The Bully

Who could bully this cute kid??  DJ, about age 4.

 

I am currently reading a book by J.D. Vance called Hillbilly Elegy. It is a memoir that chronicles his life growing up in Appalachia.  It is an interesting look at a life of poverty.  One tenant of Vance’s family was loyalty.

Vance recounts a bully picking on a kid in his grade school.  Apparently this was sort of an ongoing issue for a number of kids at the school and the teachers and school administrators were aware of the problem.  One day, this bully, walked over to another boy and asked, “Are you gonna cry again today like you did yesterday?”

This pissed Vance off, and, as his grandmother, yes grandmother, had taught him, Vance approached, stood sideways (to be a smaller target) and punched the bully in the stomach using his hips for additional force.  The bad guy went down.  I guess the message was don’t mess with my people.

I remember DJ returning home from 3-year-old preschool one day and sharing that Belva, apparently the mean girl in Mrs. Wishon’s class, had made fun of her shoes AND wouldn’t let her play in the classroom’s miniature kitchen. Needless to say, I was angry.  I was tempted to head over to St. Michael’s preschool the next day and punch Belva in the stomach as Vance did his school bully.  After considering her age, I decided against my initial plan.

It’s one thing to stand up for your child.  I think there’s sort of an innate parental protection gene that makes us want to attack those who emotionally or physically hurt our kids.  What was startling to me about Vance was that the guy he defended was not related to him. In fact, he wasn’t even a great friend.  It was just a kid in his class who was being treated poorly.

After reading his story, I began to wonder if I had ever stood up for the little guy.  The one who struggled to find his voice.

Perhaps I have – or perhaps I too often do nothing for the underdog.  There isn’t much coming to mind – no list of heroic acts I can refer to as examples of my bravery in the face of worldly unfairness.

As I hear derogatory remarks about someone, as I consider inequities around me, as I run into individuals with no voice, I wish I’d do more.  It’s easy to ignore.  It’s easy to walk by.  It’s easy to just be thankful you’re not the one suffering at the moment.

I’m gonna work on that.

Advertisements

A Manner-less Father

revolving2

Being a single dad with three young daughters was scary.  Early on, there were things that caused me a great deal of anxiety.  One was my ability to raise girls who weren’t totally oblivious to typical societal norms.   I really wanted them to be poised – to have good manners.  So, I sent them to Cotillion.

I’m from Fayetteville.  We don’t do Cotillion there.  Although my mother is lovely and has very good manners, she raised a house of boys.  A win for her was no passing gas during Sunday lunch.  Learning to use a bread knife was low on her priority list.

The first year of Cotillion was focused on learning the basics.  A few dance moves, everyone loves a good Fox Trot, boys getting potato chips for the girls and dressing for success.  We learned a great deal through this process.  Gloves are a great way to mitigate gross, sweaty hands.  Wing tips hurt when they clomp on sandaled toes.  Boys are often shorter than girls in 5th grade.

On evening after class, my youngest daughter came home in a huff.  “Dad, you’re not going to believe this one!  During the slow dance tonight, the boy I was dancing with held on to my underwear the entire song!  Like gripped them on either side!”  I was amused but unalarmed.  “I’m sure he didn’t know – he probably wasn’t wearing any himself.”  Sounds like something my older brother would do.

Years two and three were more focused on manners.  One of my kids shared with me that if you go into a building with a revolving door, there is etiquette on how to proceed through.  Apparently if the door is not moving, the guy should go first to get the door started.  If it is already moving, the woman should go through the door first.

I’m assuming this was designed so that the “weaker” sex wouldn’t have to strain to get the revolving door revolving.  That is not the case in my house.  My fiancé could pummel most guys.  She’s strong.  Hot yoga’s her thing.  She can hold a plank for a solid afternoon.  And, she has impeccable manners.  I’ll not be starting the revolving door for her.  She’s more capable than I.

This dad raising three daughters alone left a number of gaps.  Belches aren’t all that uncommon.  Mouths are often full when talking.  Gum might be chewed at church.  Forks, spoons and butter knives are interchangeable.  And I’ve taught them to smell their clothing to determine whether it really needs to be washed.  I didn’t realize that was questionable until very recently.

