cheese several times a week or smell a blow dryer on its last legs or hear the sound of a teenage girl texting her boyfriend during dinner.

No more sweaty palms as we tear open the latest report card and no more busted mom-and-dad imposed curfews and lame excuses about movies that ran late or getting so wrapped up in a video game that they "lost track of time." No more watching "Friends" all day and all night and wondering how come our daughter isn't up at 11 in the morning, only to then see her wake up with a smile that made it impossible to be upset.

I should be -- and I am -- thankful. We have been blessed with a life that has been good beyond measure. But the adjustment to life with grown children, an unstoppable one, is not easy.

My wife and I now have that quiet reading room we've always wanted. And trust me when I say that the wanting of it is much preferable to the having it. Be careful what you wish for.

Tiny, cramped, loud and messy. Bring it on. I'll take that over warm and roomy any day. 

Don't let the school bus door hit ya in the backside, K? Buh-bye.

If you are a parent with a school age child, I don't have to tell you just how glorious and significant this day is, do I? Can I get an Amen and three hallelujahs, please?

BARRACUDAD: How I'm spending my Christmas vacation

What happens when 70s music lover meets 21st century technology can be downright ugly.

Cast ye not the first popcorn kernel

   One day when The Boy was 6 we were getting ready for a Little League game by laying out all parts of his unform before school so we wouldnt be in a mad rush to find everything as we walked out the door later that night on the way to the game. It was a good morning because we had found most everything we needed and it wasn't even 8 in the mornng yet.
   Jersey? Check.
   Spandex pants, check.
   Glove ... got it.
   The only thing that was missing was his cap. We spent hours looking for it. Mostly I spent hours. I came down hard on him for losing it when I dropped him off at school. I still feel bad about it.
    I was so consumed by the lost cap that instead of going to work that morning I returned home, determined to find it. I looked through trash cans, down the disposal, in his sisters' rooms, in the bathtub and even in the dog's water bowl.
   No cap.
   I moved beds, dirty clothes piles and couches, and it was when I moved the living room couch that I saw it: a cap. Not his. Mine. One that I had been looking for, for a good amount of time. A couple of weeks at least. Coincidentally, I came across his cap a few minutes later, in the back of my car.
   I felt so horrible for finding my cap after having yelled at him for losing his that I went back up to school and pulled him out of his first grade classroom so I could give him a hug and apologize.
   It was a lesson we could both learn from. I was convinced of it.
   Fast forward five years.
   The Boy brought home his Boy Scout popcorn sales sheet last year, went out and sold probably $500 worth of the stuff. The stuff comes in, and as it turned out, he announced one day he had lost the order sheet. Great. Here we go again. Did he not remember that lesson from when he was 6? Somehow, with a little of God's grace, we found the order form, collected the money and got a nice little sum off the price of camp this past summer.
   Fast forward again. To this fall.
   The Boy sells another $350 worth of popcorn. Off goes the order and back comes the popcorn. In the interim, he asks me, "What do you want me to do with the order form while we wait for it?"
   I'll keep it, I say. "We learned that lesson last year. And when you were six. I'll keep it. So it won't get lost."
   Order goes out, popcorn comes in.
   "Wheres the order form?" The Boy asked me one day a couple weeks ago.
   "I don't know where'd you put it? Is it in that horrible mess of a room of yours?"
   "Uh, no dad, you said you were gonna keep it so I wouldn't lose it, remember?"
   Slowly, painfully, awkwardly, the reality of just that descended on me like a cold, damp, misty fog. The kind that clouds up your eyeglasses and leaves you unable to see reality. That kinda fog. That kinda feeling.
   I had said that. Those words: "I'll keep it for you so you won't lose it."
   And then I went out and did the same thing. The one I swore I would keep a close eye on.
   Over the course of the next several days we were forced to sort of recreate the orders as best we could, giving what we knew went to certain people first and filling in the rest as we could.
   When we came to the end of my gargantuan screw up, in an attempt to collect all the money, we tried to convince some poor lady that she had bought carmel corn when she insisted she hadn't.
   "We're pretty sure you bought this," The Boy insisted.
   "No, I know I ordered chocolate covered popcorn.
   The would-be transaction ended peacefully and cordially, but the woman wouldn't buy the carmel corn. Allergic or something. So The Boy came back to the car and said, "She says she ordered chocolate."
   I shrugged my shoulders and drove off fairly disgusted with not collecting the money but even more so disgusted with my inability to keep track of a simple order sheet. Something a kid could do. But I couldn't.
   Feeling badly, I turned the car around a few miuntes later and went to apologize to the woman and make sure she didn't think my son was some scammer of the elderly. Wanted her to know we weren't operating a black market popcorn operation here. I made a complete and total confession and told her I'd try to find an extra tin of chocolate covered popcorn lying around downtown. (If you're reading, ma'am, I had no luck.)
   Somehow, we were able to unload most all the popcorn, literally making it up as we went along, hoping that we wouldn't have to pay for Dad's mistake.
   I apologized to The Boy for losing the order form. Again. Six years after the episode of the lost baseball cap, I was left with the stark realization: some things in this world will never change. And most usually, the things that don't change are the mistakes of the parent.

