Wow, two years already?

I was going to let yesterday pass in quiet reflection of an old bugger. An old bugger who passed away two years ago. But he visited me last night in my sleep (dreams, people, I don't believe in ghosts. Though that'd be cool, and he'd get a kick out of haunting me).

As a result, and because I'll likely be talking about him at the launch of my next book (since he's one of the inspirations for my hero, Hugo Marston), I thought I'd repost the tribute to my Dad that I wrote the day after he died.

Now, before you reach for the tissues (or the "back" button) this isn't a sloppy, sad, boohoo post. No, Dad wouldn't have liked that. Which is why, when I first shared it, I included a disclaimer.

Here is the post, starting with that disclaimer: if death is holy to you, and the deceased are sacred, if you believe that our loved ones who've passed on cannot be around laughter, or can no longer be objects of amusement, delight, and ridicule (just as they were, and we all are, in life) then I salute you and respect your position completely.
I would also caution you not to read this post.

You see, in the early hours of . . . yesterday, I suppose, my father died. That was the reason for my trip here, to help my mother care for him and to say good bye. He's had cancer for ten years and lived five more than they said he would, so his death is not a shock in that sense. But the end itself came faster than expected, and my sister and brother arrived a few hours after he'd shuffled from this mortal coil.

Naturally there have been tears, but to understand the gamut of our emotions you have to know my dad. He was highly intelligent. He was the most unjudgmental person I have ever met. He was a solitary figure, invariably preferring the company of trees and animals to human beings, but one of the delights of life for him was a good, deep conversation with a bright friend or stranger about politics, technology, or social issues. He enjoyed good champagne and provided his family with the best port of the previous century, as well as the good taste to appreciate it.

Now, despite being a quiet man, he had one foible that risked making him the center of attention at the wrong time: he would get the giggles. Not just a few of them, but a barrowful that would set his shoulders to shaking and his eyes watering, pulling the breath from him for minutes at a time. My sister and I inherited the gene and my greatest memories are of us sitting at the dinner table quivering with laughter at some minor amusement (any true Giggler will tell you that they require no ignition, they are laughter's version of spontaneous human combustion).

One other thing: there is no more practical man in the world than my dad. In the sense that he resurrected this barn of a mountain home, clearing out door-mice (while never killing one of them) and remaking ceilings, stairs, the water system, the patio, etc etc. Practical, too, in the sense that he detested unnecessary extravagance. Silliness, yes, extravagance, no.

This is dad a few years ago, during a three-year volunteer project in Namibia. Taking a wild guess, I'd say around Christmas time (I'm pretty sure those are his Christmas trousers. . . ).

So he died late Friday night, this humble, honest, antlered man, with my mum and me holding his hands, telling him how much we loved him. She and I stayed up the rest of the night, we lit a fire and made tea, and finally we dozed off in our chairs towards dawn.

And then the fun really began. Because, you see, this is France. And in France there are a few certain truths: (1) the bread is better, (2) everything requires paperwork, and (3) the bread requires paperwork.

First of all, the nurses who'd cared for him the past few months immediately drove up to our mountain home, at 2:30 A.M., to clean and dress his body. We left him in the bedroom so my brother and sister could visit and say good bye. We all spent the day coming and going, finding ourselves talking to him, sticking our heads into the room to see if he needed anything, that sort of impractical, self-comforting nonsense he'd roll his eyes at.

What he wanted, of course, was for us to find a nice tree, wrap him in a sheet and tuck him into the soil facing the mountains. Not surprisingly, the French don't permit that. Can't blame them. So cremation (my sister has begun calling it "his transmogrification") is the next best thing, but that requires a coffin. I half-believe the old man would have made his own, but he works with nice oak and I'm guessing didn't want to waste it on a box that would be buried in wet soil. So, very unashamedly, we ordered the cheapest there is. No silks, no cushions, no frills or finery at all.

