Merry Christmas from the Broaddus Family

(And yes, this is the actual Broaddus family creche scene, complete with black Joseph, white Mary, and a mixed baby Jesus). May God bless you with the very best gift during this Christmas season ... Himself.

Of the Father’s love begotten,
Ere the worlds began to be,
He is Alpha and Omega,
He the source, the ending He,
Of the things that are, that have been,
And that future years shall see,
Evermore and evermore!

Hanging with My Sons

So after watching How to Train Your Dragon, I’ve been reflecting on my relationship with my sons and how each of them have such different relationships with me. My oldest likes to engage me intellectually, a bit of a schemer, and do what I do. He asks questions, talks to me, challenges boundaries at every turn, writes, believes he’s more charming than he is, and watches television like it’s an interactive event. He’s his father’s son.

My youngest is a daredevil, physically and emotionally as he’s prone to wear his emotions on his sleeves. He loves to be held, constantly needs physical assurance that I’m there. So he hugs, enjoys snuggle time, lays on me, and holds my hand. He pretends to be shy, but really just enjoys keeping people at a distance and making them relate to him on his terms. It’s like raising my baby brother.

One thing it’s reminded me of is the need to be present for them. We often forget how much our relationships with our parents can teach us about our relationship with God, how it should be, what it ought to be, and what it isn’t. The longing of our heart is to be with our fathers (sometimes causing us to seek out adopted fathers or mentors or other role-models when one isn’t present).

Fathers can be absent in a variety of ways: emotionally distant, aloof; overly critical, abandoned us physically; or being abusive. Sadly, even these things can teach us (false) lessons about the idea of fathers: that they can’t be trusted, they are prone to abandon, they aren’t safe, they are prone to judge, they are prone to be painfully silent, they are prone to be abusive.

We teach when we aren’t intending and we communicate in all we say and do. What we model is more important than what we preach. To be known, find security, and have stability, that’s what I want my sons to know about fathers. Most importantly, that they are loved.

2009 Broaddus Family Christmas Party

With the second novel of my Knights of Breton Court series done (finished about 12 hours before this picture was taken) and the contents for the Dark Faith anthology set, the Broaddus family turns its attentions to entering the Christmas season with our tenth annual themed Christmas party. They started out as murder mystery dinners but quickly got too large. This year's theme was "Musicals" though we were very generous about what was considered a musical. Any excuse to celebrate with our friends/family.

Your hosts


With lips (and yes, for those following along on my Twitter, I finally got the lips removed from my head)









Dueling Sweeney Todds








best male and best female costume winners











You can check out the full gallery on my facebook (or view even more shots at my wife's facebook account). One more time though, our very strange family. We wouldn't have them any other way:

Belly Pride (aka Eat THAT Kate Moss)*

To know God is to know beauty; to know beauty is to know God. Just as God is the source of all truth and goodness, God is also the source of all beauty. God is the Supreme Artist – the Creator of all. Thus, everything that is beautiful reflects God’s artistry. Indeed, God is Beauty itself. –Rich Vincent








I was bumping around Amanda Palmer’s web site as well as the fatshionistas web site and was reminded of a few things. We have reduced beauty to surface matters, not thinking twice about being retouched, computer enhanced, reimagined through surgery in order to achieve the makeover of our false selves. We’ve reduced beauty to that with is merely pretty, setting cruel standards (impossible thinness and youth), the endless pursuit of which changes us and our definitions of beauty.

The tragedy is that beauty is so often determined from the outside that we’re left in need of constant validation. We cling to a fundamental insecurity about ourselves to the point where we can't recognize beauty in the mirror. We are taught to be ashamed of our bodies, disgusted by any part of us that fails to meet up to some metric impressed upon us by others. Forgetting that beauty can be self-defined and self-determined. And easily recognized.

Admittedly, I was thinking about this while staring at my wife’s belly. It’s not a 25 year old belly. It’s a belly that has seen the birth of two children. A belly that has stood accused of being evidence of pregnancy. A belly that has caused her to defiantly retort “no, just fat. Thanks for asking when I’m due though.” It’s a belly that isn’t afraid to go swimming in a two piece bathing suit.

What impresses me is that it’s a belly that won’t be shamed by others. That won’t be belittled by the short-sighted or narrow-thinking. It’s a belly that won’t be defined by modern society’s pressures of beauty and physical definition because her sense of beauty isn’t rooted in what people think of her. It’s a belly that demands appreciation on its terms. It’s a belly that won’t believe the lies of her past won’t be condescended to and won’t be pressured by others.

Hers is a belly has been tested and persevered. Held a marriage together through good times and bad. Sure, that belly has dieted, exercised, but it still knows how to enjoy the occasional hot fudge brownie sundae. Hers is a belly that has lived and loved life. A belly that is fearless. A belly that demands to be known, loved, and appreciated.

A belly that knows peace and contentment because she knows that she is a beautiful creation of God, His perfect daughter.

Sometimes it takes a spiritual eye, a discerning eye, to truly appreciate beauty. A spiritual perception of glory, the loveliness of holiness, and the preciousness of grace ... all the things that come with being created in God’s image. All beauty reflects its source, namely, God. When we experience beauty, we experience God. Sometimes we need to be reminded how much we need to still grow to appreciate the beauty around us.


*Hers is a belly that says “it’s your blog, why don’t you take a picture of YOUR belly.”

Winners and Losers

I was trying to explain to my wife why I was sitting at my table with my ten sided dice that I wasn’t rolling imaginary D&D characters (which REALLY would have been the sign of a problem), but rather I was randomly picking the winners for my book giveaway contest.
Without further ado, the winners are:

-Samantha
-Degood
-Taerb

Because I am prone to making up rules as I go along, I decided on some second place packages:

-Meljprincess will be getting a copy of Heretic’s Daughter
-Gaby317 will be getting a copy of Boneman’s Daughter

Not that anyone asked, I randomly selected three people to receive copies of the latest anthology from Apex Publications, Harlan County Horrors, which features my story “Trouble Among the Yearlings”. And those lucky recipients are:

-Amanda Parrish
-Wolfnoma
-Noigeloverlord

I will be dropping them an e-mail to collect their addresses and get them their books. Speaking of winners, here are my sons Reese and Malcolm in their Halloween costumes:




(with this comment from a friend: "If Reese couldn't make it as a writer, he could have dressed as an editor.")

As for the losers, those would include all of the folks who are still sending in stories for the Dark Faith anthology. I’m afraid those are being deleted unread. Also in the loser category, me for MY Halloween costume. I tweeted “In light of my novel, I'm dressing up for a super hero party as Kevin Matchstick (Mage). I'm betting only one other person will get it.”













See? I was on it! Unfortunately, it later led to this tweet: “"Maybe being a black guy w/ a baseball bat on the south side of Indy wasn't my best call... officer." #obscuresuperherocostumefail”

I should have gone more mainstream.

Life in the Broaddus Creative Mind

When I was in second grade, my teacher (Ms. Rainey) didn’t know what to do with me. I wasn’t exactly a bad or troublesome student, but I was the only black student in my class and obviously bored. Ms. Rainey had an overloaded class and had her hands full catching kids up to the current curriculum in class much less deal with students who were ahead of the curve. So she put me in a corner with a stack of paper and told me to just “create whatever appealed to” me. So I wrote, drew, created little books and just let my imagination and creativity run wild.

[As opposed to my brother, who was also bored, but his teacher—who shall remain nameless—had low to no expectations of blacks, males in particular, and all but said so. So through neglect, she stripped away any interest he had in school that he’s only regained as an adult.]

I was reminded about the state of my desk as I wandered into the room of my eldest son, Reese. He has his own desk in there, surrounded by books and stacks of paper. Within easy reach were trays of markers, pens, pencils, crayons, beads, and clips – things he’d need at fingertip access to in order to create at a moment’s notice. Everything was collected and separated by sandwich bags (which reminded me of the shelf of cereal boxes I used to use as my filing cabinets for all of my projects and “research” when I got home). All about were half-finished projects and preparation for new projects amidst the organized chaos that is a creative mind.

I had entered the forbidden zone since I had to clean it because when I’m in MY creative throes, I am compelled to clean and organize. No worries, I preserved the order and condensed it to his desk, getting rid of only the trash and toys and cups that tend to accumulate during … creative bursts.

Just something I wanted to note. On the flip side, we spent the evening trying to convince my youngest son that “Cock” was not the best way to shorten the name for his pet rock, “Cock-A-Doodle”. Of course, I suppose that I probably ought to be more disconcerted by him talking to and petting a rock …

Context 2009 Report (Much Belated Due to Deadline Constraints)

I make no bones about it: I love ConText. It’s one of my favorite cons to go to, not just because it’s a convenient drive for me to go to, but because they have great guests of honor such as Chris Golden, Jason Sizemore (you'll note that Geoff Girard considers himself a Guest of Honor wherever he goes), and Steve Gilberts









which draw some great folks (Gene O'Neil, Gord Rollo, and the Brothers Grin aka Doug Warrick and Kyle Johnson).









and it’s a great atmosphere. This year they changed hotels and this new one was AMAZING (of course, the free breakfast buffet helps. Open Letter to All Con Organizers: you want to keep writers happy, it’s pretty easy. Supply free food and drink. We’ll always consider it a successful con after that).














Plus, this is one of those cons (read: affordable) where I can take the family. Now, teh wife gets that cons—despite the pics of schmoozing and the occasional drink—are still work for me, but as she’s not much of a reader has felt left out of this part of my life. Because of Mo*Con she now knows a lot of the folks who also make it a point to make it out to ConText. So I can do my thing, she and the boys can do their thing, and we can do our thing. At least that’s how it’s supposed to work on paper. The reality woks out more like the tale of two cons.

