To Declan on Christmas

To my nephew, Declan...

You're not going to remember these few days spent here in Baton Rouge, but know that you were the center of them. You, little man, were a good kid, and I know that's because you have two of the most wonderful parents I know. You have a sweet smile, and you're a talker--we're not sure what you're saying just yet, but you seem to think it's pretty important. 

And you must know that you were a blessing--an answer to so many prayers. You were a miracle. Truly ... a gift. We were all so happy when you finally showed up. We saw how happy you made your mom and dad ... how complete you made their little family. 

So, when you're old enough to actually read and understand this, know that you are so very special, and not just because you showed up in the nick of time, but because you will likely be the best and most vibrant reminder we have of your father. We will see him when we see you--and I hope that's often, because I'm going to miss him.

Hell, I already do.

I know it's not wise to mourn someone before they're gone, and I'm doing my best. But I've always been susceptible to bouts of melancholy, so it's tough for me to see your dad today and not think of the days ahead when he likely won't be here. 

But then I see you, and I know that, despite the horrible disease that grips him harder and harder as the days go by, you will be the one that smiles his smile and laughs his laugh in the years to come. You'll be the vessel for his big heart and that makes me so very happy. 

But it occurs to me that, as time passes, you might not have the most vibrant memories of your old man. I'm sure you'll have the photos and maybe a few video clips you can call up when the time seems right, but there's so much more. 

So, when you're ready, ask me about your dad. Ask me about the spring break we spent on the banks of the Sabine River, climbing trees, swinging from vines and trekking through the marsh. Ask me about Frank the ferret and Dixie the cat and Snowy the white rabbit. Ask me about "the woods," and the epic BB-gun wars we had with the neighborhood kids. Ask me how pissed your grandpa was when he found out about that.

Ask me about the time your dad harpooned a big long-nose gar with a frog gig--I swear to God it happened. Ask me about the time we saw an alligator gar so big in the Sabine that he saw its head from the bow of our canoe, and I saw its tail, 17 feet away in the stern. And we still went swimming. 

One day, promise me you'll ask me about the time your dad and I tagged along on a grownup fishing and camping trip to Caddo Lake. I remember him walking out of the tent that first morning wearing a poorly fitting pair of orange and black Spot-Bilt football cleats. On the wrong feet. 

Or the time we drove up Elbert Creek in Colorado for Memorial Day weekend and got snowed in.

Your cousins love you, too.

We were lucky--the fishing was good, and we had plenty of beer.

Did you know your dad was a hell of a water skier? Did you know that he and I were the best two-man Nerf football team on Chestnut Lane? Or that he was a great swimmer and diver? 

We didn't alway like each other, but we loved each other, even when we fought. And some of those fights were classic, like the time I threw a little combustible popper at his head and it blew up when it hit is eyeglasses. Your dad, also a hell of a thespian, screamed, "Flashburns!" and grabbed a knotted, frayed rope that was laying around in the basement of our grandparents' house. He came after me and whipped me across the legs with it.

The he ran. 

But I caught him by the ankles as he sprinted up the stairs, and I yanked him back to the basement--his head hit every step on the way down... "Thump, thump, thump, thump..."

It was one of many volcanic battles we endured--all brothers do, I suppose.

And that's what you need to know. No matter how much we sparred, when it was us against the world, he stood right there with me and your Uncle Andy. He was a great brother. The best.

And I've watched him with you these last few days. I know how much he loves you, and no matter what happens, that love for you will endure. He's a great dad, and you are lucky to have him.

Even though you're too young to remember this time we've all spent together, you should know that your dad thought of little else but you. He and your mom love you with all their hearts, and they wouldn't change a thing about the life they've built with you in it, fragile and fleeting though it may be.

Remember that, Declan--you were their life. You made them so deliriously happy... so whole. You put a smile on your dad's face in the darkest of times, and when the rest of us could barely contain our grief, he smiled because of you.

I love your dad. I always will, because he was my brother and he had the biggest heart of all.

I know. Just ask me. I'll tell you everything you need to know.

Merry Christmas, nephew.


-Uncle Chris

The Hobo Barn

It sat on a hill above Highway 80, empty and decrepit. Abandoned. It had been claimed by an unsavory crowd--tramps and hobos. Addicts. Travelers.

The train tracks ran right behind the once-grand stretch of East Texas real estate. It was a two-story monstrosity, complete with a gaudy guest house, a meandering driveway through the trees and the best damn bass pond within walking distance of my house.

This little corner of Texas was a great place to be a kid. We lived within a couple of blocks of some undeveloped property--we just called it the "woods." It was about 100 acres of private land that had clearly been plotted for development, but for a 12-year-old, carving trails through the pines and the oaks was easy, and we explored every inch of it, usually armed with a wrist-rocket sling shot or a trusty Crosmann 760 Powermaster loaded with brass BBs. Opossums, raccoons, rabbits, armadillos and skunks wandered these woods, and it was bounded on the east by a shallow, muddy slough full of crawfish and snakes.