Our options as far as funeral homes were twofold: the professional, practiced company who'd take care of things in a hushed reverence, or the local chappie from the village. Only problem with him, being a sole proprietor he'd need help carrying dad out of the house, though he said his wife could come up and lend a hand if need be. Given the price difference, and our terror of hushed reverence (what if one of us got the giggles?!), we of course opted for the local chappie.

He duly showed up last night and halfway through the conversation, we all realized there'd been a misunderstanding (easy when you're speaking a foreign language over the phone, and using go-betweens). We were by the fire in the kitchen and he suddenly looked puzzled and jerked his thumb towards the ceiling.

Chappie: "You mean, he's here? In the house?"
Mum: "Yes. You didn't know that?"
Chappie: "No, I thought he'd died in the hospital."
Mum: "He died here. He's still here, dressed and ready to go."
Chappie: "Ah, that's a problem. I didn't bring the casket."
Mum: "Oh dear. Well, if the van's refrigerated, maybe. . . "
Chappie: "No, no, I brought my car, it's too small."
Me: "You have a front seat and a seat-belt, don't you?"
Chappie, nervous laughter: "Yes, but. . . "
Mum: "Can you go get it?"
Chappie: "No. I need permission. Paperwork from the mayor and the police, it's required to transport the body."
Mum: "What about tomorrow?"
Chappie: "Tomorrow is Sunday."
Me: "People don't usually die on Sundays?"
Chappie: "Yes, but . . . then they wait."

You get the idea. The end result is that while he works on getting the papers signed, he'll drop off a casket (I'm writing this as I wait) and, with the help of my brother and me, we'll load our dear old dad inside and keep him as a piece of furniture in the front room, or the cellar if it proves to be a warm day, until the signatures and permissions have been gathered.

The problem with keeping him in the main room is that we'll keep talking to him and, if yesterday is any guide, getting the giggles. Not that he'd mind, of course.

The problem with putting him in the cellar is, well, he'll be blocking access to the port. That, I am certain, he'd mind a lot more.

We will miss you, dear dad, but more than anything we will remain grateful. For everything you did, and everything you were.

______________

Back in the present... I was right! We DO miss the old fella. But, I was right about the other stuff, too, and two years on the happy memories and giggles far outnumber the tears, which is how it should be, right?

He would certainly think so.

Criminal Luck, and in the Cold (...but the good guys win)

Some weekends go to hell in a hand-basket, the criminals seep out from their lairs and dispatch your fun times with a sociopathic callousness that leaves you utterly helpless. So helpless that sometimes all you can do is laugh, and appreciate some of the good things.

(Oh, sure, I'm exaggerating a little. But hindsight mellows trauma and the mind of a writer maximizes it, so you get what you get...)

It started with an ear-ache and a slice of fortune. Eldest girl had one, and luckily the doctor was already expecting her and her twin brother for their annual check-up. Sarah drove them in, a five o'clock appointment, while I stretched out on the couch for a solid hour of writing time. Then the phone rang, Sarah concealing panic but not very well.

"There's smoke coming out of the hood. What should I do?"

I suggested a three-pronged approach: 1. pull over; 2. disembark herself and the kids; and 3. call 911.

I knew she'd have done 1. and 2. anyway, but like a lot of people she's hesitant to call 911 because she doesn't want to tie up emergency services, to stop the cops/firemen/paramedics from getting to a real emergency. Me, I don't have those concerns. I know precisely the crap that people call 911 for, and so I assured her that a car fire would make the chaps in the big red engine whoop with delight.

She did so, and I hopped into my car to dash out there and bring them all safely home. Nothing is that easy, of course, because the "We'll be there in sixty to ninety minutes" tow-truck company didn't show. We waited in an empty parking lot for two hours as night settled around us. Waited with three hungry kids, one of whom had an ear-infection. Not the most fun evening that the Pryors have had.