While I’m hard at work being interviewed by the Funky Werepig crew (who I was previously interviewed by)

Let’s check in on teh family











While I’m hard at work networking
let’s check in on teh wife, who had teamed up with her friend/co-conspirator/fellow author’s widow, Jill Gordon (wife of my co-editor of Dark Faith).









The advantage to family is that Sally could do her own networking (though I told them I'd quit referring to them as the "Artist Widows"), Reese could help out at my author’s signing, and I’m not above pimping out my sons in the name of marketing.









In short, this was the best ConText ever (which is doubly surprising considering how great the previous ones have been). But be warned, those not built for con life: it takes out even the best of us and leaves us spent.

Sally Baffles Me

I suppose I’m long overdue for an update on my life as some folks have been wondering. To be straight, we’re still working through things, taking life together day-by-day, week-by-week, month-by-month.

After going very public with our situation, I mentally braced for the worst: expecting the relief of public humiliation, the security of the pillory. I’d go to church, sit by myself, then leave. Only in the last two weeks have I even taken Communion. I was accused of wearing a look which came across as arrogance or impenitent. It’s not like I can claim that a charge of arrogance would ever be misplaced with me, but ironically, the look has been that of a person ashamed to be seen in the church. Ashamed to be seen with his wife. Ashamed to be seen with a community he served so hard and betrayed so dearly. A person entirely uncomfortable with the idea of people loving him and with the idea of people forgiving him. It’s one thing to talk about it and know about it, it’s entirely another thing to experience it. And the whole thing has me … baffled.

Because after we blogged, prayers came in from around the world. The horror community wrapped itself around us. Meals were cooked for us. Folks dropped us notes which were not only really appreciated, but carried us through some dark moments. There were those who dropped everything to come sit with us. Those who planted themselves firmly in “my cave” not only to hold me to account and keep asking me the hard questions, but to make sure I got back up, dusted myself off, and keep on the path of becoming who I am meant to be and live.

I don’t know what to do with any of that. I seriously don’t know what to do with or how to process the love shown to me. Which brings me to the title of this blog, though I might be better off saying that love baffles me. Sometimes I feel like a kid being force fed medicine: being held down, thrashing about like the most uncooperative of patients … while those surrounding me patiently love me back to health.

There are times when the shame and guilt threaten to overwhelm me, days when I was drowning in it. And it became easy to believe that God had washed His hands of me or that was too dirty and guilty to be in His presence. It became easy to forget that the Doctor was in, and He came for the sick, to treat the wounded (even those with self-inflicted wounds). He then reminded me that I was right where I’d always been: in the cup of His hand, showing me what it means to be loved.

Love stays right there with us even during the ugly and dark times. Love sees the person you are meant to be and helps moves you along toward becoming that. Love doesn’t let you off the hook, nor does it want you to define yourself by your sin or failures. You can’t outrun love.

There are times in our lives when we don’t listen to our hearts, to what we know to be true. We may betray ourselves. Our friends. Our family. Our community. God. We become lost. There’s no way to undo the mess I’ve caused in people’s lives and the hurt Sally has had to go through, all the damaged relationships surrounding us, all the broken Shalom, all of the betrayed trust. There’s no way for me to go back and undo years of bad choices. Lord knows I wish I could. Just like I know that forgiveness takes time. All I can do is attempt to live a life of repentance.

I still find it difficult to believe in and listen to love. And there still may not be a happy ending at the end of this story. But I have learned this much: in chasing after a dream, it’s easy to miss the beauty and love in front of you. And I pray to one day be worthy of it.

Broaddus Family Tradition Continues

Summer 1978. Franklin, Indiana. My childhood friend, Michael McDuffie, and I were the fastest kids among our friends. We had a long standing debate about who was the fastest between us. Watching this display of alpha male preening was my father. It was late in the afternoon, he stood on the porch in one of his “ready to go out” outfits, dressed to the nines, pimp shoes in full effect chuckling over us.

“I used to be pretty fast in my day,” he said.

“Yeah, right.” We didn’t mean to sound as dismissive as we were. Well, maybe we did. We were all of 7 and 8, masters of the playground. My dad was old. Big, as in 250+ pounds big. Taller than both me and Mike stacked atop each other. Smoking his cigarette, drinking his “warm up” drink. Obviously, there was only one way we could settle this.

“You want to race us?”

“I guess I could give it a shot.” My dad walked the length of the brick paved road (it was the last brick paved road in the city. To this day, there remains a small strip of the street that is brick-paved to remind everyone of how the street used to be). He set his drink and his cigarette at the finish line and walked back to us.

By now my brother and some of our friends gathered on our front porch to watch. Me and Mike grinned broadly at one another, all but high fiving ourselves in anticipation.

“Someone want to count it off?” my dad asked.

Our friend Missy shouted from the porch. “Ready, set, … go!”

Mike and I were fast. Mike and I both went on to have some pretty good track and field careers through junior and high school (until both of us ended up having similar spinal surgery which ended our sports career).

My dad, in his slick dress shoes, reached the finish line and had time to take a drag from his cigarette and a swig from his glass before we crossed the line. He didn’t say anything. Just walked back to the porch, our friends parting for him in awed silence, as he went back into the house. He never did mention that he still held all of the track and field (as well as many of the football and basketball) records in Franklin High School.

Summer 2009. Indianapolis, Indiana. My boys Reese and Malcolm were running in the gym in the Harrison Center during one of our First Friday tours. They asked me if I could race with them. So I set down my “warm up” drink (it was wine and champagne night along the First Fridays tour), and …



So we can add this to the list of Broaddus Family traditions (okay, I'll admit, I was trying to grab my drink in mid-leap). What scares me is wondering if my dad wasn't running at full tilt either.

Kwanzaa Lessons 2008

Notable moments and quotes heard during this year's Kwanzaa:

Me: what is kwanzaa?
Boys: it's the brown people holiday ... and we're half brown.
Me: close enough.

Wrapping up today's Kwanzaa ritual in Broaddus fashion: watching Dr. Who defeat the daleks.

I love listening to the boys try to pronounce kujichagoolia (Kwanzaa day 2). Though Reese now has a harambee dance.

"No boys, unless ujima means 'have a huge meltdown and hide in my office', you didn't practice it during pack up day at church."

"No, ujamaa does not mean I get to spray paint 'black owned' on everything in the house. Not even your brother."

"I seriously doubt Maulana Karenga imagined anyone doing the robot to the Harambee song."


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Cooking in the New Year

Those who follow me on Twitter kept up with this Broaddus family ritual. I thought I would provide a few pics for the blog:

i'm drinking my appletinis, cosmopolitans, and amaretto sours in dirty mugs. cause i'm manly that way.
7 pm - cheese fondue (w/ too much champagne) and jamaican patties
8 pm - shrimp cocktail
9 p.m. - chicken in riesling (or whatever leftover wine i had)
10 p.m. teriyaki chicken w/ raspberry glaze, thai bbq pork loin, and a bbq-hoisin pork loin.
11 p.m. - spice-rubbed steak with sweet/sour, champagne, mustard, and honey sauce.
12 a.m. just set the chocolate fondue on fire! happy new year!!!
mental note: must remember next year to do the complicated dishes BEFORE all the appletinis and cosmopolitans

[okay, as a point of clarification, there was a whole lot of wrong jokes flying around. one finally killed me. blame my sister.]


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Hosting a Successful Party

Okay, it’s officially Christmas Season. How do I know? The Broaddus’ hosted our ninth annual Christmas Party for friends and family. These things started off as murder mysteries (because, you know, nothing says “Happy Birthday, Jesus” like killing off your guests), but by the third year, the amount of guests made this unwieldy. So we kept the costume idea and went with themes. This year’s theme was “The 1950s”. I’d like to offer up some tips for hosting a successful party:
The host is present to greet all of their arriving guests and make them feel comfortable. (This is especially key when you’re throwing together folks from different areas of your life, say your church folks, your horror writing friends, family, and folks you grew up with).

Food. Drinks. Entertainment. We had a volunteer to handle our onsite cooking. We turned the Broaddus compound into a 1950s diner and served that kind of menu, including root beer floats. (All with my father’s doo wop collection playing as background music).


There’s also the tradition of the “Broaddus family players” making a movie to go along with the theme. This year’s movie was “Grease-Y” and once again, is not meant to see the light of day (screw you, YouTube!). No, we’re not showing them at Mo*Con either.

Interesting people.

(my lovely co-host)













(my faithful assistant, who, oddly enough, is now screaming for a raise. Apparently boob adjustment is not in her contract.)
(If you aren't a fan of Mad Men, you won't get Don Draper. But you have to love a friend who'll dress us just for a joke only the two of you will get)

(Our dueling Lucys. Lucy on the right won best female costume over Lucy on the left. I, your host, won best (sorta) male costume.)

(Absolutely wrong costume of the night went to my sister and her husband and brother-in-law who came as segregation. Yes, she's a "Colored Only" drinking fountain).

And yes, it was pure joy trying to explain segregation to my boys:

Me: Yes, we used to make black people do things in one place and white people do the same things somewhere else. This is what happens when grown ups rule the world.
Reese: But we're mixed. What about us?
Me: Well, because of how you look, you would have had to make a choice. You guys could pass for white and that's what some people chose to do rather than admit they were half black.
Malcolm: Daddy, I'd have chosen to be white. It sounds easier.

Back to party tips ... Toss in good (though often loud) conversations, an environment of love, welcoming, and hospitality, and you’re guaranteed having to kick people out so you can finally going to bed.

Here’s a fuller set of pictures if you’re interested.


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Fatherhood Love Language

Between Thanksgiving and my father’s birthday being this month, my thoughts always drift to what it means to be a father. In his book, Five Love Languages, Gary Chapman put forth the idea that people communicate in five different ways and that people have to learn how they and their significant others speak and hear their “love language”. This got me to thinking about different fatherhood love languages.