But somehow, perhaps through out of my house osmosis, they’ve come out alright.  Strong, attractive, polite and well-mannered young women.  Or maybe it was Cotillion.

 

 

The First Stone

When I was a young teenager, I distinctly remember walking into the Darryl’s restaurant in Cross Creek Mall in Fayetteville, NC, and seeing several adults who worked with my youth group at a table with what appeared to be alcoholic beverages.  Being raised Baptist, I was appalled and saddened that they would be going to hell.

My grandfather was an alcoholic so my parents chose not to drink.  I don’t mean not to drink a lot.  I mean teetotalers.  Alcohol has not pursed the lips of my father’s mouth.  And he is pushing 82.  He told me if I had lived with what he lived with as a child, I too would not partake.

I’m not sure when it hit me that you could be a Christian and also drink beer.  Or smoke.  Or even cuss.  And I guess that there are a lot of Christians doing a lot of other stuff that I would have questioned when I was 13.  In fact, I am.

The older I get, the more I realize that life is hard.  I also realize that people, none of them, not even my dad, are not perfect.

I recently gave a panhandler $5.  I’m not sure what moved me to do so.  It was cold outside, and I had cash which is unusual for me.

For a split second I wondered what he might do with the cash.  Maybe buy a six pack of PBR I thought to myself.  And then, I realized, if I was going to have to sleep outside that night, I’d likely do the same.

What makes it OK for me to assume he’s going to do something bad with MY money, which I gave to him, and not OK for him to spend it for his needs?  Is it worse for me to judge what he might do or for him to buy the beer?  I didn’t even know his situation.  Nor do I know what I’d do with $5 bucks if I was in his shoes.

I become exhausted with myself condemning others while I, on my very, very high horse, disappoint God and others on a quite frequent basis.  I become exhausted with others for that too.

The older I get the more I find myself wanting to love, and the more agitated I get when I hear racial bias or prejudice against gays or a lack of love for an addict.  Maybe it is because I clearly see all the junk I do wrong.  I believe in the bible it says something like let him who is without sin cast the first stone.

I’m going to try to hold on to my rocks.

To My Surprise

Kyle

I don’t want to spend a lot of time talking about the specific boy.  It is really irrelevant at this point and not appropriate for me to be expounding upon… yet.  But for the first time, my eldest is dating someone – although I’m not sure she used that term and if I get it wrong, I’ll hear about it.  Maybe they’re going out or courting or strongly connecting.  Who knows what they call it now?

I’m not saying she has never dated before.  She has.  This is the just first time it seems to be sort of exclusive save “The Donald” from 10th grade that lasted about a month and ended tragically, for him, at Moe’s Tex-Mex restaurant in Cameron Village, an upscale strip mall here in Raleigh.

Although, as all this has unfolded, I could totally be wrong.  She could have dated exclusively, and I had no idea what’s went on!  I continue to learn things about our kids that surprise me.  I don’t think the five of them are truly coming clean.

I’ve heard this guy’s name for two years now.  We’ll call him Harry.  It sort of went like this:

Me:  “What did you do this weekend DJ?”

DJ:  “Well, Harry and I watched a movie at his apartment.”

Me:  “Hmm.”

Next weekend –

Me:  “What did you do this weekend DJ?”

DJ:  “Well, Harry and I went to dinner and then a party at his Fraternity.”

Me:  “Hmm.”  Harry again.

I mean I’m not stupid.  Last fall I commented that she and Harry sure did seem to enjoy each other – or she was lacking in the friendship department cause every other sentence was Harry this and Harry that. I was assured they were just friends.  Yeah – and the hairs slowing taking over my temples are blonde, not gray.

The way I found out about this relationship was via a family group text.

Michelle shared a funny photo with the fam and bantering ensued.  At the end of the string of texts, coming from three different cities and four different people, DJ wrote: BTW (By The Way for my mom and dad) – Harry and I are dating.

I called immediately.  She did not pick up.  Probably in class or something, right?

Michelle wrote back – you serious?

