Childhood dreams sometimes come true — a generation later

(This is my “Undercurrents” column for The News Herald this week.)

The Offer

PANAMA CITY BEACH — If you claim you never stood in front of a mirror and played air guitar or lip-synced into a hairbrush, pen or other object, then I’m going to (generously) suggest that you might be fibbing.

If you grew up in rock ’n’ roll age, that kind of activity is a given.

Me, I’ve wanted to be a rock star since before David Cassidy had a TV series. That’s a long, long time. However, I also have the good sense to keep away from karaoke machines, because no matter how long a time has passed, my singing skills have not improved.

"Adrift"

So it comes as something of a sense of pride to say my son is a rock star. At least, that’s what I tell him, and anyone else who will listen. He’s the vocalist and co-writer of songs for “The Offer,” a band that released its second CD (this time a 5-song EP titled “Adrift”) just last weekend.

The other band members are Mike Jordan (guitar), Mikhail Cintgran (bass/vocals), Tristan Reynolds (guitar), and Chase Hopkins (drums). The band has experienced a couple of lineup changes over the past few years, but has maintained its music and style (which they tell me is rock/post hardcore), as even a casual listen shows.

Listening to the new EP, particularly a song that references Doctor Who and “writing in her journal of impossible things,” my brain took an unexpected leap: I wondered how or if my life choices had reflected my father’s childhood dreams.

It’s a reasonable question, and one I think fathers and sons (and mothers and daughters) have mulled since time began. I’m sure it’s a question that occurs regularly to people in middle age, able to look at the generations before and after them simultaneously.

Dad didn’t want me to be a writer. He wanted me to be an electrician or a chemist, get a job in manufacturing, make a living wage. When I was bringing home Ray Bradbury novels from the middle school library, he was supplying me with Radio Shack electrical kits and chemistry sets from Kmart and giving me reading assignments in science texts.

(I remember debates with my son over his choice of study in high school and college — Theatre — and whether he could make a living wage with that kind of degree.* Sometimes, “living” is less about the wage and more about the life; that’s a lesson with which I’m still coming to grips.)

And yet, much later on, after I had established what became my career and started writing novels and short stories on the side, Dad started writing a regular history column for his local paper, The Tri-City Ledger in Flomaton, Ala., and wrote or co-wrote books on local history. He liked to joke that he was going to be me when he grew up.

I can say with certainty that I am not going to be a rockstar when I grow up. Still, I wondered if Dad had ever fantasized about being a writer in his youth — typed an air typewriter in front of the mirror, or lip-synced an interview into a tape recorder.

Probably not, now that I put it that way.

Peace.

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* And let’s not forget how upset my daughter became after a career counselor at her school noted her high scores in aptitude tests and suggested she might pursue a career in journalism. I think she still cries when she thinks about that.

Reflections on a week of import

Father and Son

PANAMA CITY BEACH — My son, Nathan, turned 27 earlier this week. I don’t know about how you respond to the passage of such dates, but that day made me look back at myself at 27 and try to imagine where I thought life would take me then.

I turned 27 in 1991, just a month after Nathan’s third birthday and couple of months before my daughter was born. I was back in college after several years of working for a retail outlet — on my way to a degree in Journalism, finally, and working freelance for a couple of local publications to help cover the bills.

Two years later, I would be hired by The News Herald and move my little family to Panama City. But in ’91, we had a spitz puppy named Everest and lived in a house owned by my mother, and I had dreams of making it as a reporter and novelist.

I still do.

Looking at my 51st birthday looming now, it would be easy to say the best days are in the past and to worry what the future holds. But I have to say, we (as a family) have weathered some dark days in the interim, and we hope for some great ones still to come.

As I sit here, writing this on the day my latest novel begins its serialized release on Amazon Kindle, I know that there are still stories to tell — indeed, more than I will ever have time to write down — still milestones to reach and wonders to witness. The marriage of children and birth of grandchildren, for instance. The next laugh at a lunch table.

I have more close friends today than at any time since high school. I have great expectations for my children, and a certain assurance that they have acquired the skills and strengths they will need to flourish even when I’m gone.

At 27, things were just getting started and I was struggling to find my way. At nearly 51, though some days can make me feel my age, I still have a sense that things are just getting started. I still struggle, still have worries. But most days the path is there, if I take a moment to see it.

How about you? Are you finding your path? Can you look back and see the trajectory that brought you here?

Peace.