Like most parents, I worry about what kind of men they are going to be and how best to train them to be the kind of men they ought to be. When I think about my own father, I think about how easy it is for children to point to the faults of their parents. We’re human, a smorgasbord of failings, but we try the best we can. However, my father was at least there for us and he loved us as best he could. So I’m reminded by the simple power of presence.
(Yes, I could have posted my wedding picture where me, my father, and my brother were posed like the Temptations, you know, a photo that conveyed his dignity and quiet grace ... or I could this "yes, it's Christmas, but I'm gonna grab a smoke and I'm gonna put on the first hat i find cause it's cold" picture.)

And while being there (even if by being I mean on the couch, half dressed (if we were lucky), usually watching Murder She Wrote or some other detective show) was an important love language, that wasn’t the way I truly remember him communicating his love for us. To me, it came with a simple act of sharing.

Think about everything that the real daddy does: pay the bills, buy the food, put a fucking roof over your head. Everything you could ever ask for. Make your world a better, safer place. And what does Daddy get for all his work? The big piece of chicken. That's all Daddy gets...is the big piece of chicken ... When l was a kid, my mama would lose her mind if one of us ate the big piece of chicken by accident. ''What the fuck! You ate the big piece of chicken? 'Oh, Lord! No, no. 'Now l got to take some chicken and sew it up and shit. Get me two wings and a pork chop. Daddy'll never know the difference.'' –Chris Rock (Bigger and Blacker)

My dad always gave up the big piece of chicken. I have a thing for chicken wings (probably because it was always one of my favorite dishes my dad made). For as far back as I can remember, if we were ever eating as a family and I finished my food and there was no food left (which happened a lot growing up) and I mentioned that I was still hungry, my father would give me (or whoever was still hungry and said something) the food off his plate. He always saved the “big piece of chicken” for last, too.

All of this came rushing back to me as the family was out to dinner at Pucchini’s celebrating a friend’s birthday. My boys ordered some food and when it arrived, they looked at it as if someone brought them a plate of fresh octopus. With extra tentacles. Suddenly my oldest turns to me and says “I’m hungry. What do you have?” I handed him my plate of fettucini alfredo, CHICKEN fettucine alfredo, and watched him merrily eat. And I remembered how my father taught me to (show a father’s) love.


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A Few Family Shots: The Fam

Okay, no more family pics. I've done author shots and super heroes, so i thought that I'd round them out with actual shots of the family.

It' not too hard to get a good shot of Reese. He has that special Broaddus sense of knowing when there's a camera around and posing appropriately.
On the other hand, getting a good shot of Malcolm (read: him cooperating) is another matter entirely.I'll probably have this shot made into a T-shirt. I find it handy to wear one when I go to the mall with the boys, so that when they get cute and act like I'm some random guy kidnapping them, I have proof of ownership.
This continues a Broaddus family tradition. We have a Y shot when we were just me, the wife, and the firstborn.
The couple in repose.
If you look closely, we look like we actually like each other. It's been eight years now. I'm sure she's still asking herself "who is this man, and why did my credit go bad?"


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A Few Family Shots: The Boys

Remember when I said that I dragged my friend Larissa Johnson out to take some new snapshots? Well, we DID take some shots of the family. At one point in the photo shoot, she wanted to take some shots of the boys in some of their costumes (have I mentioned the Broaddus trunks of costumes?).

First, a man and his heroes.
Reese as the Dark Knight (yes, we really did go through a phase after he saw the movie where he made us refer to him as The Dark Knight when he was in costume and Bruce when he wasn't. And, yes, I did put an end to it when he started calling me Alfred).
Malcolm is The Hulk. No, Larissa didn't do anything to his eyes. He does that right before a Hulk tantrum.

Part of their epic battle.
And one of my favorite shots. You can almost hear the "sad Hulk" music from the television show playing in the background ...


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You Don't Want None o' This

Do not mess with the Broaddus men. We are men of occasion.

Okay, the rest of the Broaddus clan ain't so bad either:
(BTW, it was a beautiful wedding--my niece's, even though she had us traipsing through Klan country to get to it--and I can't believe Reese pimped down the aisle as ring-bearer. Well, yes I can ... that's my boy.)


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My Twittered Halloween

4:28 p.m. It's a shame that we have six trunks of costumes to go through.

4:30 p.m. WHERE'S MY LEDERHOSEN?!?

4:51 p.m. My brother in law is currently adjusting his boobs.

4:53 p.m. Batman, pirates, Cruella, roller derby girl, darth vader, men in drag, an angry black bavarian...a typical night in the Broaddus household.

5:46 p.m. Tell me my sister didn't just say "you have a problem, Gluggy McGlug Glug."

5:51 p.m. A little girl just walked into my house with a pillowcase, helped herself to some candy, said she didn't want to bother me, then left.

6:58 p.m. Dear Internet, you probably don't want to wear lederhosen through the hood. i'm just saying.

7:30 p.m. Ditching the kids and heading to a party.



From today:

2:01 p.m. I'm sorting my kids' haul of sweet tarts by color.


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Orion Rising

Long time readers of my blog have walked with me through the trials of my sister. I’m not going to re-hash everything here (if you want a summary, you can click here and here for the dark times, although there was a wedding I officiated in between them).

The last year has brought an end to her doing her best impersonation of Job. I thought that I’d update you all on the latest bit. Actually, a picture is worth a thousand words:


Born at 8:40 a.m., Orion Lee Griffin. 7 lbs 4 oz and 20 inches long.

(She had banned me from the hospital during the C-section and the first six hours of recovery. Something about me being … me. Though, for the record, it was our fellow board member, Doug W. who coined the phrase “nether region living organism launch!”)

Now that she’s a lot less grumpy, I’m sure she’ll be returning to her duties as one of my board moderators. I can only hope she’ll change the theme of my board back to something, I don’t know, more “horror writer appropriate” (though I am thankful she got rid of the My Little Pony/Hello Kitty and 80s Saturday Morning Cartoon themes).


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Been Caught Cheating

What was it Chris Rock said? “Women are like the police: they could have all the evidence in the world, but they want the confession.”

“What’s this?” my wife asked holding out a crumpled piece of paper with a phone number in her hand.

“It’s not what you think,” I said while backing up.

“Oh, it’s looks like it’s exactly what I think it is. I know you did it, just admit it.”

“Honey, I swear …”

“I know you did it, just admit it. You’ve been sneaking behind my back involved in other ministries, haven’t you?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t look her in the eye any more.

“Was it better than ours? Did it give you a greater sense of mission or purpose?”

“No. It was a fleeting thing.”

“How long has it been going on?”

“Only a few Sunday nights.”

“Were there any others?”

“They didn’t mean anything to me, honey. It was only a spiritual thing. A few folks in need.”

“If we’re going to have an open relationship, you need to be honest. These things can only work if we abide by the rules we’ve set out. No more sneaking around.”

“Okay.”

Good thing she hadn’t been checking my cell phone records …


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A Story for My Boys: Magic Dad

So I was chastised early today for spending too much time on the computer. Apparently my eldest, Reese, sat next to me singing “you’re not listening to me, you’re not listening to me, you’re not listening to me…” until I responded. (In my defense, it has taken me years of training and discipline to tune out the chatter and noise produced by my two boys in order to concentrate on anything).

Anyway, Reese decided (with Malcolm playing the Amen corner role) that since I was writing, the least I could do was write a story for them, involving them. Reese immediately declared himself the editor and illustrator of the project, and decided that this was a strictly for the love project (despite my emancipation proclamation). Here’s what we have:
Magic Dad: "Who do you love more?"


Page one:
One day, Magic Dad relaxed on the couch watching television. That was the secret way that Magic Dad recharged his powers.

Magic Dad had two sons, Malcolm and Reese, who suddenly rushed into the room as if they had been racing.

Page two:
"Can we ask you a question, dad?" Reese asked. He looked at Malcolm who nodded excitedly.

"Sure," Magic Dad said, always suspicious when his boys looked like they were up to something.

Page three:
"Who do you love more: me or Malcolm?"

The two boys looked up at him, both with big smiles, trying to look as good as possible.

Page four:
The question caught Magic Dad by surprise. He sat up in his couch, thought about this tricky question for a minute, and then smiled. "I don't know, I have a lot of people to love and only one heart to do it with. Let's see."

Page five:
So Magic Dad reached into his chest and pulled out his heart. It looked like a giant Valentine's Day heart. The boys both grinned.

Page six:
"How do you do that?" Malcolm asked.

"I'm a Dad. We're magic," Magic Dad said.

Page seven:
"So this is my heart. Here's a piece for you," he tore off a small corner of his heart and gave it to Malcolm.

"And here's a piece for you," he gave a piece to Reese.

Page eight:
Each child looked at the small piece of Magic Dad's heart. They both looked kind of disappointed.

"Aren't you happy with what you have?" Magic Dad asked.

Page nine:
"No," said Reese.

"It's so small," said Malcolm.

Page ten:
"You're right, but I only have one heart and I have to share it with a lot of people. What about Mommy?"

Magic Mommy peeked into the room from the kitchen. One of Magic Dad's other powers was getting out of having to clean up after dinner.

Page eleven:
"She should get a big piece," Reese said.

"She can have my piece!" Malcolm said.

Page twelve:
"You're both so good. I'll give this piece to Mommy." Magic Dad put the last piece on the coffee table for Magic Mommy. "There that's all of it."

Page thirteen:
"That still doesn't seem like very much," Reese said, looking at Magic Mommy's piece, then at his piece, then at Malcolm's piece.

"Don't you need a heart to keep going?" asked Malcolm.

Page fourteen:
"You're both right. And I've given away all of my heart," Magic Dad said. "How about if I do this?"

Magic Dad blew up each piece of his heart until each piece became a full sized heart.

Page fifteen:
"There," he said, "now each of you gets all of my heart."

