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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You Can’t Save Everyone

At three o’clock in the morning, when our phone rings, we have a pretty good idea who it is that’s calling us. We all know folks whose lives s are filled with constant drama, who always find themselves in situations, who always need to be bailed out one way or another. Folks whose tendency towards bad decision making results in consequences that suddenly become your problem.

Their lives follow a familiar pattern: your friend picks the wrong person, and you are left to pick up the pieces. Their temper allows a simple misunderstanding to be blown up into to all manner of new heights. Their work situations are ever untenable, always due to the fault of a boss or some co-worker (never their fault). And this is before we get to the alcohol and drug abuse.

You can’t save everyone, especially folks who aren’t ready to be saved. Folks often don’t recognize themselves as self-destructive, their hard-to-control impulses are merely quirks of theirs that people have to learn to accept because they “keep it real.”

They don’t understand that watching them spiral frustrates friends and those who love them. No one wants to watch people they care about make poor life decisions or hurt themselves and we hate the feeling of powerlessness that comes with ringside seats to their latest drama.

But we also can’t live their lives for them. Sometimes you have to let people make their mistakes, our job is to be there for them, to walk beside them, to help pick up the pieces but not do the sweeping ourselves. You have to know when to distance yourself from them as to not allow their drama to bleed into your life and as to not be the constant maid for their lives.

Some people are their own worst enemies. Granted, some folks attract needy people and like to play the white knight charging to the rescue. It’s always easier to focus on rescuing someone else than dealing with your own life, but you have to do what’s best for both of you. Compassion is good; to drown in their mess is not. Sometimes you have to set boundaries for both of your sakes. Sometimes compassion means helping them find the tools to clean up their own mess. But at three o’clock in the morning, my phone shouldn’t be ringing all the time.

[You know, it's easy to say this, but I already know in my heart that when the phone rings, I'm going to answer it. I know you can't save everyone, especially those who don't want to be saved, but sometimes you just have to keep trying.]


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Yearly Repentance Day

Well, eight years ago* (yes, on April Fool's Day), I convinced a woman to make her life miserable. Don't get me wrong, when I proposed, I specifically said "I can't promise you happily ever after, but I can promise you that it will be interesting."

I've taught her to be long-suffering, what the meaning of perseverance is. Given her practical experience in what a Dark Night of the Soul is. Eight years of her putting up with my Mojo Jo Jo or Mr. T "does bedroom banter" routines ("I pity the fool who won't get naked right now!"). Eight years of my bursting into the bedroom singing the best of Jimi Hendrix ("cuz I'm a voodoo chile ...).

Eight years of poetry dedicated to her (making up for the premature eulogies I kept writing--I'm a horror writer. Eulogies ARE romantic to me). Eight years of my version of parenting (starting with the birth of our son, Reese, part one AND part two, followed quickly by the birth of Malcolm) and her being lost in our testosterone fest.

In short, she's managed to put up with me. For eight years. Eight LONG (for her, anyway) years.

So today's my one day of the year where I make her hate her life less. To this day, her friends comment on how she used to be sweet, nice. Then she came to the dark side (hmm, literally and figuratively, now that I think about it).

My kids, on the other hand, are more interested in the fact that today is also April Fool's Day. I keep telling them that without the anniversary, there would be no them or their bad jokes. Instead, I have to put up with them telling me that there's a spider on my head.


*I meant to post this yesterday, but I actually got busy doing anniversary type stuff. Plus, I have to submit anniversary blogs for pre-approval after last years "It's been seven years and I'm a-itchin'" blog got vetoed.

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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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Follow the North Star Part III

Mud sucked at our shoes, the ground would surely devour our bare feet, rocks and twigs like endless rows of teeth. Shivering in the night’s chilly embrace, we hoped that our minds would be too focused on the journey at hand as we fled from a past that haunts our nation to this day.

No matter how good our imaginations, it is difficult to transport our 2007 mindsets to the life of 1836 eyes. Yet every fall and spring, Conner Prairie offers a special program called Follow the North Star, where the participants become slaves and escape along the Underground Railroad. Though I once compared the journey of discipleship to the journey of the Underground Railroad (part I and part II), getting a dose of the reality adds a new dimension to it.