Jump to a week later. It's Saturday morning, the car's fixed and we all load up for Henry's first soccer tournament, heading to San Antonio. Two games on Saturday, two on Sunday. I'm more excited than he is, because while I play soccer I'm not anywhere near as talented as he is. Or intense (not the goalie, the one with the death-ray stare):

So, we set off. Thirty miles later, West of Dripping Springs, I notice the temperature gauge. It's poking the "H" and, even though I'm no mechanic, I know that "H" doesn't stand for "Hey, if the arrow's pointing at me, all's well." I pull over and open the hood. (How much of a mechanic am I? It took me ten minutes to figure out how).  Coolant reservoir empty, gurgling noises from the guts of the beast. Not good.

Sarah calls the dealership, who redirects her to a towing company. A friend gives up her Saturday morning to come get us, and we text Henry's team to let them know he'll miss the first game. Bollocks.

Double bollocks, because we hear later that his team was leading up until the last three minutes, then ran out of steam. Henry never runs out of steam, and I'm convinced his presence would have made a difference. Don't believe me, here's his evaluation (yeah, I'm bragging on him. He's my son.):

Anyway, get home from Dripping Springs (thanks Allison!) and pile into my car, then drive in the opposite direction (east) to the dealership and get a loaner. I'm now driving a minivan, which I swore I'd never do. Dear Sarah tries to make me feel better: "Ooh, wow, it has more pick-up than I'd thought" ... "It's great for the kids, they'll be less annoying with all that room" ... "Yes, I still love you."  I put on a hat and false mustache and steer us back to San Antonio (west). I try not to drive off the road, but I feel like I'm cutting butter with a dead fish. Awful vehicle.

But we make Henry's game. It's at 8pm, it's minus fifty, and my feet lose feeling about five minutes before kick-off.  But he scores the opening goal, so I just know things are turning around!

Then the other team scores six goals, and I start praying for the final whistle so Henry and I can head to the hotel and hot baths. Sarah salvages the evening by buying a bottle of scotch, a chocolate eclair, and wearing a French maid's outfit. (Two of those are true.)

The next morning the whole family piles into the minivan, false mustaches and hats in place, and we head out of San Antonio to Game Three. Two hundred yards into the journey I pull over, thanks to some weird noises from the back right side of the van. I see this:

 Awesome. I have thirty minutes to change the tire, nail on the spare, and get Henry to his game.

I spend twenty minutes locating the spare, ten minutes figuring out how to detach it from under the van. Hope is lost, Game Three is missed.

Plus it's cold. Soooo cold.

Here's what happened next:

Yeah, pretty much, Henry changed the tire. Did I mention I'm proud of him? So we get the spare on, and locate a Wal-Mart that has a motor-car place thingy, where they fix punctures. The guy tells me it'll cost ten bucks and take 45 minutes.

Ten bucks! I just know things are turning around now!!

We linger in Wal-Mart, call the team and tell them we'll meet them for lunch, and also make it to Game Four. Back on track!

An hour later, the mechanic pages me.

"Can't fix it."
"You said you could. Ten bucks, remember?"
"Can't. The hole is in the sidewall. I could fix it, technically speaking, but Wal-Mart policies forbid me from fixing this type of puncture, in that location."
Now, I've grown my hair out recently, and so I start pulling some of it out. I take nine deep breaths and ask, "So what are my options?"
"Two, really. You can drive around and maybe find someone who'll fix it. But it's Sunday, and I wouldn't know where to send you."
"Option number two?"
"Buy a new tire."
"But it's a rental car. I don't want to buy Enterprise a new tire, I really don't."
"Huh. Have you called them?"
"Closed. And the 1-800 directs us to call the local offices. Which are closed on Sundays."
"That sucks."

It did. So we paid $160 for a new tire. You're welcome, Enterprise.