Both the boys took their pieces and studied at all of the hearts. They were all the same size.

Page sixteen:
"Quick, hand them back to me," Magic Dad said.

He stuffed all three hearts back into his chest.

"That's how I keep going: by giving all of my heart to each of you."

Page seventeen:
Reese and Malcolm finally understood that their Magic Dad loved them both equally and with his whole heart, so they went off to play.

Page eighteen:
"What did you think, Magic Mommy?" Magic Dad said.

Page nineteen:
"I think that you had better get another heart." Magic Mommy patted her belly.*

Page twenty:
[Shocked picture of Magic Dad]


*This is not some sort of bizarre way for me to announce a surprise (we've had this scare before), it was just the only ending I could come up with on the spur of the moment. Once again, I'll point out, Magic Mommy has had her tubes tied, so should that ending come true, I'll have to take it up with Magic Deity.


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To Dream Egyptian Dreams

“Are they the ones with toilet paper on them?”

With that, the Broaddus clan began our trip to the Indianapolis Museum of Art for their “To Live Forever” exhibit. The idea of mummies has always fascinated me. Seeking the answers to questions about life after death produced a veritable death culture. So much of their life and thought devoted to their burial, funeral, and tombs, seeing death as an enemy which could be beaten (and to achieve success in an afterlife) with enough preparation. Their god Osiris, with his story of death and resurrection, foreshadows the Christian story that I believe in. All to fulfill a desire for eternal life for which they are remembered some 4000 years later.

As we studied the coffins, jewelry, vessels, and saw a lot of statues and figurines with curiously smashed away noses, I had to translate what my Egyptian funeral might look like to my six year old.

“It’s the equivalent of being buried in a tomb that looked like Jesus, though daddy would prefer to be stuffed and mounted in the backyard posed like Buddy Jesus. My internal organs could be cremated and put into jewelry to be sold to friends and family, amulets to protect them on their journey. Mommy would have to be buried with me. There would be no point in her going on without me.”

“What about us?” My youngest looked up with hopeful eyes.

“You’re boys. You inherit my kingdom. Now my staff (heretofore known as Team Broaddus) would get buried with me. On the plus side, they’d get nice commemorative statues of themselves. Our cat? He gets mummified to, though that doesn’t explain why he ran away. And I’d need to have a huge tomb, filled with cups and plates, so that we can keep the party going forever.

“By the way, instead of papyrus scrolls, we’d have the entirety of my blog preserved. Of course it will be dug up one day and used as the basis of a religion. After they smash the nose of any statue of me.”


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Let the Circle Be Unbroken

Family reunion season is officially over.

For the uninitiated, there’s nothing like a family reunion. Sometime between Memorial Day and Labor Day, families come together to reconnect, give thanks, see how much folks have grown and changed, and sport color-coordinated T-shirts to symbolize unity and be family. And family reunions are also not for the faint of heart.

The Broaddus family reunions take place in August and food is the centerpiece of the family. True family reunion professionals know to fix their “to go” plates when they first arrive (put in the cooler you conveniently have in the trunk of your car) and THEN when you leave, too. Fried chicken, ribs, jerk chicken, green beans, chitlins, pork and beans, greens, macaroni and cheese, sweet potatoes. If it was once a meat, it got barbecued. And then come the desserts, as everyone lines up to show out their family recipes (my grandmother passed before telling anyone the recipe for any of her pies).

More importantly, family reunions strengthen the roots of the ties that binds us as family. We honor the patriarchs and matriarchs, remembering those that came before as a part of where you came from and the struggles we’ve come through. Our elders are the quality control inspectors of the family. They set the tone for conduct, and they teach about learning to love and respect one another, often putting their fragile health in jeopardy to attend. That example alones speaks to the importance of family reunions. And then I realized that I’m one generation away from being the patriarch of the family.

Sure, there’s the bickering, the gossiping, the politics, (uh, not in our family, I’m speaking about OTHER families), but it’s been wonderful seeing the play cousins we’ve come up with take the leadership roles in the family.

You can’t always choose your family, but you weren’t raised in a vacuum either. For better or worse, family has defined us. Besides, only at a family reunion could I hear from my cousin “I read you every week in Indy.com. I never knew you were smart.”

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No Time to Write Today

This morning, bachelor party. Paintballing with a bunch of guys nearly half my age.

Lesson learned: apparently my sedentary lifestyle has caught up to me. My ankle paid the price.

This afternoon, Broaddus family reunion.

Lesson learned: My dad + me + other Broaddi + food + alcohol = a blog to come.

This evening, bachelorette party. I offered bar hopping and doing shots out of the navels of sculpted guys. We went with an alternative involving dinner and a comedy club.

Lesson learned: she's REALLY going to need to see a rough draft of the toast that I'm writing for her wedding.


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What Shall I Tell My Children Who Are Black - A Poem

By Dr Margaret Burroughs
What shall I tell my children who are black
Of what it means to be a captive in this dark skin?
What shall I tell my dear one, fruit of my womb,
of how beautiful they are when everywhere they turn
they are faced with abhorrence of everything that is black.
The night is black and so is the boogyman.
Villains are black with black hearts.
A black cow gives no milk. A black hen lays no eggs.
Storm clouds, black, black is evil
and evil is black and devil's food is black...
What shall I tell my dear ones raised in a white world
A place where white has been made to represent
all that is good and pure and fine and decent,
where clouds are white and dolls, and heaven
surely is a white, white place with angels
robed in white, and cotton candy and ice cream
and milk and ruffled Sunday dresses
and dream houses and long sleek cadilacs
and Angel's food is white... all, all... white.
What can I say therefore, when my child
Comes home in tears because a playmate
Has called him black, big lipped, flatnosed and nappy headed?
What will he think when I dry his tears and whisper,
"Yes, that's true. But no less beautiful and dear."
How shall I lift up his head, get him to square
his shoulders, look his adversaries in the eye,
confident in the knowledge of his worth.
Serene under his sable skin and proud of his own beauty?
What can I do to give him strength
That he may come through life's adversities
As a whole human being unwarped and human in a world
Of biased laws and inhuman practices, that he might
Survive. And survive he must! For who knows?
Perhaps this black child here bears the genius
To discover the cure for... cancer
Or to chart the course for exploration of the universe.
So, he must survive for the the good of all humanity.
He must and will survive.
I have drunk deeply of late from the fountain
of my black culture, sat at the knee of and learned
from mother Africa, discovered the truth of my heritage.
The truth, so often obscured and omitted.
And I find I have much to say to my black children.
I will lift up their heads in proud blackness
with the story of their fathers and their father's fathers.
And I shall take them into a way back time
of kings and queens who ruled the Nile,
and measured the stars and discovered the laws of mathematics.
I will tell them of a black people upon whose backs have been built
the wealth of three continents.
I will tell him this and more.
And knowledge of his heritage shall be his weapon and his armor;
It will make him strong enough to win any battle he may face.
And since this story is so often obscured,
I must sacrifice to find it for my children,
even as I sacrifice to feed, clothe and shelter them.
So this I will do for them if I love them.
None will do it for me.
I must find the truth of heritage for myself and pass it on to them.
In years to come, I believe because I have armed them with the truth,
my children and their children's children will venerate me.
For it is the truth that will make us free!

Dr. Margaret Burroughs founded of the DuSable Museum of African American History and Art in Chicago, IL, the first Black museum in the United States


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Friday Night Date Place – Fellas Take Notes

Remember when I said that I’m not ready for my eldest son’s (all of seven) dating life? Well, come to find out here is the note he just gave to his friend (I have no idea where he found heart paper). Apparently they discussed it at recess (with all of the teachers ooh-ing and aw-ing while watching them talk).

Dear Maurila,

Will you date me? You are very cute. I like how you wear your hair. I love you. Do you like to play with me? Do you love me?


As a proud father, I guess, I have to appreciate how he handled his business. There was none of this “hey, you … girl” nonsense. Let’s break this down:

Dear Maurila – first he addresses her as a person. An individual. Hopefully he spelled her name right.

Will you date me? – Direct. Strong. Intentions clearly stated. There will be no “couch dilemma” where she wonders what he’s thinking. Thus he also saves himself an awkward DTR talk down the road.

You are very cute. – YEAH, boy. Insert flattery. Appreciate her beauty.

I like how you wear your hair. – And now the student becomes the master. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve blown the whole hair thing.

I love you. – Okay, a little too much. He might be moving a little too fast. We throw a flag on the play because he hasn’t received the memo that there’s no such thing as instant intimacy. On the plus side, he knows how he feels and he’s putting himself out there. By making the first move, he’s the vulnerable one (not afraid of possible rejection, but also making sure she knows that her risk will be lessened).

Do you like to play with me? – already he’s thinking about possible date activities. He attends to her needs by assessing what she enjoys.

Do you love me? – Again, he puts himself out there, but only so far as to see what she’s thinking.

He gets extra points for not simply IM-ing her, posting the query on Facebook, or stalking her on a message board, but by doing this in the context of a conversation in person. He thought through what he wanted to say, organized his thoughts on paper, but presented them in person.

That’s my boy.


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HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!!!

Call into work. Take off from school. Let church bells ring. Let angelic choirs sing. Let flags fly at full staff. Today culminates another Happy Gestation Period! (<--Um, new readers may not want to click the madness of that blog entry. Heck, older readers have only just now repressed the memory of that one. You’ve been warned.)

My mom took her funny pills this week. I received a birthday card from her and she knows I have a … tendency … to open cards in such a way to allow the contents to fall out. So she put in a dollar, just to get my hopes up and dash them (with a note that read “what’s left of your inheritance”).

I went into work early so that I could essentially take today off. So I spent the day (re-)reading The Imago Sequence and editing my urban fantasy novel. I suppose I ought to thank Facebook and MySpace: I have been deluged with birthday greetings this year. Thank you all for your kind remembrances. Between the cards, phone calls, and random drop ins, it’s been a full day. As I type, my house is full. Surrounded by friends and family, I can’t think of a better way to spend my day.