Stephanie chimed in:  Yes!  She is.  She called and told me last week.

There are three problems here:

  1. This had been going on for several weeks, at least, and I was just finding out
  2. DJ told Stephanie before she told me

AND…

3.  Stephanie didn’t call and tell me the news (she swears she was sworn to secrecy but I thought better of her).

I’m good with all this – actually makes me very happy.  I’m just having to get used to all this going on without my knowledge.

One day I asked Stephanie what she did the night before.  She replied, “I went to Target.”  I do believe that is true.  However, her sister also innocently told me she saw a picture of Steph on her Instagram story at a party that same night.

Maybe the party was at Target…

And I can’t even guess what else is going on with these five offspring of ours.  Julie’s son is holed up in Athens, GA, or so he says.  One weekend he’s at a Fraternity party in Alabama, the next a sorority party in Memphis and the next spring break in Cancun.

Next time Julie and I want to get away, we’re just gonna tell them all “We’re going to Target.”  That’ll teach them!

Maybe it’s best I don’t know all that’s going on.  I like my peaceful life – sitting around watching DVR’d 60 Minute episodes thinking my kids are doing the same.  Ahhh – the joy of not knowing.

 

Little Bitty Neck

Bruce Ham Head Shot

2014, five full years ago!

Bruce Ham Head Shot, 2-19

Little Neck, Today

About every five years, our marketing department decides that the leadership team at work needs new head shots.  These are pictures of your head – just your head – that you use for professional purposes.  Like when I speak at a conference, I’m often asked to send a “head shot” so I forward my pic.

 

I am fairly happy with my 2014 headshot.  I look young.  I’m not sure why we’d want to alter that.

My boss has looked the same for the past twenty years.  You could toss his past five headshots into a basket and not know which came first.  Me, not so much.  There is a definitive difference between late forties and mid-fifties.

I am compliant, so I went onto the Signup Genius to choose the time to meet with the photographer.  When my time came, I meandered unexcitedly to the small conference room where they had set up shop.  The email calling for new pics informed us that there would be a makeup/hair stylist to help us look our best.

I wondered why.  I mean, we’re the Y.  Aren’t we supposed to look recreational?  Besides, there are only like two employees at our corporate office who have ever worn makeup, and I don’t count because it was when I was in a play.

I showed up promptly at 11:20 AM.  I was allotted 15 minutes.  A VP of Marketing was ahead of me.  She looked great – wearing her Sunday best.

I knew there was little anyone could do with the hair.  And I declined the makeup.

She insisted, “I just want to take the sheen off of your forehead.”

I didn’t know my forehead had a sheen!  All this time I’ve been walking around with a shiny forehead and no one told me.  How embarrassing.

She powdered me up.

She then pulled out lipstick, I reared back.  “You’re not putting that stuff on my lips,” I told the woman who was desperately trying to earn her keep.

Give me that mouth, she argued.

I think she got paid by the lip.

When I realized she was essentially putting fancy Chapstick on me, I acquiesced.  There was no color, although I thought I saw a sparkle on the end of the tube.

A friend of mine was helping to coordinate us bums so I asked her to crack some jokes so that I would look happy.  I have a tendency for the fixed pose with a fake smile.  She began to taunt me, which is not unusual for this co-worker.  I laughed and our time was over.

When I received the proof of my pic, I quickly opened my last one taken a half a decade or so earlier.  It was sad really.  The gray protruding from my temples today.  The wrinkles more wrinkly in 2019.  I should have been more lenient on my makeup friend.  Perhaps she could have made this look better.

That night I showed the photo to Michelle.  She sent the pic to her sisters.

DJ responded immediately with a haha text thought bubble.

That didn’t make me feel great.  Haha?  Shouldn’t that be reserved for a hilarious joke??

Michelle then remarked, “Dad looks very happy!!!!!!!!!”

Why so many explanation marks??????  Do I not usually look that happy?

Stephanie replied, He does look happy.  Followed by, His neck looks so small.

Seriously?  Like who wants a frickin’ enormous neck?  It just normal.  Just a normal neck.  On the slightly thin side, but just a neck that’s working hard to hold up a big shiny forehead apparently and two slightly glittered lips.