Injured boy goes home

For the many folks who asked and prayed, Jeremy, the 6-year-old Dallas area boy who was hit by a car two Sundays ago, has gone home. He is recuperating, playing computer games, playing with his cars and watching Shrek (over and over and over). Many thanks to everyone who took time from their busy schedules to say a prayer and ask about his well being.

jp

The power of prayer and how it saved one family's Thanksgiving -- and one 6-year-old boy's life

It was a crisp cool Sunday morning and the crowd poured out of the church in suburban Dallas. People mingled about the parking lot socializing and enjoying each other's company before heading to their cars, many of whom would no doubt either soon be on their way to lunch or home for an afternoon in front of a Cowboys game.  Amid all the people, a little boy with his dad eyeballed the church's golf cart parked several yards away and the boy, a 6-year-old elementary student named Jeremy, asked his dad if he could run over to it. And dad said yes.

So Jeremy took off, dashing across the parking lot, his eyes focusing squarely on the golf cart ahead; his thoughts only on sitting in the cart while pretending he was driving. Somewhere above the intense concentration he held on getting to his destination he still heard the voice yell at him. "Jeremy! Stop! Stop" And as children do when they try to stop cold in their tracks, Jeremy put the brakes on and ended up on his tip-toes. With all his efforts he tried to stop, though he was not able to completely, and he began to tumble forward. A moment later, his father would later say, he saw Jeremy's head turn and at the last second, just before everything went black, the boy caught a glimpse of the van that was backing out of the parking space headed right at him. The driver of the van did not see Jeremy.

He pitched forward and his head became lodged in the wheel well as the van pulled away, dragging Jeremy across the parking lot. Several yards later, the driver was finally alerted to what was happening and stopped.

Unconscious and bleeding, Jeremy was rushed to Children's Medical Center last Sunday where doctors ordered emergency surgery to remove a piece of the boy's skull which would relieve the pressure on his brain. The same doctors would later return with a report that the boy had suffered skull fractures near his eye, ear and nose, to the left side of his head and the back of his head. He had also bled from the ear for several hours after the accident.

Through all of Sunday and early Monday doctors and nurses remained glum, their prognoses dark and uncertain at best.

Throughout Sunday, news of the accident spread and the family communicated to other family and friends a request for prayer. One prayer chain that began in Midland was spread Sunday evening to close to 100 people. I would learn later in the week that about an hour after the prayer requests began to go out that evening, Jeremy, from his hospital bed, would turn his head, see his grandfather and try to reach out and touch him. Stopping short of calling it a miracle, doctors said that such a physical attempt to move in such a manner at that point in his recovery was "huge." Still, though, Jeremy remained attached to a ventilator, being pumped full of paralyzing meds to limit his movements. The family folded out cots, threw sheets over hospital "recliners" and slumped in waiting room chairs awaiting the passage of time.

Monday morning broke and Jeremy improved a bit, although he had still not spoken because of the ventilator tube in his mouth. Monday afternoon came and a nurse walked in and told Jeremy's grandmother that the same little boy that had been rushed into emergency surgery only a day earlier after getting his head caught in the wheel well of a moving vehicle would live. Doctors even began to smile and there was an optimistic inflection in their words that had not been there a day before.

Tuesday came and Jeremy's improvement continued although he still required help with certain parts of his recovery. For instance, it was clear that the boy hoped that his first experience with a catheter would also be his last. When nurses came in bearing the apparatus after it had been taken from him earlier, the site of the tube would lead Jeremy to speak for the first time since emerging from his semi-comatose state earlier in the week. "I GOTTA GO!!" he screamed to his grandfather whose eyes quickly rimmed with moisture at the sound of the boy's voice and the memory of the unpleasantness of the whole catheter experience. He's going to be OK, his family would think after laughing and crying and holding the boy when he spoke.

I asked Jeremy's grandmother how long he would be hospitalized, fearing that it would be as long as two or three weeks, maybe more. After all, he had had a piece of skull removed. Surely people don't just go home after something like that.

"He may get to go home Monday or Tuesday," she told me. It's not Thanksgiving Day, but it's close enough, and the spirit of Thanksgiving clearly runs throughout this entire story of a small boy who gives meaning to the word and the season.

Through it all, I am left with one prevailing thought: the power of prayer. Jeremy's grandmother told me that she had asked for prayers from friends and family across the country. And when I heard he reached out for his grandfather shortly after the requests began being sent out en masse, many by email, I changed my way of thinking:  The next time you get an email forward that asks you to say a prayer for a sick aunt or an injured fourth cousin of a next door neighbor or for the grandfather of a friend of a friend of a distant acquaintance, take a few minutes. And remember all the good it did for a 6-year-old boy who came very close to dying Sunday.