And Happy Birthday fellow horror scribes Brian Knight and John C. Hay.


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Fear of Punishment I

So for a while now, my wife and I have been struggling with the idea of how to go about disciplining our kids. We have no interest in raising undisciplined monsters who are over-indulged. On the other hand, I have huge issues with spanking being the only tool in a parents tool kit. Too often, it’s lazy parenting (“do what I say or I’ll beat you”) or worse, done in anger and frustration. The anger and frustration thing really bothers me. I don’t care how often you “explain” to your child why they are getting spanked, when it’s done as the discipline or choice or done in anger/frustration, the child is going to associate violence with that parent.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not afraid to spank a butt, but I want it to be one of my last tools, not the first thing I reach for. (Have you noticed how defensive parents get about their decisions on how to raise their child? No one wants to be thought of as doing a bad job/screwing up their kids. We may have to bring back to having a therapy jar.*)

Over the last couple months, we’ve settled on a “levels” system. Ours was adopted from the one my sister uses, though hers has levels with sub-categories of points and involves a lot more paperwork (ultimately, it’s similar to the system used at the Juvenile Detention Unit. In other words, we might as well get our kids used to that system).

We have two boys, Reese (Maurice the II) and Malcolm. Each has their own personality, likes, and dislikes, so we had to tailor their punishments for each of them. In short:

Level 6 – this is the Holy Grail of levels. A pipe dream. They have to sustain being at Level 5 for a week. It’s the equivalent of me being so good, I get put back in my parents’ will. (To be fair, Reese did actually get to Level 6 for one brief shining moment to show that he could do it. He got to pick his prize, which was to design a family evening, anything from a trip to the zoo or Children’s Museum to Chuck E. Cheese. For him it meant ordering in Chinese food and getting a toy he had his eye on. The next day, he promptly lost his mind and went down a couple levels).

Level 5 – where they should be. All privileges intact.

Level 4 – they lose candy (Malcolm) and allowance (Reese). For the record, allowance (all of fifty cents a week) was instituted so that they could see how long it takes to save up to a) go to McDonald’s or b) buy that toy on television.

Level 3 – they lose videogame (Malcolm) and crafts (Reese).

Level 2 – they lose bedtime reading (both).

Level 1 – they lose television time (both).

Level 0 – they lose play date privileges (because we’re so active with friends, we have about four a week. The down side is every night we’re met with the question “who’s coming over tonight?”) The kid is on lockdown. No privileges. Except books. They are always allowed books.

A few months in, this is working surprisingly well. We keep the system simple for now (they are only 5 and 6) so that they understand the consequences for their actions. As they get older, I’m sure we’ll tweak it a bit. They’ve also become a bit of “Level Accountants”, always wanting to know what level they are on and what it will take to get up to the next level. I can live with that. The “no-no paddle” has a nice layer of dust on it.

It’s our continuing experiment in raising children. The downside to having the kids 14 months from each other is that we didn’t have time to work out the kinks on the first one in hopes of getting it right the second time around. Nope, we get to screw them both up at the same time.



*An early idea of mine: every time we did something we thought would screw up the kids, we’d have to put a dollar in the jar. Let’s just say that “Naked Daddy Time” nearly bankrupted me (HEY! It was their own fault! I don’t know why kids feel the need to never let you even go to the bathroom by yourself. They didn’t expect a song and dance routine.)


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Crying Out from the Sick Bed

Laying here with achy muscles, cough, and a fever which leaves me just too mushy-brained to finish the draft of this story, but not too sick to spew out gibberish of a blog.

My wife mocks my squeaky voice. My sons sense weakness, thus I’m subjected to marathons of Yo Gabba Gabba.


(And what happened to Biz Markie? At first I thought the beat boxing I was hearing was a figment of my fevered imagination.)
So all I’m left crying out to my Lord. Why hast Thou forsaken me? Thou leadest me through green, though now mostly yellow, phlegm. [Why is it whenever we think we need to connect with Thou we get all Old English on Thee?]

All things happen for a reason. I can only assume this is your Judgment for my blogging frenzy last week. I repent of those things. And I repent of having mocked my family a few weeks ago when they were sick by running around the house in my underwear yelling “I Am Legend.”


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Broaddus Family Tradition Continues

Basically, the NaNoWriMo thing didn’t really work for me, as I am in month two of hammering out the draft of a novel. But as I am preparing to write the climax of the story, I am quite cognizant of the amount of research I need to do so that the second draft of this beast is readable. Plus, researching is part of the process I absolutely love, especially “in the field” research.

Unless I get security called on me.

So, remember when I was telling you that we in the Broaddus clan—ever inadvertently, of course—seem to find ourselves asked to leave from various dining establishments? Well, apparently the force is still strong in this one (or maybe two or more Broadduses gathered in one spot is simply asking for trouble).

Let me begin by saying that I am not fashion conscious. I know, I know, clothes tell a story about us and I have a reputation as a clothes horse, but the simple secret is that I depend a lot on my siblings to properly clothe me. Sometime in high school, I quit caring what people thought about how I dressed or what people deemed fashionable (as evidenced in the pictures of me in high school and from the fact that one of my friends to this day complains about having to be seen with me in public back then). Fast forward twenty years and what kids today call fashion (dear Lord, I am now using phrases like “kids today”) truly, truly eludes me.

So if I’m writing a piece set in the culture of today’s youth, I have to do my research. So with me as Marlin Perkins and my sister as Jim Fowler (cause I’m certainly not going into the wild myself), we braved the Lafayette Square Mall. (Okay, now that I think about it, a Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom reference probably does have me only a couple years from yelling at kids to get off my lawn.) Now, I’ll admit, Lafayette Square has earned a bit of a reputation as the ghetto mall in our area as white flight has taken most stores north, south, and way west, but it’s still the one we call home.

We go to a couple of stores with me pointing out outfits, having her describe them, what would go with them, why on Earth women would wear such things, why God knew better than to give me a daughter, and why the hell won’t boys pull up their pants. I’m just saying. Her husband soon joins us (he’s all about the lulz and anytime Broadduses get together, he likes front row seats) which is helpful because he’s a bigger clothes horse that me and my sister combined (and primps longer than us combined, too).

Eventually we wander into Hip Hop Fashions, which by all rights should have been our first stop. I had just made the comment that “if you are wearing a hoodie that reads light finger brigade, you forfeit the right to complain about a manager following you around his store” when the manager, who’s nationality I couldn’t begin to guess, comes up to ask us what we’re doing.

“I’m taking notes.”
“For what?”
“A piece that I’m writing on fashion.”
“You can’t do that in here.”
“Do what?”
“What you are doing?”
“Writing?”
“Yes. You can’t do that in here.”

At this point, I’m standing there slack-jawed, not knowing if he was kidding. I literally had no response to this.

“What if we’re making our list of what we’re planning on buying?” my sister’s husband asked. To be fair, he didn’t really care, he just likes causing mischief and sees an opportunity for us to clown.
“You can’t do that here.”
“Shop?”
“Not with paper.”
“I’m a reporter.” Okay, I’ll also admit, writing a weekly column is a bit of a stretch from being a reporter, but I’m all about wrapping myself in the first amendment. And it’s not like I pulled out the “do you know who I am?” card.
“Do you know who he is?” my brother-in-law adds. “You know you’re about to make the paper, right?”
“We don’t need any of that here.”
“Any what?”
“Any papers. I don’t read them and I don’t need them. You have to get out now.”

So we leave. Kinda. Truth be told, other than my sister trying to explain to me the laws of physics pertaining to how to properly stand when wearing pants at least twice your size, we were done in that store. But not now. Now, we were window shoppers. Loud window shoppers. Who take notes.

“I said you can’t do that here,” the manager came out to say.
“Do what? Window shop?”
“I don’t need any of that. I’ve got something for you.”

So he phones security. It’s not like I could say I’d been profiled, cause being honest, a group of folks wearing “light finger brigade” apparel walking behind me would make me nervous whereas as they are his target demo. A gentleman of occasion such as myself, accompanied by his sister, his brother-in-law, and their children doesn’t exactly scream thug night out.

“Mommy, I don’t want to go to jail,” my niece says loudly, then puts on her “I’m too cute to jail” face. Yes indeed, another generation of Broadduses well into their training.
“We’re not going to jail,” my sister says. “You can’t go to jail for writing.”

I’m not going anywhere if you send a young cute female officer in an attempt to escort me anywhere. Being a Broaddus does come with an upside: some folks actually find us charming.

“Did you need security?” she asks me.
“No, but the manager did. But it’s about me, so you may want to see him first.”
“Okay.” She comes back out a few minutes later "Wouldn't you WANT your name and store in a piece about where to find the latest fashion?"
“I know, right.”
“Well, you can do whatever you want out here.”

So we stood outside his store and continued to take notes. Eventually he came out and asked if I saw anything I liked and I said that I honestly couldn't see myself in any of these outfits. Cause I’m a grown ass man.


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Free Dinner Scams

There’s no such thing as a free dinner.

I’m not even close to retirement, but my parents are and they are constantly inundated with invitations to financial seminars that promise to help them ensure they have enough money to retire. My mom simply likes free lunches and treats them like folks trying to convince her to buy a time share (read: she leaves her checkbook and credit cards at home). However, I decided to accompany my dad on one of these little dinners, one, for some father-son bonding time and two, well, this dinner was going to be at Rick’s Boatyard, one of my favorite restaurants.

I’d heard of these sort of things before, how they often have great sounding names (Survival Seminars or Mistakes Retirees Make ) and how they promise free investment information for seniors, expert advice on securing retirement, and, most importantly, that nothing will be sold. Most of the time, such evenings became a sales seminar to open new accounts and to buy firms investment products with plenty of high-pressure sales and tactics for dessert. There always seem to be these opportunities for great returns. Other savvy investors have already taken advantage of these opportunities. And, somehow, there is only a limited time to get in.