From the first moments, you get the barest idea of what it was to undergo a process of dehumanization. Separated into bucks and breeders , we were trained to avert eyes as we couldn’t ever look a white person in the face. We were taught to never question, conditioned to never challenge, trained to be submissive, confused, always wrong. After only 15 minutes, no one, no matter their true color, looked up again. Now imagine that process ingrained over generations, that attitude of inferiority for some and superiority for others.

Behind us, we heard many footfalls closing in on us as we ran in the constant fear of never knowing who to trust. We never knew which attitude we would encounter. Maybe it was gentle ladies whose religious beliefs outweighed their desires for self-preservation. Maybe it would be an embittered southerner thrown out of work because of the influx of slaves taking away his job. Maybe it would be a Quaker family fighting to abolish slavery. Maybe it would be a “cattle rustler”, seeking to capture runaway slaves for profit. Maybe it would be free black folk, willing to take folks in and point them in the right direction. And you hoped that your fear wouldn’t outweigh your desire for freedom.

How effective the experience is depends on the group you’re with and how well you can entrench yourself in the role. With our 2007 gloves, hats, and shoes, it’s hard to fully put ourselves in the same situation. To imagine the system of conditioning to obedience, how families were torn apart. It can be intense, but it was only a taste of what the reality must have been like.


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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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Life – A Review

The new Fall television season is upon us and, as expected as the routine of having to rake leaves, with it comes the familiar spate of police procedurals. Not that you could tell from the title—nor could you tell much of anything else about the show from its unfortunate title—but Life is one of them. Detective Charlie Crews (Damian Lewis) has his share of quirks, from his constant eating of fresh fruit to his constant Zen-commentary. So much so, one feels this show is misplaced not being on the USA channels lineup of detective shows: Law & Order: Criminal Intent, Psyche, Monk. Despite the competition, Crews is easily one of television’s most fascinating characters.

Having spent the last 12 years in prison set up for a crime he was exonerated for, Crews (through convoluted premise-generating events) ends up back on the LAPD, though a lot wealthier for his troubles (thus justifying Adam Arkin’s return to series television as his one-time cell mate and now money manager, Ted Earley). The slightly troubled Crews, whom no one wishes to partner with, is nonetheless saddled with a partner equally in need of redemption, Dani Reese (Sarah Shahi). All of this going on while 1) a film crew does documentary-style interviews about the Crews case and 2) Crews is secretly trying to ferret out the conspirators that framed him in the first place.

“Life was his sentence and life is what he got back.” –Constance Griffith (Brooke Langton) “What do you think he should do with that life?” (interviewer)
“That would be up to him.”

One of the intriguing aspects to Crews’ character is observing how much prison life has affected him, especially in regards to how he pursues his calling of being a police officer. Besides being over a decade behind in technology, he still carries with him all the lessons of surviving in prison now that he’s back on the street.

People so often find themselves on a spiritual path once they find themselves in prison is because they look around and see the consequences of living life their way on their terms. Prison is the ultimate end of self. It’s when we’ve reached the end of our rope and hope. When we’ve seen where life has gotten us under our own efforts. When we see the bars/cages of our life for what they are. When we’ve completely bottomed out. With prison, we have nothing but time and are forced to be alone. We have to face our inner noise, without all of the distractions that comes from our hollow pursuits. In Crews’ case, he turned to Zen in order to make sense of his place in the world. But, as Lt. Karen Davis (Robin Weigert) points out, “You don’t have to go to prison to eat crap.”

“Tell me something that means something.” –grieving victim

What does life boil down to? What’s really important? These are the important questions we have to meditate on in order to find meaning for ourselves. Sometimes the answer comes in the simplest question, as Crews asks: “Anyone ever love you that much?” To take a bullet for you, to give you life, to sacrifice themselves so that you may find your true purpose for being. When Crews is asked by a grieving crime victim “How did you go on living? How did you get past it?”, the answers sound easier than they are. You’re already past it. We’re to be fully alive, in the moment, living the life we ought to be living.

It’s good to see quality writing and complicated characters taking the front seat in hour long dramas. The ever-present danger is that quirks become caricatures and characters become cartoons. So far, so good though and after only a few episodes, Life has found its rhythm. In fact, it’s easy to say that Life is one of the pleasant surprises of the Fall.


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Life Catch Up and ANNOUNCEMENTS!