On our new tire, we do actually make it to Game Four, though. In time to warm up and everything. In fact, the sun starts to shine, to cut through the cold, and the day turns pleasant. Maybe, just maybe... The whistle goes for the kick-off, and in two minutes Henry's team is down two goals. The score gets worse. Henry doesn't score.

One of the other dads offers to follow us home, make sure we get there. I'm not sure if he's kidding or genuinely concerned.

But we make it home fine, no speeding tickets, accidents, or alien abductions.

On Sunday evening, I sit in my chair in the living room and I think to myself, well, several things. How lucky we are to have two cars. How fortunate we are to be able to pay $160 for a new tire (you're welcome, Enterprise) just like that. How cool it is my son is a good soccer player, and that as a family we can get a hotel room to watch him play in a tournament. Part of a tournament. How great it is that in a weekend when everything goes wrong, we're all home safe, unhurt, and able to laugh about it.

So, that criminally bad luck that stole into our weekend and tried to screw it all up: nice try. You failed. This is our living room that night:

We win.

Guns + social media = bad parenting

If you haven't seen this by now, check it out:

http://www.litefm.com/pages/news-story.html?feed=421220&article=9738000

That link will take you to a father plugging holes with his .45 in his daughter's laptop. A brief summary of events:

• Daughter complains on Facebook about all the chores she has to do.
• Dad tells her not to.
• Daughter complains on Facebook about all the chores she has to do. Again.
• Dad videos an angry rant (his) which culminates in him shooting her laptop. He posts it all on the Internet.

Now, I've read differing opinions on this and it's clear to me only one opinion really matters: mine.

Why? Because:

• i'm a father
• i own guns
• i own a computer
• i know Facebook
• i have common sense
• i work with juvenile delinquents every day

Here's what I'm learning about being a good dad and about keeping your kids out of trouble forever and ever: don't be a jackass.

A simple enough truth and one that's hard to live by sometimes. But I can promise you that about .01% of the kids I see coming through the juvenile courts have good, supportive parents.

Oh, I know the arguments about why this guy's daughter had it coming, about good old-fashioned discipline, the tough, no-nonsense approach. But it's old-fashioned for a reason: it doesn't work.

Being a good parent mostly involves setting a good example. Not just when there's an old lady who needs help crossing the street but in those tough moments where you want to blow your stack and pummel the sumbitch who cut in front of you on the highway. Any moron can set a good example when the sun's shining and song birds are tweeting. Well, most morons can.

But this guy? He is mad about being publicly humiliated on Facebook, so he publicly humiliates his daughter. Genius. To him, it seems, being a parent isn't about helping his child grow and become a better person, it's about him winning. And he's bigger and carries a gun, so big shocker when he wins. Congratulations, sir, you shot an inanimate object, figured out how to use the Internet, and then humiliated your daughter in front of millions of people. How proud you must be.

Of course, a guy who videos himself on a self-righteous (and worringly aggressive) rant while smoking a cigarette probably isn't big on the 'lead by example' thing. Or communication. Or rational and proportional response.

And the problem is, the only thing he could ever say to justify acting this way is that it worked. That it was effective. And, in his book, that would mean his daughter not complaining about him on Facebook.

But I have some bad news for you, friend. She's still a teenager, and now she's angrier than ever. Angrier for longer, too, and with good reason. And you may think this 'worked' but it didn't because she still doesn't understand why she has to do her chores, she'll just do them with (maybe) less complaining because now she's scared of you.

And I don't blame her at all.

Fathers and Sons

I was recently directed to a great blog post that addressed 50 Rules for Dads and Daughters. Check it out. It got me thinking about a (related) pet concern of my own: fathers and sons.

Working here in the the juvenile court system it never ceases to disturb me that so many of the kids who come through the door have no good father-figure in their lives. Many have no contact with their fathers at all, some have abusive or neglectful fathers, and way too many have no idea who their father is.