The salesmen, my bad, seminar leaders have great sounding titles (like retirement specialist) and have and alphabet soup of designations on their business cards. However, their titles mean nothing. Their designations mean nothing (there are a hundred plus designations or certifications, gained largely through self-study programs but not regulated by any agency in particular, you know, kind of like boxing).

So, well-armed, we went to dinner, sat through an hour of information about mutual funds and 401Ks and then had dinner (which passed my last test: if something claims to be educational in nature, you have to at some point actually learn something vs. being coerced to buy something).

Frankly, I dread my mailbox because one day these invitations are going to start coming to me. Not anytime soon, but one day.


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I’m Not Ready for This

Today I was informed that if the phone rang, I was to answer it (I rarely answer my home line. Anyone I really want to talk to calls me on my cell). Apparently my son’s girlfriend might be calling.

He’s six.

So it begins.

Of course, I'm not the only one having issues with my children as my wife blogs about our latest bit of ... joy.


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How Maurice Met Jon

You ever get in one of those moods where you start reminiscing about how you met some of the folks who’ve been a part of your life forever? The type of friend who, though you are in L.A. and he is at the Rock N Roll Hall of Fame, he calls you so that he can share lunch time together? Plus, we were also roommates for over seven years, making us common law spouses in some states. And now, telling the tale of the beginning of a love story for the ages, my oldest friend.

Guest Blog by Jon Harp

Ahh at last it is story time . Now this might be quite the lengthy post so you may want to go and get yourself a snack or perhaps a refreshing beverage before I begin, because I hate to be interrupted in the middle of a tale. And yes Maurice it is the camping story, that is how we became friends. So, everyone settled in......good. Now I want you to relax we are going back in time to the early spring of 1980. ***flashback wavy thing***

Maurice and I were placed in the same 5th grade class. I was new at this school and we were both part of an advanced class. (great surprise I know) I was a typical 5th grade boy, not particularly exceptional in any way, other than being fairly bright and stunningly handsome. Maurice was one of only two black students in the class, the other being a very tall girl, and since he had been skipped ahead two grades ( I think) he was easily the smallest boy. I think there was only one other minority student in the class so our poor little Maurice was kind of on his own. Now it may come as a shock to some of you who haven't known him as long as I have that he wasn't always the social butterfly that he is now, in fact he was in a small group of the class' outcasts. I was comfortably embedded into the "cool guys" group, I could talk about and play sports and that was about the entire requirement. Being around Maurice, or trying to befriend him, would have been an act of social death at that point given that I was new to the school, so like the little automaton that I was, I ignored his presence.
This went on from the time school started in the fall of 1979 right up until the following spring. At that time a grade wide field trip was held at Bradford Woods in southern Indiana. This sounds really strange nowadays, but we left on a Friday and stayed in cabins until we came home on Sunday. I can't imagine a school doing this these days, but it was for everyone in our grade, not just our class. Anyway much fooling around was done and a little bit of learning took place Friday afternoon and then we all bunked down for the night. Of course I was in the "cool guys" cabin and we spent most of the night talking about the things 5th grade boys talk about. Sports and girls. We bragged about how good we were in little league and lied about how far we had gone with girls. There was a great deal of misinformation about female anatomy, which I won't go into, and a whole lot of B.S. about how we all knew everything there was to know. The second day came and went pretty much the same as the first, lots of note passing and who likes who talk, and a little bit of learning.

This is going on a bit long isn't it, does anyone want me to stop......no? All right then, back to our story.

The second night was looking to hold the same events as the first. It was kind of like one large sleepover. The difference was that many people were changing cabins back and forth in order to spend the night with different friends. I was going to be in the same room, just with a few new "cool guys". In short order the conversation started down the same path as the night before, and as you may guess (for those that know me) I quickly grew bored with the same old B.S. and I didn't look forward to another night of telling lies about things I didn't know anything about. This is when fate, destiny, the hand of God, whatever you want to call it, stepped in and offered me the chance to escape. One of the counselors (who were supposed to be in the cabins with us, but never seemed to be there) came in and asked us if anyone would like to move to the cabin next door.

Another short break here: isn't funny how sometimes the most monumental decisions you make in life are ones that come out of the blue and seem really inconsequential at the moment. Yet if we are honest, those kinds of things change our lives all the time, so we should always be aware of the possibilities around us. Great things can happen any day.
All right, once again back to the story. The reason the counselor gave to us for asking some of us to change was that there was a boy in the next cabin who was going to be alone that night. At this moment two great forces started to move within me, first of all I was bored with the simpletons I was with, and secondly I heard my mother’s voice inside my heart and head. That voice said, "you can't leave that poor boy all alone over there." I thought about how it might be scary to be all alone, away from home, and with no one to pass the time with and I felt sorry for whoever it might be. So no one else volunteered, but I did. I packed up my stuff and walked to the next cabin, I opened the door and there all by himself was our hero, the then tiny Maurice. He must have been happy to see me, or anyone for that matter, because he started talking almost right away. It was probably the first time the whole school year we had spoken to each other, but there was one of those immediate connections. We talked about girls of course, and his unrequited love for the beautiful Amy Sukapjo, and mine for the not quite as beautiful Amy Majeske. We talked about comic books of course and I was stunned to hear how many he had. We quickly made plans for me to come over and see them at his house as soon as possible, I believe it would be at his birthday party (which is a whole 'nother strange tale of Chenault's birthday punch. I still have trouble drinking punch. And yes Maurice did try to warn me.) But that is a story for another day.

In the end, and I know you are readily awaiting the end, our meeting was a divine appointment in my opinion. I found out that Maurice was much cooler and more fun than the "cool guys". He was also the only guy in the class that I thought was as smart as me. It was fun having someone to talk to that I didn't have to explain so much to, or someone that I didn't have to dumb things down for. It was only a few hours in that cabin, but we became best friends in that short time, and here over 25 years later, we still are. It didn't matter to me anymore that he wasn't in the "cool" group I hung out with him anyway. We became a duo of sorts, he helped me have fun and develop into the person I wanted to be, and for a little while I helped to make his life in that class a little easier (I think I may have raised his acceptance level a bit).

I got to know his family, which admittedly has had its mixed blessings moments, and I got to grow beyond my provincial roots into a more well rounded guy without some of the color barriers that had been a part of my parents upbringing. They always wanted better for me I believe, and getting to know Maurice was the biggest part of that happening for me. For Maurice’s part he got to be welcomed into my family as well, my mom was always wary of the way my grades dropped right after I met him, but she loved Maurice dearly and would have taken him into our home in a heartbeat. He actually became well known to most of my extended family that lives here in Indiana and they still ask about him often. I, of course, tell them that he has joined a black militant quasi-terrorist force bent on bringing down the man. One that is secretly trying to stop the Starbuck's empire by replacing their coffee with Folgers when no one is watching.

In the movie "Everybody's All-American" Dennis Quaid's character says at one point that you go through your whole life expecting to make great, close friends, but you don't. It's something that just happens more often when you are young. And those are the ones that will be there when you need them most. I think of that night at Bradford Woods often and I am still very glad that I volunteered to go and try to make someone elses night a little less scary. I have been rewarded for that choice by God, a thousand times over. I remain glad and grateful.

It is probably one of the 2 or 3 best memories of my childhood, or my life for that matter.

And so ends story time with Jon. Now put your glass away and get ready for bed. It has been a long night and you need your rest. Tomorrow may change your life for the better, forever.

It’s been a tale of great man love ever since, though I suppose that I could follow this up with the tale of how Jon tried to kill me the year after we met, but I won’t. Why hold a grudge? It was nearly 30 years ago.

*ugh* and I thought news of our class reunion made me feel old.

And you can now re-read this blog while listening to the song "Guy Love"


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Update on My Sister (Ro) - Updated 6/11/07

[I know, some of you have been wondering and I thought this was easier than having to keep telling the same story over and over again.]

My sister, who has already had a pretty rough year or so, has been on hospital bedrest for the last month or so. Unfortunately, her daughter was diagnosed with hydrops, so the pregnancy has been a series of complications and emotional ups and downs. Yesterday, I got a frantic phone call from her telling me the doctors said they were going to do the C-section then rather than try to wait another week. Six weeks premature.

I got to the hospital a little after four o’clock, having just missed my brother. Most of my sister’s bridal party was there (look, she had 10 ladies in her bridal party, so the room was crowded, plus some family). Ro had called in her people to support her no matter what happened. Just so you know, Broadduses only know one way to grieve or deal with tense situations: joke. Our role is to keep the mood light and I have been especially “gifted” with the ability to laugh in inappropriate situations.

As we waited on Eric, her husband, to arrive (his work wouldn’t let him out early), we prayed. Upon his arrival, the doctors then filed in to deliver the news. They presented a series of options, all of whom ended with prepare yourself for the worst, mortality in this situation is expected, usually within a few minutes to hours. The lungs would be underdeveloped. There were a series of procedures they were going to attempt, including traeching her while she was still attached to her placenta. And, as a premature delivery, her small size would be an issue. Once the doctors left, Ro in tears, we did another round of prayers.

A few minutes later, the nurses and doctors came back into the room to wheel Ro out, but then they suggested that we pray. I was all prayed out, so a nurse/chaplain led the prayer this time. After than came the interminable waiting – every time the doors open or footsteps came from down the hallway, we looked up expectantly, waiting for any sign of hope. If you have seen the movie Rize, you may have a bit of an image of what came next. We heard the footfalls first, interrupted only by the occasional clap, then we saw Eric steppin’ down the hallway.