After what I hope is my final trip to the doctor for a while, my self-diagnosed case of post-MoCon SARS turned out to be cough variant asthma. Once again, she told me that I may want to consider backing away from the Internet when I have symptoms. After another battery of tests, including an MRI (MRIs suck and are much noisier than they appear on television), it also turns out that I have somehow managed to tear some cartilage in my wrist. I suppose that’s a decent result, since my doctor initially feared carpel tunnels. The downside is that I have to wear a wrist splint for a month … which truly sucks since I do the bulk of my writing long hand.

Speaking of me writing, I am pleased to announce that my short story, "The Ave," will be in the Fall issue of Horror Literature Quarterly this October. This story will be available as a free download, which is great because if there’s one thing I know about fans of mine, it’s that they are broke. In fact, go register now because the magazine is great (and I believe there is a new Tim Lebbon story up exclusive to subscribers. Plus you get access to previous issues, including a story by Nate Southard).

Also in the good news department, October is shaping up to be a great month since I will be the Featured Writer in Apex Science Fiction and Horror Digest. It will mean an interview as well as a reprint of a story of mine that you probably missed the first time around.

I will also be attending the Second Annual Apex Day in Lexington, KY, at the city's Joseph-Beth Booksellers. Apex Day features authors and artists who contribute to Apex Digest; there will be author readings, book signings, art displays and other presentations. Several authors will be participating, including Gary A. Braunbeck, Lucy Snyder, Teri Jacobs, Geoffrey Girard, Alethea Kontis, Michael West, and Douglas F. Warrick (not to mention, artist Carrie Rapp). Plus you get to hang out with the fine Apex staff, Apex editor-in-chief Jason Sizemore and Apex submissions editor Mari Adkins. The event is free, and will go on all afternoon and probably into the evening.

Time and Location:
Saturday, September 22nd starting at 2:00 pm
Joseph-Beth Booksellers (800 248 6849)
161 Lexington Green Circle, Suite B1
Lexington KY 40503

If you can’t catch up with us there, you can find us the following weekend (September 28 – 30) at ConText 20 in Columbus, OH. Apex Publications will be hosting a room party September 29th.

Also, my friend, J.C. Hay was recently interviewed. Go check it out. And writer Richard Dansky asked Alice Henderson to participate in Five For Writing, a feature on his website in which he puts five questions to different writers. Go check it out.


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Like I really Care What People Think

Okay, I was talked into doing this. Think of it as a game to see how well you (think you) know me.

The Johari Window was invented by Joseph Luft and Harrington Ingham in the 1950s as a model for mapping personality awareness. By describing yourself from a fixed list of adjectives, then asking your friends and colleagues to describe you from the same list, a grid of overlap and difference can be built up.

Here’s my Johari Window.

The Nohari Window is a challenging inversion of the Johari Window, using antonyms of the original words. By describing your failings from a fixed list of adjectives, then asking your friends and colleagues to describe you from the same list, a grid of perceived and unrecognized weaknesses can be explored.

Here’s my Nohari Window.

This will be interesting (read: an exercise in self-absorption).


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The Thrill is Gone

Everyone is scared of something.

So, after my family’s most recent excursion to Holiday World, I see no reason why I should have to endure the taunts of my so-called friends and family. Three things you all need to understand:

(Continued on Intake in "The Thrill is Gone)


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Playing With My Boys

One day he won’t let me hold his hand in public, he won’t let me stroke his hair when he’s resting, he won’t let me be seen with him in public because I’ll be embarrassing.

Today’s the first day of school. Officially, both boys will be joining our public education system and I how have regained my days to pursue more of my fiction writing. Some of you may be wondering what I do during a typical day in the life of a productive writer. You know, what exactly does this stay at home dad do during the day while his wife is at work. You know, what do I do between blogging and Law & Order re-runs.

I play. To put as positive a spin on this as possible, allow me to quote from one of the Dwelling Place values:

“I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” (Jesus - Matthew 18:3)

Wonder. Curiosity. Abandon. Playfulness. Listening. Passion. Celebration. Imagination. Spontaneity. Openness. Creativity. Children hold so little regard for status, title, or position and have so little of the things that consume the lives of adults, and yet they are filled with such joy. They are fully alive, and every waking moment is a chance to explore life.