After that exchange I was worried a bit about my headshot.  Until the Marketing Director sent us links to all of the headshots.  I’ll have to confess, I opened them all just out of curiosity.  And when I saw my good friend’s pic, I felt much better about mine.

Spread it Like Glitter

In 2001, I went to a party at a lady’s house for work.  It was a fundraiser, I was sort of the Y staffer hosting the event.  Before the guests arrived, the woman took me on a tour of her really nice home.  Next to my Grandmother Tanner’s, it was the cleanest house I’d ever been in.  As we walked around, I mentioned how nice things looked.  She told me she vacuumed EVERY room in her home EVERY DAY.  She had four or five bedrooms and all of her kids were grown and had moved out of the house.

“Do you vacuum the bedrooms every day?  Even the ones that no one stays in?” I asked.

She laughed, “Every single one of them; every single day.”

There are some things I’d like to do every day, I won’t go into that, but vacuuming is not one of them.

I don’t really clean very much.  There are only two of us living full time in this house anymore, and I have a beautiful lady (she’s just a really good person) who helps me with housework every other Monday.  I LOVE IT when she comes.  I walk in the door after work and can smell her Pine-Sol scent.

That was not always the case.  All three of my girls enjoyed art projects as kids, particularly glitter.  They could flat crank out pieces of construction paper with sparkles galore.  Even after cleanup, I’d find silver specks of glitter from my eyelids to my chest hair; from the car to the kitchen to my office.  It was like the Norwalk virus on a cruise ship – it spread and spread and spread.

My team at work is reading the book Everybody Always by Bob Goff.  Bob writes about love.  He is a Christian and is all about meeting people where they are – regardless of their background of beliefs – and simply loving them.

I love this quote from his book:  Spread kindness like confetti.  Or in my case, perhaps like glitter.

I just don’t think that is so hard.  Kindness is easy.  It can be shown when driving, or when listening to others, or by saying something nice about someone rather than tearing them down, or by a wave or hug or handshake.  There are a million ways to be nice!  And man, like confetti or glitter, once it is out there, it is virtually impossible to clean up.

I think it would be great if we could give everyone a virus – the virus of kindness, and just sit back and watch it spread.

Where did she go?

beaker

On Saturday I went to get my hair cut.  Although I want my hair to look good, I don’t invest in it.  I use $1.79 Suave shampoo.  I get my hair cut about every two months.  I get it cut short.  I let it grow long.  Then I pay $15 to have it pruned again.

I have Supercuts saved in my contacts so I can call about 15 minutes before I arrive.  That way when I walk in the door, I get to jump in front of the big haired dudes sitting on the purple benches who got there before me but hadn’t called in advance.  I LOVE that feeling.  I feel so… special.

This time, right when I walked in, my stylist, I use that term loosely ‘cause there ain’t that much style, called me to the chair.  She was a short, plump woman with long, thick, curly blonde hair.  She wrapped my body in a black, plastic cover and tucked a dryer sheet looking piece of cloth around my skinny little neck to keep the clippings out of my shirt.

She began her work.  A number 5 clipper guard in the back of my head, a number 6 on sides.  The top is hacked with scissors.  As she was nearing the end of the clipper stage of my cut, she abruptly left the room.

“Excuse me,” she said.

She walked quickly to the back of the salon and disappeared.  I thought it odd but assumed she had a little stomach issue or something.

I waited.  After 8 or 9 minutes, I grew tired of looking at myself in the mirror and pulled out my phone.

After 12 or so minutes, I’d glanced through my emails and had begun to wonder if my friend was OK.  What if she’s out cold in the break room?  I wondered.  What if she’s had a medical emergency?  What if she had grown weary of giving haircuts and had left for the Caribbean?

I looked at my head.  My hair had been sheered with the trimmers three quarters up my entire skull.  The top was the exact same length as when I’d walked into the place thirty minutes before.  I looked like Beaker from the Muppets.  If she didn’t come back, would another employee finish the job?  Would I have to walk out with a bowl cut?  Would there be another salon open on a Saturday afternoon that could fix this issue?