Yalaina Symone was born at 6:18 pm May 11th, 2007, at 6’ 8 oz. There were able to not only get some of the fluid off from her stomach, but there was no swelling in her head, so they were able to do all of their procedures they didn’t think they could get done. In under a minute. Her lungs are doing okay and she is on an oscillator (a type of ventilator) right now. For now, she is doing as well as she can. The word “miracle” has been tossed about, including one doctor remarking that “you’d think with all the stuff we see, we’d get used to the idea that there might be a higher power.” So we remain cautiously optimistic.

Please join in our prayers: That as we come to the end of our ability to control things, we know God loves us. So help us to trust in that, no matter what happens. We thank Him for that love and for His love reflected in our friends and family. We continue to pray for the doctors and nurses as they attend to Ro and Yalaina. And we pray for Ro, Eric, and Yalaina, for their health and for their faith during this time.

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Here's what I said at Ro’s baptism (which was on Easter Sunday):

Ro made me promise not to say anything that’ll make her cry. That’s a tough promise to keep because she’s pregnant and hormonal. But also because I’m her big brother and she’s not used to me saying nice stuff about her. I don't have a particular story as a testimony of her faith, but more of an observation.

One of the duties of the big brother is to protect his little brother and sisters. It’s the same duty we feel as parents. It hurts us when we aren’t able to shield the ones we love from harm.

As I’ve watched Ro’s life, sometimes life happens that is out of her or anyone’s control. She’s gone through a lot of trials in the last year or two. I hate that so many of our lessons have to be learned through pain, but there are several things she’s taught me during her trials.
-she’s taught me how to question God. When things started happening in her life and she didn’t know why, she went to God and wrapped her community of faith around her to support her when she didn’t think that she could go on.
-she cried out to God, kept getting on her knees to pray, even when times kept getting darker.
-she showed me what it means to be faithful in times of doubt and how to persevere when it would be easy to give up

She didn’t know what God was trying to teach her, but I know what her faith taught me.

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5/29/07

This time has been quite instructive on the discipline of prayer. I have realized how much we've come to depend on the "prayer warriors" around us. It's been an emotional roller-coaster, good days followed by really bad days. So continue to keep everyone in your prayers.


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6/11/07

My wife sent out the following e-mail that I thought I would share:

Earlier tonight (6:50 pm) I got a text message from Ro

"The baby is doing worse right now than she has since she's been alive. It's really bad and she's in a lot of pain. Please Pray."

Then two hours or so later (9:35 pm) I get this message from Ro:

"In a few minutes she is gonna undergo an incredibly risky procedure on her lungs. If it doesn't work. they're pretty much out of ideas. Please pray hard."

then right as I sat down to write this e-mail (10:25 pm) I get this message from Ro

"the procedure didn't work so now they're gonna make her comfortable and hope for the best"

I don't know what God has in store for little Yalaina, but I hope for the best and she becomes a beautiful healthy big girl. (I started to say baby girl, but I want more than that) It's frustrating for me to think that Ro went thru all that stuff while she was pregnant and then be in the hospital on bed rest for a month just to give birth to an extremely sick kid and then have so many up and downs and now this... this can't be what's planned for Yalaina.

OK it's late, I'm tired and I am in a mood and very frustrated and that just leads me saying the wrong things... I will end by saying I place Yalaina in God's hand and will try to deal with the outcome of that if it ends up being not what "I want".

Please pray for Yalaina along with the Griffin Family (Ro, Eric, Emmy, and Calvin "Bubby")

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Broaddus Family Doings

Due to the "outcry" of so many reviews in a row, I thought I'd share some random Broaddus family goings on. First, my wife has a blog up on Bedlam Banshee about one of her experiences as the wife of a writer. I breathed a sigh of relief when I read it ... it could have been much, much worse. Also, I received a note from my brother about his reflections on being a dad. I thought I'd share it (with his permission, not that it'd matter because I'm the big brother):


I went to see my daughter at a talent show yesterday at School #98.. By the way it was the most ghetto talent show ever (ha ha). Almost every act was dancing to the same rap song or a Beyoncee song.. It was cute though. There were some talented dancers there though and some would look good in a Ciarra or Missy Elliot, or Beyonce video. Anyway before Melissa's team came on she came and gave me a hug and she flew off.

When her dance team started dancing, I was totally shocked. I was so proud of her and her team. They totally rocked the house. Everyone was screaming and barking. I was high-fiving anyone I saw and saying , "That's my baby!!!" I was amazed how great of a dancer Melissa is. Don't get me wrong, those dances Melissa's dance team were ghetto as hell too (lol) but they were well coordinated and you could tell they practiced a whole lot to get every move right.

After the dance was over, it felt like an earthquake in the gym because everyone was yelling and stomping their feet (you know how us black folks get....lol). I got teary eyed a bit because I was so proud of Melissa. After the dance, she ran back to me and gave me a hug and I told her how proud I was of her. She gave me a kiss and asked me for some money (some things never change) and gave me another kiss and ran off with her dance team giggling and screaming. Everyone was shaking my hand and telling me that I should be proud of my daughter. I was very proud. Anyway, some little girl that sang a Gospel song won the competition. If I got mad at that, God would hit me with a lightning bolt driving on my way home.

I guess the reason I am writing this is because it only seems like yesterday that she was in Little Anthony's place [Editor's note: that's <-- Anthony MAURICE Broaddus], peeing in my face while I changed her diapers and keeping me up all night with her crying. Now she is a teenager, talking on a cell phone and going to the mall on a regular basis with her girlfriends. We have been through a lot together in her short time on this planet, from a lot of baby momma drama early on, to her worshiping the ground I walk on as a 3-8 year old, to her puberty which drove me nuts, to her getting a little depressed when I got married because she thought I would forget about her, to now as a preteen. She is back to being a daddy's girl now that she realized that she will always be my princess. She is growing up so the days of her holding on to my right leg while I dragged her all over the house are probably over forever. But her running back to me as soon as her dance was over made me almost cry, but I am an ex Marine and we don't cry. ;)

Anyway, I was kinda nervous about being a daddy again, but I now know I will be a great daddy to little Anthony ( I call him Rocky) [Editor's Note: No one else is going to call him Rocky]. I only had Melissa on the weekends for most of her life and I think that she turned out to be a great little girl. I put as much of my influence into her as I could when I had her and I think it has paid off. Thank God for that. I think that little Anthony will be fine because I will be with him 24/7 and he has a good (saved) mother. I am sure I will have to beat his behind a lot but he will be fine.

Oh and Debbie Kuhn, cajoler extraordinaire and all around great travel companion, sent along this pic of my boys that she took during her last visit with us:


Yes, they know they're cute. Resistance is futile.

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Restaurant Debacles

So we spent Easter dinner at my mother’s. It was the usual affair: food from three cultures (African American, England, and Jamaica); every meat group well represented; bouts of loudness, crudeness, and food throwing. Not once did it cross our minds to go out to eat. I know, why would we when we have such a food spread. Sure, there’s that, but there’s also the fact that we Broadduses have a long and proud tradition of finding ways to get kicked out of restaurants. I hesitate to go as far as to say we revel in it, but I can’t think of too many restaurants that don’t have a “Do Not Admit” poster of us hanging somewhere.

Sadly, we’ve been compared to The Klumps. Like any good children, me and my siblings blame our parents for this turn of character. Before you judge us, consider that our behavior has long been conditioned. From early on, we went to all you can eat Chinese restaurants with my mom bringing her special “going out to eat” purse. What do you mean all ladies don’t have purses lined with a freezer bag? You don’t know a good time until you’ve had a Chinese wait staff yelling “You go now!” at you.

We recall with great lament our time at Ryan, an all you can eat steak place, and our infamous “how much can you drink” contest involving their free refills … that tragically turned into the orange soda puke-a-thon. Or going to the Texas Roadhouse where they keep buckets of peanuts on the table and you throw the shells on the floor (like they’d never heard that many nut jokes before).

I’d like to say that our being kicked out of Ponderosa was our crowning moment. I can sum up the incident in three words: Porno Masterpiece Theater. My premise was what if porno movies starred Shakespearean trained actors. There’s nothing like yelling porn movie dialogue with the stentorian projection of a stage actor. In a restaurant filled with the after church crowd.

However, none come close to our being kicked out of Mountain Jacks.

Now, the occasion for our gathering was my father’s 50^th birthday. Since he never expected to make it that long, we decided to make a time of it. We rented a limo and thought “what could possibly go wrong if we go to a nice restaurant?” Well, the conversation was fairly typical and we were our usual loud selves. Some brain trust decided to arrange us as one long table, which had my father on one end, my grandfather on the other, and me, alas, in the middle. My grandfather picks that moment to let everyone know that he had a new erectile dysfunction device that was working out well for him and, as the old joke goes, he was telling everyone. It involved some sort of pump device installed (this was before the little blue pill) and let’s just say there’s nothing like having your 75 year old grandfather yell from down a table: “Just three pumps and I’m ready to go!”

Ah, good times.

#

Wow, what a great segueway into my latest columns from Intake: “Recycling does matter” and “Whither Chastity.”

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The Catheter Incident

The last two weeks of Grey’s Anatomy have been particularly uncomfortable to watch. It’s my wife’s favorite show and she forgot to warn me about it One of the storylines featured a character who had a form of severe scoliosis. I had scoliosis and had to have surgery to correct it. It’s been 20 years now and I still remember the surgery like it was yesterday. Particularly what I will refer to as “the catheter incident.”

My parents began having me checked for scoliosis in fourth grade. Every year I got checked out and every year I was told that there was a slight curvature but “we’d” keep an eye on. Well, one year “we” decided that some time between the previous year and that year, the curve went from slight to “in need of surgery to correct”. I was fifteen years old.

The night before the surgery, the doctor and nurse come in to go over the procedure of the next day. The briefly mentioned something about a catheter and moved on to issues of anaesthesia, recovery, etc. Since I was more concerned about the risks of paralysis, I never stopped to ask about what exactly this “catheter” thing was.

