Monthly Archives: August 2015

Gotcha Day

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This July, we celebrated two relatively unknown holidays. For the rest of the world, our celebration did not create even the tiniest blip on the radar. Yet for two young ladies, Gotcha Day is a huge part of their lives. The background story on this is one that meshes well with our family’s concept of “created family” – friends become “aunts and uncles” and mix in a few “adopted” grandparents and college age sons. God planted amazing people in our midst, including one cousin to my husband. Growing up, they were not that close as he was older than my sweetie, but “Uncle Bryan” as my girls call him has a younger sister who was Daniel’s closest confidante for most of his growing up years.

Uncle Bryan and his wife, Michelle, really impressed us as a young couple. They were and are amazing parents, and ones whom in our earlier years, we hoped to emulate. Our decision wasn’t difficult when we asked them to be Reed’s godparents. They were tops on our list. Along with another set of dear, dear friends, Lorrie and Jay, Bryan and Michelle were Reed’s godparents. All four grieved along with us as we said good-bye to the redheaded sunshine of our world when he passed away at age 12.

All of our other children have incredible godparents, including the younger sister mentioned earlier. A few years ago, Sally was really missing Reed and figured Uncle Bryan was too. At our family reunion, she wandered out to the fish cleaning shack and put forth a proposal. Would you be my godfather too? I am fairly sure that he had no idea that was coming, but he readily agreed to step in and love her the way he had and continues to love Reed. In that one precious moment, Gotcha Day was created.

Fast forward two years and once again; we are at our family reunion, sometimes referred to as Nowatzki-palooza, because of the sheer numbers of us present. During the previous two years, Sal had opportunities to do things with both of her godfathers; conveniently both named “Uncle Bryan” to her. At the reunion, she could not wait to cuddle up with Uncle Bryan and see what was happening in his world. Our family reunions are all-day and well-into-the-night affairs. After Sally gave her good night hugs to those around the campfire, our Sister saddled up next to Uncle Bryan. The two have shared a good repartee of banter from the moment she first got a cell phone. For her grateful daddy, most of his advice centering on boys, making good choices, and encouraging her in sports.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Sister shared with him how much her little sister loves him and how she wished she had that. Sadly, her godparents divorced in her toddlerhood. Watching her brothers interact with their godfathers, she was always wistful for the same.  In the middle of the night his heart melted, the man who took on one . . . took on another.

By morning, I learned that Erin had a new godfather with a very familiar sounding name. Uncle Bryan stole her heart, which is hard to do for a teenage girl in a technologically, clambering world. Tears in my eyes, I added another Gotcha Day to the calendar.

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Although our Gotcha Days are one day apart, the love shared binds together three hearts, and the driving force behind their creation flows deeply from the heart of one incredible godfather. As a mom, I could not imagine a more wonderful solution. More importantly, I believe a redheaded young man looks down from heaven and smiles that old familiar grin at this arrangement, more than happy to share his godfather.

bryan and erin

God bless the 1%

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I’ve never really put much thought into this very real life truism, but men and women are totally different. Maybe some of my obliviousness comes from the fact that for the first ten years of my life my best friends were my brother and my two boy cousins. Oh, I was all girl, but I did a pretty good job of keeping up with the guys. Maybe I was clueless not noticing any major differences in our thinking. They were just my buddies. This trend continued with all my guy friends throughout high school and college.

As I grew up and married the love of my life, I began to realize there really are some distinct differences between our thinking. Honestly, I cringe internally at men bashing when I hear it. Even though there are times when my sweetie drives me crazy, I am EQUALLY sure that is a two-way street.

This summer, an event with my guy taught me a valuable lesson, one I had never before entertained.

Losing a man’s respect is probably the worst thing another man can do.

A very painful experience left my husband disappointed by people. My daddy even noticed it, mentioning it to me in our most recent phone conversation. “He is about the most laid back guy around. This really upset him. I had never seen him worked up like that before.” My dad’s witness came to bear when we were all vacationing together, the coastal Florida life.

It was on our final night on the island a chance encounter happened which restored some of my sweetie’s belief in humanity. With such a large group traveling together, we made most of our meals at the beach house and chose to splurge on a few local hotspots. One of those favorites was dining at a restaurant that sits at the end of a busy city pier. Along the edges of the long walk out to the café are countless fishermen reeling in the evening’s catch.

Shenanigans on the pier.

Shenanigans on the pier.

After enjoying some amazing grouper meals, we began to meander back to the shore. My husband, an avid fisherman and hunter, couldn’t resist asking the locals what was biting. One gentleman was more than happy to visit. Looking back now, I feel that his spot on that pier was divine intervention.

He shared he was hoping for tarpon as it was the season for them, but instead he had snagged a baby shark (which are plentiful on the island). Our kids were now entranced by his every word. Sally asked what he did with the shark. He was an ethical fisherman, and he explained that the two foot shark had a bit down pretty hard and was not able to be saved. Of course, everyone wanted to see the shark.

“Blessed are the curious for they shall have adventure” became a real theme this evening as our littlest peppered him with questions.

What are you going to do with the shark?

I will eat him. I took him; so, now I have to eat him. Some people would throw him back but that isn’t the right thing to do.

Well, how in the world do you cook shark?

After I fillet him, I will make shark nuggets and fry them in some oil. My family and I will enjoy him. I just got back home and this will be a good meal for us.

The entire time this conversation was going on, the gentleman was still fishing on the edges of the illuminated pier. One look at him with the larger than life musculature and military haircut gave me a pretty good idea where he just returned from to get home.

I asked him if he was in the military. In true Southern fashion, an audible “yes ma’am” confirmed what my heart already knew. He explained that he was home after his fourth tour in Iraq.   Without skipping a beat, I thanked him for his service, explaining my gratitude was coming from the heart of a veteran’s wife.