After a game of “Evil King” (long story: let’s just say that we have some of the Burger King crowns around the house and we’re all convinced the creepy mascot is evil. I’ve long forgiven them for their previous blunder), I play super-hero fights with Reese. This may come as a shock to many of you, but we have a lot of action figures around the house and Reese is Superman while I’m Batman. Reese always wins because Superman always beats Batman. That’s the rule of the game (Reese also cheats: every time Batman manages to find Kryptonite—I don’t know where Reese gets the cheating thing from—Superman always has a henchman, a Rescue Ranger, help out).

I color with Malcolm, which usually evolves into coloring for Malcolm, as it’s his version of a distraction he as he sneaks in a re-run of Curious George. You’d think I’d catch on to their distraction schemes. Also, we’ve been experimenting with freezing stuff. Last week, we froze socks and underwear (which, for the record, means that we can use them as knives and shields during games of Evil King).

We round out the day by playing Jame Bond 007 on PlayStation since all three of us can play that one. I usually win two out of three games. I never “let” them win, they have to earn kicking my butt. Unfortunately, I have also inadvertently taught them the art of trash-talking.

Sure, my Get Out Clock still marches on. Yet I find myself distracted from my current short story because I keep watching for 3 o’clock and a re-match.


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Tales from the Sick Bed

So for the last week I’ve been suffering from what I’ve called post-Mo*Con SARS, some upper respiratory thing that has my breathing down to 50% and has my doctor and wife on my case about bed rest (or rather my not knowing the definition of such). I keep trying to explain to them that, as a writer, I lead what many could describe as a sedentary lifestyle, low on exertion.

Today, the literary diva herself, Chesya Burke, breaks me off a phone call and we have the following conversation:

Chesya: Are you breathing any better?
Me: Aw, was that a note of concern in your voice?
Chesya: No. I don’t have anything to gain from your death. You’re worth more to me alive than dead right now. I can’t say the same for Sally.

It … it just brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it?

I’m no fan of going to the doctor (not the least of which is due to things like “the catheter incident”), but I have another round of pulmonary tests this week. With any luck, I may have a story less traumatic than the mammogram one to tell.


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Regrets

I’ve been thinking a lot about how I’ve hurt some people in the past. Not that I intentionally set out to hurt them, but just in the course of me going about, doing my thing. Concerned only about what I wanted and felt with little regard for the feelings of others and the consequences of what I considered to be “my business.”

Here’s the thing: we won’t always know the long term effects of our “little transgressions”. How our sometimes stupid and selfish acts alter the courses of people’s, too often our friends’, lives. But we do recognize when the relationships have been irreparably damaged.

Continued in "Regrets."


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Farewell Yalaina

Yalaina Symone Griffin*

May 11, 2007 – June 26, 2007

Hi!

My name is Yalaina Symone Griffin and I lived to be 46 whole days old! My birthday is May 11, 2007 and I went home to be with God on June 26, 2007.

Way before my first birthday, the doctors told my mommy and daddy that I had a bunch of icky fluid in my tummy. They called it hydrops. That mean old hydrops gave a really hard time. It made my kidneys, liver, spleen, and lungs all broken and stuff. On my good days when my kidneys were working a little bit, my family & friends did the "Pee-Pee Dance" They were all really pulling for me. I was and still am very loved.

And when that stinky-face hydrops tried to get the best of me, I put up my dukes and fought it right back with all of my might. In the end, the yucky hydrops won. But since I put up such a good fight for so long, maybe the doctors were able to learn something from me so that next time hydrops won't win.

I almost forgot to tell you about my family! They've been so great! My mommy's name is Ro and my daddy's name is Eric (I was his first munchkin). I have a big sister named Emminence and a big brother named Calvin. They were really excited to have a little sister. I also have two grandmas, two grandpas, five uncles, three aunts and about 10 cousins. On top of all of those family members, I have my OTHER family who all love me just as much; everyone at The Dwelling Place Faith Community, Traveler's Rest Missionary Baptist Church, & all the people at Methodist Hospital, who took good care of me & tried so hard to fix me.

Thank all of you who prayed for me, thought about me, and hoped for the best for me. I felt the love – in fact, that's what pulled me through. Now that I'm here in Heaven, I'll put in a good word for you, keep my eye on you in the meantime, and I'll see you when you get here!

Hey guys, please remember this!

Romans 5:3-5

"….We also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us."

A Blessing from Heaven


*As told to her mother, Ro.