The next morning, 5 in the morning (since time has little meaning in a hospital), a nurse comes in to begin all of the pre-op stuff they had to do. She ended with, “I’ll be back to put in your catheter.” When she comes in, she has the “stuff” and let’s me know that it was time to put in the catheter. So I open my mouth.

“What are you doing?”
“You have to put in my catheter, right?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s like taking my temperature, right?”
“Not exactly. This,” she pointed to the tubing, “has to go, in there.”

I didn’t like where she pointed next.

“You’re kidding.” I started to laugh, waiting for the Candid Camera guy to pop out (hey, this was nearly 20 years before Punk’d).
“No. Didn’t someone explain this to you?”
“Obviously not clear enough. That’s thicker than a pencil and there’s no way THAT is going THERE.” Not to mention, THERE, sensing a threat, was begin to experience what we’ll refer to as a “turtling effect”. “Can’t you put me to sleep to put it in?”
“No. And we don’t have all day. The sooner we get started, the sooner it will be over.”
Apparently she underestimated my resolve.

Now, I’m not exactly proud of the next few moments. It began with the nurse grabbing THERE and my foot reflexively responding to "push away" the threat. Then came the chase, which involved me running around my bed in a desperate bid to keep THAT from going THERE. Apparently there was some girl-like yelling involved because my mother popped her head in to ask what the problem was. The nurse explained the situation and my mom, also being a nurse, quickly got the picture. My mom turned to me and assured me “I’ll handle this,” then walked the nurse outside. She came back in a few minutes later and told me that they had come to a different arrangement and there was nothing to worry about. I needed to get back into bed until the doctor arrived.

My mother. My savior.

I got back into bed and asked “what sort of arrangements?”

My mother then jumped on my chest and yelled “Got him!” The nurse rushed in while my mother had me pinned to the bed. Then the nurse quickly and roughly, in part a payback for the kick, put THAT ... THERE.

It was the longest morning of my life.

Luckily, the surgery went picture perfect. I even got used to the catheter thing. Sure, I had the occasional hospital visitor make fun of it, but I began thinking of it as an extension of me. I even began listing practical uses for it. Why? Because it was in now and in case you missed that part about me living by a code, no one was messing with THERE if I could help it. New rod along my spine or no, I still had two feet that said no nurse would be messing with me. So when the nurse came in with gloves on and that “I don’t want to have to do this” look on her face, I told her that THAT was simply going to have to come home with me. She left for a few minutes, then came back and said “fine, do what you want. It’s not worth the hassle anyway.”

Just then, the phone rang.

“Hello.”
“Hey son.”
“Hey mom. What’s up?”
“Yeah, sorry about this.”

At which point the nurse grabbed THERE and whisked THAT out of me to the sound of another girl-ish scream that sounded like her soul was being removed. Thus endeth the catheter incident. Ironically enough, a childhood friend of mine was due to have the exact same surgery as me the following weekend. Same doctor, same hospital. Oddly enough, they put him to sleep before they put THAT ... THERE.

Sort of put a damper on this song, doesn’t it? All this because I'm about to sit down and what this week's episode ... with one eye open.


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Broaddus Family Scares

My wife bit my head off the other morning.

Not that this is so unusual that I considered it blog worthy, but this time I was actually not guilty of anything. In fact, I was pretty pleased with myself because I had taken it upon myself to do all of the laundry as a surprise for my wife. I’m a bit of a night owl, and in a combination of mania and procrastination from a writing deadline, I washed all the dirty clothes in the house. Six loads worth. She woke up to baskets of folded clothes.

That isn’t why she bit my head off.

Well, the next day, my wife blew up, not in a biting my head off way, but in a “why am I so swollen” way. Huge red splotches covered her body. She itched, was uncomfortable, and couldn’t sleep. Now, you have to understand, my wife is allergic to just about everything. Fish, pollen, grass, water (she’s on special medication: there’s something in tap water she’s allergic to. Without the medication, a shower leaves her looking like she was attacked by a swarm of bees). Me, I have no allergies. I can roll around naked in poison ivy.

Through some detective work, she found out the source of her allergies. Our laundry detergent apparently switched formulas on us, a new color safe bleach alternative. This all led to her having to go to the doctor to do something about the severity of her reaction. The last time her body went so crazy was when we found out that she was pregnant with our second child, which is how we found out we were expecting so early.

It was at this point when the doctor explained that we were going to have to test to see if she was pregnant. You see, my wife got fixed soon after the birth of our second son (and, for the record, she loves it when I refer to her procedure as “getting fixed”. I’m guaranteed not to hear about that one). However, we’ve all heard the stories: how you can have your tubes “fried, tied, and laid to the side and still find yourself pregnant inside” (thank you, my o so supportive brother-in-law). Did I mention that she was two months “late”?

Which was when I got my head bit off.

The merest suggestion of the possibility of more kids put her in a bad mood. She got fixed for a reason. We were pretty set in staying at two. A lot of thought went into the decision. For one thing, the reality of children killed the dream of children. When we first got married, I said that I would like to have five children, enough for a starting basketball squad (ironic considering that I suck at basketball). After our first was born, I told my wife that I would be content with three kids. Then after our second, I informed her that I was done. (She, however, always had the number two in mind and simply waited for me to come to my senses).

The thing about going from two kids to three, is that you have to go from a man-to-man defense to a zone defense. I love my kids, but I know me and I know how much time I can effectively give to my children. Two isn’t dividing my attention and I can usually outsmart two brains. I can still get free babysitters with two, even people VOLUNTEERING to watch my two. The odds greatly decrease once you hit three and I’m not trying to be stuck at home all the time with the kids. Plus, I still cling to the dream of affordable family vacations.

It’s why I have crazy respect for single parents and families who have no other hobbies than breeding.

Not that we wouldn’t have loved a third child, we had merely gotten comfortable with our routine and you know how people get with their plans, especially with the threat of those carefully laid plans being disrupted. Anyway, I give my wife enough reasons to bite my head off with the two that we have.


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The Broaddus Family Christmas

aka “Christmas at The Klumps”

“How many strays are you bringing this year?”

That was how my mom asked me how many people would be joining us for dinner. The answer was two, in addition to my clan. My best friend and a friend whose wedding I did the ceremony for earlier this year. Our family has never made much of a distinction between “friends” and “family”, so everyone who sits at our dinner table is considered family. That’s probably the closest thing to a tradition that we have.

Mind you, I’ve been out of the will ever since my “mom I can’t wait til you go senile so I can keep you in the attic and use you to scare my kids” routine. I’m am actually twice removed from the will, my mom explained that on her best days, my name is only penciled in. My best friend wasted no time pointing out that he has made a better son than me. [It was pointed out by my sister that it is probable that he will make it into the will just so my mom can mess with me one more time from beyond.]

My brother and I were born in London, England, my mother in Jamaica, and my father in America. So, to the background music of Ska versions of Gospel classics, we sat down to partake of a dinner that consisted of:

macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, BBQ wings, turkey, green bean casserole, curried goat, boiled bananas, rice and beans, collalou, rolls, stuffing, cranberry sauce, meatballs, cole slaw, potato salad, corn on the cob, and Jamaican patties, with apple pie and bread and butter putting for dessert.

Besides our usual antics, the merciless jokes, the throwing of food, the dancing, the capper line of the day came from my five year old when he pronounced that “Daddy talks too much when he drinks.” My brother kept mouthing “WTF” every time this little old lady, who was a friend of my mom’s, began one of her stories (mostly because all of her stories were lengthy and ended with someone getting sick or dying). Of course, my brother is the same sentimentalist that handed my mom a blank card and envelope and said “Write your name in it. Merry Christmas.”

None of us were born and raised in vacuums. We have people that formed us, whose voices spoke into our lives, shaping us. My family helped make me into the man I am today. However, four hours with them is more than any of us natural born Broadduses can ask of those who married into us. But, such quality family time helps inform them of the madness they married into. God, I love the bunch of nuts I call family. “Merry Christmas, Broadduses.”


P.S.

R.I.P. Brotha James

If you have any doubts about how much he meant to his people, know that the Broaddus family dinner was interrupted by calls from England and Jamaica not wishing us “Merry Christmas” but “Did you hear that James Brown died?”

I just got through with a YouTube mini-wake of sorts, reliving him performing Sex Machine, or I Feel Good, or Eye Sight. Though many folks might only remember him from his scene in The Blues Brothers.

R.I.P. brotha.


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The Get Out Countdown Clock

I love my kids. I cherish every minute I have with them.

And I want them out my house.

You see, as much as I’m tempted to lose all sense of my own life and re-fashion the frayed and tattered thing that my wife and I call a social life around my boys, I’m too selfish. I like my time with myself, I like my time with my wife, and I don’t get enough of either. So I’m looking forward to having an empty nest. Some parents can’t handle the empty nest. I know that my parents realized that 30 years of their marriage was spent raising kids. Thirty years. Now they have to find some hobbies. Either that, or talk to each other (and Lord knows married people run out of stuff to talk about after their first five years. That’s why they have kids in the first place). As to the problem at hand, I am torn about which date to go with:

Number of days til Malcolm (my youngest, the one that’s less than happy about having his picture taken) is 18: 5114.

Number of days til Malcolm is shipped off to college: 5145.

It’s never too soon to be prepared. This reminds me of a sign that I saw at my Barber Shop:

CHILDREN
Tired of Being
Harassed by your
Stupid Parents?

ACT NOW!
Move Out,
Get a Job,
Pay Your OWN Bills,
While You Still
Know Everything!

For the record, this has nothing to do with the fact that my wife and I just bought locks for our bedroom door due to the frequency of unannounced night time visitors.

Countdown Clock by Zoodu.com

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