And it pains me to see those kids with no man to look up to. I have a huge role in my son's daily life, from waking him up in the mornings with a kiss, to taking him to school and playing with him when we're done with school and work, to the final kiss at night, the last thing I do before going to bed, and when he's already asleep.

I can't imagine life without him, and I can't imagine what his life would be without a loving father. Yet so many kids grow up just that way, I truly hate to see it. In fact, while I was writing this I saw first-hand in court how important that bond is, and I immediately posted about it.

So here's my Christmas list, not for presents but a humble offering to go alongside the one for fathers and daughters. (They aren't rules, I get enough of those at work.)

If you have a son, if you're planning on having a son, here are a few suggestions:

1. Treat his mother with respect, no matter what. He watches everything you do and he'll learn from you how women are to be treated. Never forget that.

2. Fight with him. Regularly. Use swords or just tussle and tumble on the bed (though not right after it's been made, see #1.) because he loves to see how strong his daddy is, and to show you how tough he is.
3. Tell him he's your favorite child, no matter how many children you have. I have three, and I tell each of them he or she is my favorite. I do it when they're together and they roll their eyes and groan and sometimes say, "Hey, that's not fair." I hope I'm teaching them they're all special, teaching them not to take things too seriously, and teaching them that their siblings are special, too.

4. Get him superhero underpants. That's what he wants to be when he grows up.

5. Get yourself matching superhero underpants. That's what you are to him.

6. Sit down and shut up. With him. With a book. No need to talk, with the exception of the occasional whisper from him about the volcano he's reading about, just sit in silence and read. Trust me, it will be a moment of sublime happiness for you both. (A hammock will do nicely.)

7. Watch Indiana Jones with him. You'll earn more points than you could ever spend.

8. Take his sister to a dance, and let him help you dress in your tuxedo. (Why? See #1.)

9. When you're in the car, give him a dollar to pass on to a pan-handler. He's too young to understand the larger problem or more complex solutions, but he's old enough to give to others in need. And believe me when I tell you that a dollar from a small boy brings a brighter smile than a dollar offered by you.

10. Buy him a whoopee cushion and help him slip it onto his mother's chair. Fart noises will always be funny, and the three of you will laugh for an hour at his first fart-related prank.

11. Take him to gather flowers for the rest of the family and, if you know what they are, teach him. Also, if they're from your neighbor's yard, gather them at night.

12. Tell him you love him, even when you're angry or disappointed in him. Ask him, "Do I still love you?" because you both know the answer is "Yes" and him saying it will make you both feel a little better and bring that hug a little closer and tighter.

13. Combine his name and the name of his favorite stuffed toy as the password for your work computer. That's a guaranteed smile every weekday morning. I know it sounds cheesy but it's true, I promise.

14. Tell him what you do for a living, and why its important. (If what you do is mundane and soul-sapping, either skip this advice or lie.) How cool for him to be proud of how you make a living and maybe want to be like you.
15. Don't let him win. Okay, sometimes let him win. But you should see the look on my son's face when he beats me at Uno or nutmegs me for real in the front yard. They are real achievements.

16. Send him emails. Oh, I know, I could encourage you to write him letters and keep them but let's be realistic here, would you do it? Nope, didn't think so. Me neither, which is why we created email accounts for each child and every so often send them updates about stuff we did, things they achieved. And it's great for pics. I send them a lot of pictures that might otherwise disappear over the years.

17. Teach him to swim. It'll give you peace of mind at the pool and ocean, open up a whole new type of playground to enjoy with him, and the chance to take very cool photos. That you can then email to him. (See how this works?!)
18. Kiss him while he's sleeping, every single night. One day, probably soon, he won't want you to kiss him any more. But the little sucker can't stop you when he's asleep! As I've said, it's the last thing I do every night, and I just love looking at his beautiful face thinking, "Wow, I made that." That's a nice thought to take to bed with you.

And with that, a very Merry Christmas to you and yours, from me and mine.