YALAINA’S LIVING PARABLE
By Shane Fuller

We gather here still trying to make sense of what happened last Tuesday, still trying to process the unprocessable. We come together in this place, as a Christian community, partly because we know of no better place to bring our questions and our grief and partly because we don’t know where else to turn. As the apostle Peter once said to Jesus, at a moment of confusion and doubt, “Lord, to whom else can we go?”

Yalaina’s shortened days preach to us a silent sermon if we will allow. Her time on earth reminds us that life is precious. It is a gift from God, a miracle wrapped in love. Each moment is like eternity – no past, no future, just the sacred now. None of us, in this hour, know the complete course of our lives, the exact number of days that we have been allotted, nor our final exhale. And so today, our lives right here right now, are gifts and they are unspeakably good. The sum total of all the moments that we experience is what we become, and this is our gift to God. We are asked embrace the time we have been given by living our seconds to the full!

Yalaina’s journey is a tiny window, or microcosm, of life in a fallen cosmos. Her struggle this last 6 weeks is a reminder that all is not well on this planet. The world has fallen, and our existence is not how it should be. We fight to enter this world, and that is the hinge on which all of our days turn. Our stories are filled with pain and turmoil, unexpected twists and turns, and abrupt changes in plot. Every waking moment is tainted with fear as the stench of death mixes with the sweet aroma of living. Even when the Ancient of Days assumed the human condition, His hours were accustomed with sorrow and grief. He who had experienced eternal bliss, immersed himself into the realm of man, and His life was etched in pain. We know nothing can be changed until it is first embraced, and so we are instructed by this tiny baby’s life to accept reality in all of its brokenness.

This infant’s every breath revealed the depths of what it means to be a person. None of us are single, solitary units that operate alone. Our very existence originates in the other. A person can only be a person through others. The whole of our beings are forged by every encounter with people, and every person has deep significance to the meaning of this path we trod. Yalaina revealed how infinitely valuable each touch of our deeply connected humanity can be. From doctors and nurses to friends and family, the church, and even those who were only connected by whispers to God as they heard of her story – all of the different layers of the race of man weave together to form her and us. We remember this hour that our lives are not a series of random encounters but that you are in me and I am in you, and it is only in our union that we are made complete.

Yalaina is instructing us now, even in this solemn, sacred silence of her passing. Our own deaths flow to the front of the waves of thoughts that fill the ocean of our mind, and yet this is not the end. This present garb that our world dons is not what God had laid out for us to wear. Our momentary scars, pain, and grief speak words of transcendence that we are not yet finished. The grave becomes merely a passage to a whole new chapter. It takes a deep courage to stand like flint amidst the cold, dark winds pressuring our insides to snap with despondency, to allow assurance to flood our anguish with rumors from on high that nothing irredeemable can happen to us. Our cuts and wounds point to something far deeper. We stand face to face with doubt in all its glory and choose to believe that this happening, and all our happenings, are not meaningless. These random sharp pieces of glass and life are forming for us a mosaic of beauty that is not yet unveiled. Even, too, this hour will be consumed into the whole, and in the fullness of all that is, we shall see in bold color all that is grey.

Oh Lord, teach us to count all of our moments, that we may dance into the art of living and living well. Thank you for this little life of insurmountable beauty and for gracing us with the gift of Yalaina’s presence. Let us be inspired by this life well lived to behold the tangible splendor of the endowment of our existence. Give us patience and endurance as we engage with the thorns and thistles of this world. Allow the virus, which has permeated all that you declared “Good,” to be repelled by the seeds of light we plant in faith. Grant that our blinders might fall and that we may see every created being as your handiwork, and that every person might be family we have not yet met. Let us participate in the redemption of all that is. Thank you for Yalaina’s parable that lives and breathes among us. May it fan the flame of holiness and connect to all that is good, righteous, and true.


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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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She was Loved

Yalaina Symone Griffin

born at 6:18 p.m. May 11th, 2007

died at 9:30 a.m. June 26th, 2007










"Rarely has one who lived so few days touched so many lives." --Chaplain Burton

Yesterday has gone
Another day has come
Do something new in my life.

Yesterday has gone
Another day has come
Do something new in my life.

Do something new in my life.

Something new in my life,
Something new in my life,
Something new in my life, today.

Something new in my life,
Something new in my life,
Something new in my life, I pray.

--A song my aunt learned in Ghana. It became a bit of a theme song for us.


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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.

***
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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