Fielding questions on what’s biting didn’t hold the same reverence as embracing a fellow soldier. Putting down his fishing pole and stepping up the higher level of the pier, he stuck out his hand and asked my husband where he had served.   A quick exchange of service details emerged, both mutually thanking the other for their willingness to answer freedom’s call.

As we were ready to head on back, the soldier at the pier had one final parting utterance.

Thank you, my brother, for being part of the 1 percent! We are an elite group.*

I don’t know that soldier’s story, but I do know my mine. Joining the Army National Guard as a way to help with paying for college, he was only eighteen years old, the same age as our Boy Wonder, when Uncle Sam needed his help halfway around the world to defend freedom. He served one tour, which he rarely speaks about unless it is to share a story of camaraderie among the troops. His patriotism is unparalleled, and even though he has voluntarily left the military, he would serve again if his country asked him.

His trust broken, just a few weeks previous, left an indelible mark, but the soldier on the pier reminded him and all of us the words honor and duty and respect are alive and well. Real men who embody real ideals met for one brief moment on the edge of a pier; their happenstance encounter restoring some of what had been lost.

We learned in the exchange the fisherman would soon be returning for another tour, and wherever he is we pray that God keeps him safe. And hopefully, he knows how much we appreciate his willingness to be the one percent allowing us all to sleep in peace at night!

God bless my 1%!

God bless my 1%!

*Only one percent of the American population has ever served in active combat.

The Magic of Florida

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The Magic of Disney

The Orlando Magic

Those might be the first things that come to mind when seeing the title of today’s blog. While I know quite a bit about the game of basketball, I know zippety-zap other than the existence of the professional basketball team from my home state.

On the former, I still remember my first trip to Disney World. I was older than the park. I was eight, and Disney World was only six years old. It was cold with drizzly rain. We had the park practically to ourselves. In my daddy’s words, “this was back before they had caught on”. Whatever the reason for being one family among the few, we had a great time. Back in those days, you needed coupons for the rides. My mom who is a meticulous saver of memorabilia still has our coupons from that day. When I called my parents to confirm my childhood details matched theirs, my mom shared she still has those coupons. My parents have moved more times than I care to think about since that December 20th date (yep, she recalls the actual date of our attendance), and yet, a piece of our day spent there has survived all the moves. If truth were told, I, too, have a few pieces, Disney World coffee mug and a Bear Country Jamboree patch, from our day. This trip in family lore has lingered on and absolutely could be described as magical. Less because of the theme park, and more due to our family being able to afford to go and enjoy it. At the time, my daddy was a graduate student and assistant coach (neither of which are high paying gigs), and for one day, even if it was less than ideal weather, we treated ourselves. Living life and making memories . . . a true definition of magical.

The hoopsters and the hipsters known as Mickey and Minnie are permanently attached to the moniker “magic”. But for me, my whole definition of the word was transformed at the end of a dock in a marina slip. It was the least likely place in the world to experience true peace, but I wasn’t the only one who found it there.

My sweetie who sadly isn’t always able to vacation with the kids and I laid down the law before we left for Florida for the Boy Wonder’s graduation trip. He sat our party of six down and explained other than boarding the airplane, there would be no, none, zero, zip, zilch, nada, NOT ONE IOTA of stress during this vacation. This was the trip of our dreams and he wasn’t going to allow any of us to sweat the small stuff. To demonstrate he was serious he mock threatened to implement an NCIS reinforcement technique. Despite his size (think football lineman), my sweetie is the gentlest giant among men I know. We were all in giggles when he suggested that any stressing would result in a Leroy Jethro Gibbs head slap. He got his point across although he had no intentions of actually doing it.

He was the leader in the no stress brigade the entire trip. His vision of peace and tranquility came to fruition two minutes (I am not exaggerating here) after we arrived at our beach house. We were unloading some food in the kitchen, when his trained-to-look-for-wildlife eyes zeroed in on a blackish blob in the water behind the property. Curiosity won him over and he went to the dock to check it out. Giddy with excitement because he found what his girl was hoping to find. his discovery held us – all of us – captive all week. Manatees! Not just one or two, but more like six or seven. There were mommas and nursing babies and all other sizes in between. The marina slip despite its mucky appearance must have been a marine mammal smorgasbord, because they were there all week. To say we were captivated would be the understatement of the century.

On the plane down, I told everyone despite growing up in Florida, the one thing I had never seen in the wild was a manatee. Alligators, crocodiles, snakes, sharks, and dolphins, I’ve got them covered, but not manatees. I had even searched for manatee tours, but felt that with Sister on crutches with strict restrictions from the doctor would not enjoy a boat tour at all. We did see some rescued manatees at Sea World, but that really wasn’t what I was hoping to see.

Not the manatees from the dock who were extremely camera shy. These are the rescued ones from Sea World.

Not the manatees from the dock who were extremely camera shy. These are the rescued ones from Sea World.

The smallest among us at three months old really could take ‘em or leave ‘em (mostly leaving ‘em), but every other member of our party of twelve spent hours at the end of that small dock every day. The rising and lowering tide kept the rhythm of the island as we sat with legs dangling just breathing in God’s majestic beauties. In our tranquil observations, we learned some of their articulations and movements. Even when someone would call for a meal time, those at the water’s edge would wish to linger just a little longer, not wanting to miss one moment.

Inside we had every modern convenience known, and as nice as those were, they didn’t hold a candle to God’s magnificent beach and the manatees in the backyard. We were all mesmerized by their peaceful life below the surface and wishing we could live our lives as freely.

And for one week, we did.

I couldn’t ask for anything more magical than that.