Check out Tony’s latest fiction by visiting Facebook.com/TheCalibanCycle for details.

Memories of haunted Halloweens gone by

1991 vintage Flash mask

PANAMA CITY — When my son was 3, I took him to a kid-friendly haunted maze at a Kmart store’s garden center. His sister was a newborn down the street at Sacred Heart Hospital in Pensacola, and our first photographs of them together show him in his Flash costume.

She turns 23 today, our little Halloween treat. But a visit to the Panama City Jaycees Haunted House under construction earlier this month set my mind on a minor event of that momentous day in 1991, and from there the Halloween memories began to tumble.

Apparently, the red-and-yellow plastic coveralls with the lightning logo conferred upon her brother the super-speed powers of the comic book hero whose adventures he had viewed on television. At least, one would think so, to see him running everywhere he went.

The mask and costume also rendered him fearless. Near the end of the haunted maze, a man in some kind of scarecrow/clown outfit squatted down and made spooky noises at the boy, who drew back his right arm and promptly punched the man in the nose of his mask.

I apologized, the man laughed, and Flash propped his fists on his hips in a heroic pose, having vanquished evil.

Jessi and Nathan

The Flash’s greatest adventure was on my mind when I walked the unfinished maze above Panama City Marine Institute, which has sheltered the Jaycees Haunted House for 11 years. (You can view a video tour through the haunted house at PanamaCity.com, and see the schedule on pages 10-11 for times and details on the event.)

Will Hancock, who has supervised the Haunted House project for the Jaycees for several years, told me last week that the event is “very alive” and doing robust business.

“I am pleased with all the hard work and dedication put in so far,” Will said. “The ‘13 Ghosts’ room and the ‘Oculus’ room have been the most consistent (frights) so far, but that can change tonight. We are adding more sound and lighting as we speak.”

The scares, while safe for adults and teens, are not appropriate for little children. I just hope no one gets punched in the nose.

No frightful creatures jumped out at me during my tour — which was lucky, since I had no hero handy to leap to my defense. But suddenly, 1991 seemed like only yesterday. When I wondered where the years had gone, I could feel them piled up like a bottleneck, heavy and thick with sweet memory.

Jessi playing with makeup.

... Sitting with the kids at a fire in a friend’s Cove area front yard, reading “The Raven” and handing out candy.

.... Wrapping the kids like toilet paper mummies during a contest at another friend’s Halloween party at Pine Log.

... Walking the sidewalks of North Shore neighborhoods to gather massive hauls of candy.

... Playing “pin the fangs on the monster” at one of Jessi’s earliest birthday parties in Century.

... Dressing in costumes to grab supper at Golden Corral on yet another Halloween.

So many autumn evenings, pumpkins carved, yards decorated, homemade costumes, movie nights with the house full of her friends, and outfits I can’t even begin to recall.

In that moment, picturing the boy in the Flash uniform holding a newborn little girl in a hospital room, I wondered if ghosts of the past truly haunt houses, or if they only haunt old men whose children have grown up.

Peace. 

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This is my Undercurrents column this week for PanamaCity.com and The News Herald.

Off the grid, on my mind

Photo by Jessica Simmons

HALF MOON KAY — Standing in cool sea water so blue and clear it looked like a swimming pool, with soft white sand under my feet and a towering thunderhead on the horizon dropping a sheet of rain against the blue sky, I could sense how far off the grid I was.

My phone, which has become both a lifeline and a distraction in recent years, was in a stateroom on the cruise ship that had brought me to this place with my family. It had not been employed for a few days, though my daughter continued using her phone for taking photos and keeping up with the time.

For a week, I did not surf the web, update Facebook, post to Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr or any of the other social media that sucks away my moments. I didn’t send or receive a single text or a phone call. Because I’ve stopped wearing a watch (trusting my phone to carry that burden) I didn’t even know what time it was for most of the journey.

And I plopped down in the water, felt the sun drying salt on my face, and knew it was all good.

No sooner had we returned to port and “civilization,” than all of us turned our eyes to our phones and tried to catch up on all we had missed. The car ride back home was quiet as everyone (except the driver) busily reconnected with their cyber lives, myself included.

Just a few years ago, I was one of those Luddites who thought he would never need a cell phone. Then I thought I would never need one that allowed me to text messages rather than place calls (I still would rather talk to you than trade half-conversations via text). Then I thought I would never need a “smart” phone.