At around 15 minutes another staff member disappeared into the breakroom.  It had become noticeable to all that she might not return.

I glanced around nervously concerned for her (and for me).

At 18 minutes she appeared, her face was blanched.

I wasn’t sure if I should say something, but it was obvious that I noticed she was gone.

“Are you OK?” I tentatively asked.

“Un.  It’s hot in here isn’t it?” she responded.

“Yeah.  Sort of.”  There was a temperature change that day and the heater seemed to still think it was 24 degrees outside.

Then she began to explain.  “Well I’m wearing a wig.  It’s squeezing my head and heating me up!  I bet I’m 15 degrees hotter than you.  I was about to pass out.  I had to go take that thing off for a little while.  Get some blood movin’ up there.”

I wasn’t quite sure what to say.  I didn’t know a wig could do that.  In fact, I had no idea she was wearing a wig!  I had not seen a wig since I opened my grandmother’s closet in 1972 and a Styrofoam head with blonde hair fell down and nearly made me wet my pants.

I’m not sure what I said to the woman after she confessed that her hair wasn’t real.  I think I came up with something like, “Well.  I’m glad you got that worked out.”

I left her a big tip and told her maybe she should take the rest of the day off.  Or maybe, just remove the wig.  I mean, she’s a cosmetologist.  I saw her credentials hanging at her booth.  Couldn’t she fix her real hair?

License to Fill

(The youngest Tanner, Michelle, is a sophomore in high school and is taking a creative writing class.  Her latest assignment was to create a blog.  Michelle’s blog’s theme is being the youngest of three girls.  This is her most recent post. Oh, and I did have permission to publish!)

Lucy graduation

She’s the one in red

By Michelle Tanner

Recently, I got my driver’s license. You may be asking yourself, “Michelle. What does this have to do with being the youngest child or growing up in a weird family?” My answer to you is A LOT.

Up to November 27th, 2018, I was the queen of the carpool system. I was constantly asking my dad or sisters to drop me off at the movie theater, library, etc. I often received an eye-roll in return. While I was thankful for the ride, I will admit, it was sometimes embarrassing.

Last year at my school dance, my friends and I got ready at my house, and our dates came over after we primped ourselves. The before is always awkward. Taking pictures with a boy from your middle school that you rarely talk to throughout the year is not the ideal situation… Anyway, after pictures, we all piled into one car with my dad as our chauffeur. I had faced the fact that this was the only way to get to the dance. I’m sure you can picture my dad, like any other father, playing his old tunes and asking questions to fill the silence. It’s such a relief to know that this year I will be able to avoid this situation.

For the readers who don’t know how a driver’s permit works, you have to practice driving for a year and log sixty hours of driving with your parent. That meant that every trip to the grocery store was another stressful experience filled with corrections from my worried dad. One day, I drove my sisters and dad home from a movie. I gracefully pulled out of the parking spot, put the car in drive, and began to take off. I planned to slow down so that I could turn out of the parking lot, but instead I mistook the gas pedal for the brake pedal and jerked forward. I quickly corrected myself. Everyone began to yell at me! In my defense it was the early stages of my driving career. I was mortified, and my sisters are still scared to get in the car with me.

It was unbelievable to me that my sisters could be so judgmental. They were in the same place I was just a few years ago! One of my favorite stories is about a fifteen-year-old, too cool for school DJ Tanner, my oldest sister. After a long, treacherous trip to Fayetteville, North Carolina, to visit my grandparents (when I say long and treacherous, I mean an hour long drive with a new driver on the highway), my dad corrected how DJ was holding the steering wheel. I believe the conversation went something like this…

Dad: “DJ, you’re supposed to hold the steering wheel at 9 and 3 o’clock! Why are your elbows slouching?”

DJ: “DAD! I HAVE BEEN DRIVING A WHOLE HOUR! MY ARMS ARE TIRED! GIVE ME A BREAK!”

How could she possibly make fun of my little mess up?