But the crown jewel of this little stretch of paradise was the old abandoned estate, and during our time in the woods, we'd come to learn its name from the various miscreants we crossed paths with.

It was called the Hobo Barn. It was a gathering place for the wandering element and the local drug culture. We never had any truly frightening run-ins with this dark crowd--more like little semi-exciting encounters, like the time a hippy (everybody who had long hair in the early 80s was a hippy, right?) tried to get me and my 9-year-old brother to smoke weed, or when we stumbled on a hobo camp (everybody who camped in the woods under a blue tarp was a hobo, as you know), complete with a still-smoldering fire and a loaded .22 rifle leaning against a tree. No hobo in sight, however.

It took a couple of years for us to get up the nerve to wander through the abandoned mansion. It didn't take us any time at all to trespass along the tracks, drop down into the woods and chase bass and bream in the pond, however. Fishing within walking distance of home was too tempting to ignore. We'd wander down the hill, cross Highway 80, and then, when we were sure nobody was looking, we'd slip into the trees, wander a short way down the railroad tracks, and, within minutes, be casting little black and yellow Beetlespin lures for bream, or dropping doughballs to the bottom for catfish.

But the house... the house was effing creepy. And when we did finally muster up the nerve to go in, it lived up to its reputation. Its doors were long since gone, and it boasted hardwood floors that were littered with leaves and pinestraw, not to mention the leavings of its frequent visitors. At one time, it had a massive built-in aquarium along the living-room wall, and it had high paneled ceilings and thick plaster walls.

The stairwell leading to the second story was falling apart, but we managed to wriggle our way up and explore the whole house. With careful steps, we could stand on the veranda and look out at the overgrown grounds... and the pond.

But the house was a lost cause. It was falling in on itself, thanks largely to those who sought quick shelter or a private place to trash themselves. Refuse lay everywhere--fast-food bags, condoms, needles... it was the poster destination that every parent warns their kids about.

Today, as we clipped down I-20 heading toward Louisiana, the kids saw the Longview, Texas, exit.

"Show us," my daughter said. "We want to see where you grew up."

So I did. We pulled off the freeway and wandered through the old neighborhood. The house on Chestnut Lane has changed a lot--the old magnolia tree I used to climb as a kid is still there, but the front yard has been landscaped and is no longer suited for football. The shed in the back yard is now a mother-in-law unit. I think the pool's still there--we couldn't see over the fence.

But the mansion--and, sadly, the pond... they're gone. The house is a pile of rubble, long since torn down, and the pond is now just a wet spot where an oily little spring keeps the grass growing. I suppose, when the house was demolished, somebody pulled the plug on the little earthen dam that collected the spring and created a fishy little paradise for pre-teens all over Longview.

Today, we drove up what's left of the driveway--a head-on assualt. No sneaking in the back way like I did as a kid.

And my kids were with me. I'm guessing they were pretty underwhelmed by the brown field of concrete and wood where the grand old house once stood. Cameron wandered with me past the rubble in search of the pond, and I think he was as disappointed as I was when we saw what was left. Just a swampy, fishless slough. Nothing special. One less place to inspire young adventurers... young anglers.

I'm glad we took the exit and drove around the old hometown. It was fun to see it again... fun to show the kids where I spent my formative years. We drove by the old high school, through the neighborhood and down Highway 80, where, when I was my daughter's age, I'd spend hours behind the wheel of my four-cylinder Mercury Capri, cruising with friends.

But things have changed. The woods are houses now. The trails no long ring with the shouts of kids chasing cottontails through the underbrush. A new apartment complex took over a spot where we built a kick-ass tree fort all those years ago, and the little slough where we caught crawfish is now a manicured "water feature" for a new development.

The Hobo Barn is gone, but the memories linger. As we stood looking over the rubble, I could see the old house in my mind's eye, and I could smell the murky waters of the little pond off in the pines. As my son climbed piles of debris, I could picture him standing in front of the house with a little spinning rod in his hands, sneaking across the estate to get to the water.

I would have loved to have fished that little pond with him...

The 'W'

It was odd to sit in the worn Naugahyde booth, complete with the taped repairs--the color almost matched--and the chipped formica table, without a screaming hangover.

Looking across the table at my 12-year-old son was even more strange. As he combed through the well-worn menu, he looked across the table at his 16-year-old sister.

"Do you see oatmeal?"

"No. Just get something else."

Then, as if overcome with an afterthought, she said, "Something with protein, for hell's sake."

I drank from the water glass in front of me, which spurred a 20-some-year-old memory. I looked across the little dining room at the corner booth and pictured the much-younger version of myself sitting there against the window, a ball cap shielding my blood-red eyes from the light. After sucking down the third glass of water, the waitress stopped by the table and placed a full pitcher there. My girlfriend--who would later become my wife--sat across from me, giggling.