I was wrong about all of that. It’s a necessity in the multi-media business, and has become so in private life, where I’ve been known to work myself into a tizzy (use of that word proves I’m old) if my wife or children don’t respond to repeated attempts to reach them by call or text in the space of an hour or so. Not to mention being able to watch videos, listen to music, take HD photos, talk via Facetime and so forth.

But for a week, it didn’t matter what TV shows I missed (my DVR was saving them for me anyway), or what breaking news I caught later in the day. I wasn’t checking my phone to ensure I hadn’t missed someone’s message or email. Time was only important when dinner was approaching or to be sure we were back from an excursion before the ship sailed.

The world, as I experienced it, slowed down. It was quieter. I could take my time with something, relish a moment rather than trying to snap a selfie in the midst of it. (My daughter, however, took more than 250 photos on her phone, and my wife shot nearly as many on her camera, so the trip was still well documented. I don’t mean my comments here to devalue their effort.)

I read a book and a bunch of old comics I took on the trip. I watched the deep blue sea drift by. I spoke to strangers, helped my family/team win a trivia contest, held hands with my wife as we walked the streets of Nassau, joked with my kids. We made midnight visits to the buffet or to get ice cream.

But best of all, being off the grid gave us each other’s undivided attention, and provided me the chance to look them in the eyes and tell them how much they mean to me, and how wonderful it was to be with them on this adventure and in this life.

Peace.

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(This is my Undercurrents column for PanamaCity.com and The News Herald this week.)

Approaching a season of change

PANAMA CITY BEACH — The Monday morning breezes, cooled by rains the evening prior, carried a welcome scent and sensation of autumn. That crisp feeling of low-humidity, of cool air on your face and arms, resurrected a sensory memory of childhood back-to-school mornings at bus stops.

There was an impression of the future opening before you on a path carpeted by fallen leaves.

My friends were quick to remind me that it’s not yet the end of summer: We still aren’t through hurricane season; the last tourist stragglers haven’t left for homes in Alabama or Georgia; the first snowbirds have yet to begin winging south; the heat hasn’t broken; these are still the Dog Days.

But the weather that morning was like a promise — particularly arriving as it did, the morning after we returned from helping our daughter move out of town, to start a new life in a new city.

The air seemed to confirm a season of change in our lives, preceding the changing of the seasons.

The house had felt empty and vast the night before, and not just because some furniture and books (and cats) were somewhere else now, though I tried to pretend that was the cause. It was the sort of emptiness that could lead to melancholy, if you’re susceptible.

But we’re no strangers to this emotional state of change. We went through this once before, when our son moved off to college. (He came back, but he was out of town on a tour with his band as I wrote this, which contributed to the quiet at home.)

In the quiet you wonder, “Is this what it’s going to be like?” And the answer is yes, in the best of all possible worlds. Yes, if all goes well. Yes, if they succeed and prosper, chase dreams and catch them. Yes, if you’re secure in the knowledge that they are where they want to be.

Things change. Children grow up, choose their own clothes, like bad TV shows, move out, and whatever follows that.

My daughter is one of those now. She graduated from FSU-PC this summer, and started boxing up her life a couple of weeks ago. I held her for a long time Sunday before driving away, which was one of the more difficult things I’ve ever done.

(An aside: All the U-Haul places in Tallahassee were filled to the gills with returned trailers and trucks by Sunday afternoon, as students arriving for the start of the new school year on Monday (or their parents) dropped off their rentals. A store manager driving a U-Haul truck towing a trailer led us from his location where we were supposed to turn in our trailer (it was jam-packed) to another that had a muddy field filled with orange-and-white vehicles, like a U-Haul graveyard.)

Now the dogs stare down the hall, waiting for someone who isn’t there, and I realize I don’t have to try to walk quietly on the stairs in the early hours of the day. I won’t get up in the morning to find she left a pile of dishes in the sink after cooking in the middle of the night, or have her cat, Leeloo, talk to me over breakfast.

She won’t try to make me watch reality TV shows about brides or house hunters any more, and I won’t try to make her appreciate Syfy channel series.

On the phone with her mother the other day, she said she was headed “home,” but she meant her apartment, not our house. Imagine our confusion.

Seasons change. Addresses change. The definition of “home” changes, too.

But like seasons, everything will come back around one day.

Peace. 

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(This was my Undercurrents column for PanamaCity.com and The News Herald this week.)