Now that I have my license, life is good. I have all of the freedom and responsibility in the world—I take that back. Don’t get me wrong, the freedom is great, but the responsibility is different. I have an issue with getting gas. My biggest fear is that I’ll put the wrong type of gas in my car, and it will explode. The first time I got gas, I called my sister, Stephanie, to have her lead me through the process step-by-step. I got my gas, and all was good.

All was good, until yesterday, when my “low fuel” light came on. I decided I had to face my fear, so I went to the nearest gas station prepared to leave with no worry of breaking down on the side of the road. I pulled up to the Shell gas station down the street and stopped at the closest hose to find out that my gas tank was on the other side of the car. “No problem!” I thought to myself as I pulled around to the next open spot. I pulled around, and I even shooed the friendly man working there sweeping and got an annoyed look. I felt bad, but I just knew I had to get gas no matter what. I got out of the car going over the steps in my head, “First, put in my card, then type in my 5-digit zip code…”

Turns out, I parked on the wrong side again. At that point the other gas hoses were taken and there was no more room for me to make a 7-point turn especially with my mediocre driving skills. I left the gas station defeated, but in order to get home, I would have had to make a U-turn on a busy street. There was no way I was doing something that risky, so I went through the shopping center next door where I struggled to figure out a 3 way stop with unspecified rules. I received a few glares and nearly got honked at. I was finally on my way home. But as I drove, the orange “low-fuel” light mocked me.

I turned my car around and went back to the same gas station. I drove in, parked on the right side, and I got my gas! Victory was mine, despite a concerned look from the not so friendly gas station man that recognized me from earlier. At that point I didn’t care about the glares and stares because I knew that I wouldn’t have to get gas for at least another two to three weeks.

Today as I drove my car to pick up a friend, I looked at my gas meter all the way up to the top. I felt accomplished. I felt like an adult with real responsibility that I could handle on my own. It’s funny how such a little thing made me forget I was the baby of the family for a split second.

 

Oh My Aching Back

I’ve done it reaching for toilet paper.  This time it was bending down to pick up a cup – a very light, unheavy, glass half full of water.  I pulled my lower back out on New Year’s Eve morning helping Julie straighten up for the cleaning ladies who showed up unexpectedly.

That begs the question, “Why do we cleanup for the cleaning ladies?”  I don’t do any prep work for the yardman.  Well, if I had a yardman I’m certain I wouldn’t pre-mow.

There is a guy at work who has a ton of back pain.  I have jabbed about it – referring to him as Broken Back Boy.  I will not do that again.  This is not funny.  Not funny AT ALL.

It has been a week, and I can just now wipe myself without excruciating pain.

You know you’re in a bad spot when…

IT HURTS LIKE HELL TO WIPE YOUR BUTT!

It is the little things I take for granted.

Who knew putting your socks on could be such a challenge.  Julie did it the first day, but then she had to go back to her house.  Then it was up to me.  I’d bend over as far as I could, hold the very edge of the sock with my longest fingers and then toss the sock toward my big toe in the hopes I’d get some traction so I could pull back into my comfort zone and get those little boogers up my calves.  It was a loafer kind of week.  Tying was out of the question.

Thank goodness I’m a slight guy.  At night I’d gently lie on the edge of the bed, then take my left hand, grab the side of my boxers and drag my body toward the middle of my Mattress Firm, which it ends up is not even that firm.  The nightstand was my grip to get out the next day.  I didn’t even consider a mid night bathroom run.  OUT OF THE QUESTION.

My children are ribbing me, mocking me when they walk past in a bent position with their hand on their back yelling strings of sentences with silences to represent the bleeping out of curse words.

A lady at work left a walker in my office.  I tried to use it but it was too short.

I’ve been to a chiropractor three times.  I got a therapeutic massage.  My MD gave me a muscle relaxer.  I’ve taken more ibuprofen than there are stars in the sky.  And my back is still as tight as a tic.

Is this what old looks like?  Will this happen more often?  Are other things going to go out of whack?

No.  That can’t be the case.  I’m only 53.  This must be a fluke.

 

 

Merry Christmas

BradyBunchjpeg

xmascardbackjpeg

  • Tanner Tweets

  • Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

    Join 11,975 other followers

  • Past Posts

  • Contact Us

  • Advertisements