"A little dehydrated?" the server asked. Indeed, the night before had been spent drinking hard at what was once called Timbers, a local bar just around the corner. I noticed as we drove down the main drag, the bar is now called the Tomichi Tavern, one of many changes this little town has experienced since we graduated from college and moved on. The most notable? Taco Bell. Effing Taco Bell.

The line from the waitress later became the Genesis of the joke, "I can't believe I'm so thirsty this morning when I drank to much last night."

"Dad!" Cameron said, just loud enough to penetrate the nostalgia. I looked at him and raised my eyebrows. "What kind of toast should I get?"

"Sourdough," I said.

"Is it good here?"

"I don't remember. I just like sourdough."

We talked a lot about bringing the kids here one day. A Colorado road trip. Camping. Fishing. Gunnison. And we'd have breakfast at The "W." It never worked out. Our marriage fell apart before we could pull that adventure together. But today, it was "on the way" to our Cajun Christmas destination. Trying to dodge a December snowstorm, we cut south on Highway 50, but the storm dipped below I-70 and just kept coming. It was falling in fat flakes as we pulled into town, and the drive along Blue Mesa was ... white.

So we sat there, the three of us. Cameron sucked down a hot chocolate with an insane dollop of whipped cream on top, and Delaney and I kept our server--the next generation of the waitress who plopped a gallon of water in front of me all those years ago--busy with the bottomless cup of good diner coffee.

"We want to see it," Delaney said. "Show us. Show us everything."

I paid the bill and we climbed back into the FJ. A good inch had accumulated since we sat down for breakfast, and the slow Sunday in Gunnison--the college students were long gone for the holidays--hadn't spurred the plow to take action yet. I pulled onto Main Street and drove north a couple of blocks. I took a right and drove over a block to the Gunnison County Courthouse.

The venerable old building hosted our wedding just over 22 years ago. Today, where we stood and exchanged vows after a manic Thursday morning in late summer, a construction tarp draped a couple of trailers. The lawn is a construction site. Fitting, I suppose.

I drove along the neighborhood streets, pointing out where we lived on Iowa, and where their mom lived in the little off-campus apartment. I showed them my dorm room--now the university's alumni center.

The campus is only slightly recognizable. The gym is new and bigger. The union is all new. It's huge. Beautiful. We stopped at snapped a couple of photos with the Mountaineer statue out in front of the new and improved Taylor Hall.

But as we drove down Main on the way out of town, I took another look at the little cafe through the snow and smiled. The sign is the same. The food was the same. The December weather was the same.

We had breakfast at The W. The rest will come.

Crazy

Yes. We're driving.

No need to ask again. And, yes. We're crazy. Thanks for the reinforcement.

This may not have been my best idea, but I keep thinking to myself, "You know, in 20 years, they'll remember just how awesome it was."

I say that because I can remember those Christmas drives from Longview, Texas "home" to Colorado. Two smoking parents--Marlboro Lights--and three pre-teen brothers piled into a single back seat in the Caprice Classic. Or the Buick Le Sabre. The smallest of us could squeeze into the little space just above the back seat right behind the back window. The middle kid could curl up on the floor--even with the hump in the middle. I'd stretch out on the seat.

Seat belts? Whatever.

Occasionally, my dad would crack the window, which generally succeeded in pushing all that acrid second-hand smoke into the back seat, where the three of us would suck it in. If we tried to roll a window down, we'd earn the blind wrath of a parent: "No! You'll let the heat out!"

It was horrible.

But, once we stopped at the Tall Texan in Amarillo, and on another trip, we stayed at a swank Motel 6 in Wichita Falls. It had a pool.

On another trip, were were eight hours away from our home in Longview, when I looked at the car passing us, and there was my junior high classmate Kirk Hayes driving his parents down Highway 287. He was 14.

After the next exit, I had managed to pester my parents enough to allow me to get behind the wheel. Moments later, I damn near took us all out as I crept up on an 18-wheeler and then swerved into oncoming traffic.

Yeah. That was fun.

And the license plate game... damn, we were good.

Then was always that moment when the sign announcing our arrival in Colorado--whether it was atop Raton Pass coming from New Mexico, or along the sage-dotted panhandle of Oklahoma near the town of Springfield. That was magical. Colorado was home. Texas was halfway to Hell.

Once we went to Palo Duro Canyon outside of Amarillo on a summer-run home to the Centennial State ("No! You'll let the air conditioner out!"). That was pretty cool.

Honestly, those trips were pretty awful. But when we speak of them, simply describing the horror of two parents lighting one smoke off the last smoke, we smile. We remember those close quarters. We remember the few good things on a 17-hour road trip that made those adventures worth taking.

At the time, 17 hours felt like an eternity. It's not. 30 hours. I'll let you know.

We're about five hours in as I write this. We've just escaped Price, Utah, after a stop at "Utah's Tallest Coal Miner," and the Big Kmart, where the kids pooled their resources and bought a new charge cable for their iPhone/iPad. Priorities, right?

To the east, the Book Cliffs are shrouded in clouds. I just heard, "How much longer?" for the third time.

We're on a road trip.