Things My Kids Have Taught Me

On Father's Day, Sunday, June 20, 2004, my weekly "Undercurrents" column on the Lifestyle page was the following:

Things my kids have taught me

Jessi and Nate 2006

Educators and child development experts are fond of pointing out that the greatest influences on a child are his or her parents.

I’d go as far as saying that this rule holds true no matter the person who raises a child or what sort of traditional or nontraditional family that child has. The greatest influences are the mother and father — their presence, their absence, their attention or neglect — whether or not the child ever knew them.

A grandmother raising a grandchild as her own may do a wonderful job, but the absence of a mother/father duo will affect that child for the rest of his or her life.

That’s a long introduction to the idea that, as quantum theory suggests, the reverse is also true — the absence or presence of children makes a huge difference in an adult’s life. The child really is father to the man.

Or, in bumper sticker terms: Insanity is genetic — You get it from your kids.

Apropos of the day, listed hereafter are some of the things my children have taught me. Put simply, they made me the man I am today.

• A quiet house means someone is up to no good.
• I’m luckier to have the two of them than they are to have me. At least twice as lucky.
• Child-proofing a house only succeeds in frustrating adults.
• Somebody else started it. It’s my job to finish it.
• I’m sure there are more painful things than a child’s tears. I just can’t think of one.
• Respect has to work both ways or it won’t work at all.
• Cleaning up is not nearly as much fun as making a mess, and takes much longer.
• The hardest thing to explain is "why."
• Being a kid is tougher than you recall.
• If the rest of their generation is anything like them, then the future will be more complex, irritating, exhilarating and imaginative than you expect.
• Noisy bodily functions are funny. Are too. Are too.
• I am not my father, though I sometimes sound like him — and they are not me, though I often see myself in them.
• That doesn’t mean I’m letting them get away with anything, though.
• Kisses really do make booboos better.
• Hard work never hurt anybody. Neither did an afternoon of cartoons and popcorn.
• My folks were wrong when they said, "You’ll understand when you get to be my age."
• There are more questions than there are answers.
• Sometimes the best answer is still, "Because I said so."

Peace.

(And happy Father’s Day.)

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My Undercurrents column for Friday, June 14, is as follows:

Things my kids have taught me

Jessi and Nate 2013

PANAMA CITY BEACH — Several years ago, I made a mix CD that I titled, “Songs My Kids Taught Me.” It had tracks by Iron & Wine, the Killers, Postal Service and many others who were, at the time, fresh on the scene.

I always have prided myself on keeping up with new music — though not the plastic, manufactured pop dreck. I try to introduce my kids to new music (such as OK GO, Anna Ternheim and Airborne Toxic Event when they first broke out) thanks to sources like NPR and Paste magazine.

So, looking back, it was a big step to admit they were teaching me. I still enjoy answering them with “Yes I have,” when they ask if I’ve seen a certain new video or heard a certain new song — but it doesn’t happen as often these days.

With Father’s Day approaching, and these thoughts on my mind, I started wondering what else I used to teach them that they now teach me. The fact is, I can’t really say that I’ve taught them anything — though I’d like to take some credit for them being intelligent, curious, creative and compassionate souls.

But they have pretty clearly taught me a thing or two over the years. I even wrote a column based on that idea about a decade ago, featuring nuggets like: A quiet house means someone is up to no good; respect has to work both ways or it won’t work at all; and the hardest thing to explain is “why.”

There are many things they have tried to teach me, but that I refuse to learn. I still won’t eat sushi, for instance, no matter how they flavor it, and I still don’t ride amusement park rides.

But a couple of other items have become clear in recent years. They certainly have taught me:

• Patience. I was impatient as a young man, easily frustrated, often angry. Now I’m patient almost to the point of oblivion. So patient, I make others impatient with me.
• Never say “never again.” I mean it at the time, but when a similar challenge presents itself again, I’ll probably cave. It’s one thing to draw a hard line and another thing entirely to watch a child struggle when you can help.
• Loosen up. I know it may seem unlikely, but I can be uptight when it comes to being “proper” in public. They’ve taught me it can be okay to laugh inappropriately, among other things.
• Sometimes, peace is more important than justice. Sometimes, getting a job completed is more important than an even distribution of labor. And sometimes, if you wait long enough, even a patient Dad will get tired of asking.

But I maintain, as I wrote before, that I’m luckier to have the two of them than they are to have me. At least twice as lucky, though it’s more likely that I’m lucky-squared.

Peace.