Honea Express

Archive for the ‘Pictures’ Category

The truth is that the tree in the previous post was already cut down. We didn’t do it. I don’t need to report to the FTC that we received a boat or a house or a bushel of apples in exchange for the photo. It was a stump when we found it, and I have no idea if the tree ever gave or loved at all. For all I know it did nothing but take, and it could very well have deserved to die.

Also, the boy is not sad. He is doing this thing called “acting.” You could learn a lot from him, Nic Cage.

Here’s what happened:

We were almost home from the farmers’ market. We were on our bikes. The boys were between the rainbow dyes of a shared shaved ice and the promised painting of the hard boiled eggs that waited at home. I had fresh tulips sticking out of my backpack. The sun was warm and high above us. We could pass for a photograph.

There was a woman playing her ukulele under a large willow along the edge of the path and we slowed down as we rode by. That’s when we saw the stump. It was just siting there.

“Hey,” I called to the boys. “Come over here and let me take your picture.”

Zane jumped up first.

“Look,” he shouted. “I’m a sundial.”

He made a few more poses in the warm sunshine, the sound of a ukulele floating from the tree behind us.

“Our Easter eggs are white,” he said for no apparent reason.

“Don’t be racist,” I answered. He continued to work the camera, which in this case was my iPhone. He looked like he was in pain. “Now what are you doing?”

“You said to be fartsy.”

“Artsy. Get off the stump and let your brother have a turn.”

Atticus took over. He also opened with the sundial.

“It’s like the Giving Tree,” he said.

“And you’re like Einstein. What did you think we were doing out here?”

“Should I look sad?” he asked.

“Own it,” I said.

So he did, and then we got back on our bikes and went home.

The ukulele faded quickly, but the sun stayed up for hours.

A working vacation in San Francisco ended with me hobbled and limping for home. I enjoyed my visit, but pushed my tired, useless feet too far. The swelling pain in them left me unable to walk, clutching the walls of the airport terminal like they were lined with last breaths. I moved at a pace roughly half that of the old woman with the cane. I believe she savored the moment that I became a spot of dust in her rearview bifocals.

I bit my lip until it bled and watched as empty wheelchairs rolled by for patrons much more used to their need. I was sore with pride and stupidity.

I closed my eyes on the plane, knowing my heart waited somewhere forward. I am not one for leaving it behind.

Days later had me working from bed. My right foot as swollen as it could be without bursting like an overblown balloon. I am at the mercy of my family’s patience and kindness. It has put my exhausted wife further to her husband’s end.

Today was Valentine’s Day. We had no plans for romance. My wife was over it sometime between the kids and the constant rains. I was done when I realized that chocolate and flowers were not the same as foreplay. It is a day we enjoy better for the mocking.

My morning was spent sprawled across a mattress stuffing Disney trinkets into cartoon cards while my boys signed their names in an assembly line of chicken scratch. Their day was filled with candy and roses. Except that there was more candy where the flowers should be.

Tricia worked the night shift, and soon the afternoon was replaced by evening, and my wife was replaced by a hole in the room.  The boys and I watched Finding Nemo, then sat on my bed and talked about cable cars and earthquakes. Zane shared thoughts on the protocol of Hallmark holidays. Atticus sang Black Bird in its entirety.

They were crawling from my bed to theirs when I said something about seeing my 4-year-old for the last time. That he’d be five come morning. It was supposed to build upon the excitement he’d been expressing for the better part of the last six months.

The only thing that built were the tears in his eyes.

“I don’t want to grow up,” he said. And with that he was  tucked against me crying for all he was worth. His brother followed with equal tenderness and I found myself broken from heart to foot and covered in the tears of my children.

Explaining the meaning of bittersweet is just that.

Soft words soothed as only soft words can do, and tears gave way to warm cheeks pressed tightly upon the other. Plans were made for continued awe and so much wonder. Their pace grew slow and steady.

They fell asleep in my bed, wrapped in a hug of brotherly love. I sat at their side, beneath the glow of lights turned low, listening to a clock chime hours unknown, and watching my foot, willing it to explode.

This post is part of a series sponsored by Shutterfly. I was selected for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective, which endorses Blog With Integrity, as I do.

I also blog with whiskey.

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I received your Christmas cards. All of them. They were fantastic, and your family is beautiful.  I see you got the sweater.

They are in a box of holiday cards from Christmases past, packed away with other seasonal memories. It’s something I do so that I never forget you.  They are somewhere between the snowflakes and the sleigh bells, just under the brown paper packages tied up with strings. Also, whiskers on kittens.

It seems like I just put the holidays away, and now my thoughts have already turned to unpacking them again. They are the things I remember, simply, when the dog bites or the bee stings — when I’m feeling sad. I think of the card you took time to send, and then I don’t feel so bad.

They are a few of my favorite things.

I’m writing this because my family and I are terrible about sending cards. We always have been and we always will. Sometimes we skip a year.  Other times they’re late. Often we lose an address or forget someone, or just decide we no longer like you.  That last part isn’t true, but it probably feels that way standing at your empty mailbox like Chuck Brown and that kid with the blanket.  Sometimes the things we don’t do hurt more than the things we did.

I’m writing this because I’ve been given an opportunity by Shutterfly.com to share their vast collection of holiday photo cards with you, the public.  They’re also giving me cards, which is nice.

The hard part is choosing the right card. This isn’t due to anything that Shutterfly does — they make it easy, but because when you care enough to send the best you want your best to be good enough.  That’s why my picture will most likely not be on it.  Man, my kids are cute.

Here are the designs I’m considering:

The Cheery Year Noir 2010 Christmas Card is simple and elegant. Kind of like me, but, as I mentioned, elegant. In a world that isn’t black and white, it still makes a great card.

The Wonder Trees Noir Christmas Card is fun, and the trees are a wonder, but you probably got that from the name.  It feels like family, and I hardly know these people.

The Family Letter Blue Christmas Card hits home on many levels. There is ample space for pictures of the kids and a whole sidebar for me to write stuff! I may just cut and paste this post.  Also, Blue Christmas is my favorite Elvis holiday song.

I’m not really considering the Retro Love Holiday Card, it’s not really my style, but doesn’t this dog look like a Muppet? Or ALF? Man, those nutty Sutherlands.

Here’s where you come in. Yes, you. If you’re a blogger and would like 50 Shutterfly cards for your own use, well, those people at Shutterfly will make it happen. It is the season and all that. Click the link above and you’re on your way. And goodbye, I’ll miss you.

So let’s pretend we’re close enough for me to send you a holiday card, which one of the above choices do you like best?