A Letter to My Son

As part of a family history project for Jack's 7th grade Language Arts class at Academy at the Lakes, parents were asked to write a letter to their child. If you haven't ever done this for your own child, I strongly encourage it. What a wonderful gift for us both.

Jack, I have so many good memories of you that I hardly know where to start. But how about I start with Halloween night -- October 31, 2003?

You were not quite 3 years old but there was no doubt what you were you going to be that night. Your favorite TV show at the time was Bob the Builder, and I can remember watching it with you every afternoon in the den of our home in Greensboro, N.C.

Of course, you chose to dress up as the man himself, Bob the Builder. This was a man who was in charge, knew how to get things done, and was never too busy to lend a hand to friends and strangers alike.

As the theme song says, “Bob the Builder, can we fix it? Bob the Builder, YES WE CAN!”

Donning your blue jumpsuit and yellow hard hat, and with a hammer by your side, you were ready to conquer anything that came your way while trick-or-treating in our neighborhood, Adam’s Farm.

That Halloween, the street of Old Fox Trail filled with children and their parents as they trick-or-treated up and down the road. With you and Julianna being so young, your Ladybug sister sat in a stroller, and you rode in your green and grey Little Tykes Wagon.

What is most memorable about that night for your dad and me was how, at each house we visited, you eagerly jumped out of the wagon, navigated the steps to the front door, and before even asking your neighbors for candy, boldly declared to them, “I am Bob the Builder. I will fix that for you!”

And then you proceeded to hammer their front porch.

Cute story, I know … but why does this particular one stand out for me?

I think it’s because even at the young age of 3, we were beginning to see the type of young man you would become: straight to the point; caring; a “fixer”; and someone who is always was willing to help out a friend or stranger.

Today, I see those same traits in your willingness to help your sister with her math homework; in your genuine love and concern and for all animals and those people closest to you; and in your ability to help me conquer any technological or engineering task.

You’re my go-to guy -- the one who I know can get things done. I can always count on you to “fix it for me.”

Jack, although you are only 13 years old, I have already collected a lifetime of memories: birthdays and holidays; sports games and chess tournaments; talking football on the ride to school; racing at the annual Woolly Worm Festival in the mountains; riding rollercoasters with you until you are satisfied and I am sick … I cherish every moment -- even the ones where I’m nagging you to get out of bed or put away your laundry.

As I used to tell you when you were 3, I love you more than a million hippopotamuses.

And I can’t wait to remember the rest of what’s to come. 

You Must Be THIS Tall

Life is measured in milestones. First words … beginning steps … birthdays … graduations. And while I certainly use the same technique to measure my own children’s growth and development, I also use a different system. I call it The Tweetsie Method.

As we walked along Main Street during our most recent visit to Tweetsie Railroad, I wondered if my son, LJ, now 10, and my daughter, Julianna, 8, would still find the same magic they had on previous trips.

The kids made a beeline for the Turnpike Cruisers, and LJ confidently marched up to the You Must Be This Tall to drive alone sign. Last year, he came within an inch or two of clearing the mark, and this time it wasn’t even close. He stood proud and beaming as the ride attendant waved him through to his own shiny green car.

I, on the other hand, had a flashback. I saw the 3-year-old toddler who sat wide-eyed as I bumped around the track. I pictured the 5-year-old Kindergartner who gripped my hands in his as I steered the path. And I envisioned the 7-year-old little boy who jerked into the safety wall as he managed the steering wheel and I controlled the pedals.

And then I watched. I marveled as this young man – my son – maneuvered easily around the turnpike, focused intently on the path ahead, never once looking behind.

It wasn’t a first word, a birthday, or a major life event. But to me, this was a milestone. A Tweetsie Milestone.

And there have been many. Staying awake long enough to watch Tweetsie’s Fourth of July fireworks from the car rooftop; moving up from the kiddie rides on Miner’s Mountain to the big kid rides at the Country Fair; LJ and Julianna getting up the nerve to enter the Black Hole at the Ghost Train Halloween Festival; and me getting up the nerve to let them ride the chair lift by themselves for the first time – that was a big one.

I remember visiting Tweetsie when I was a child, and now, it’s become an annual tradition for my own family. The beauty of the park is that, although it remains frozen in time with the steam engine, arcade games, and good old-fashioned Southern hospitality, there’s room for children to grow and discover new adventures each and every visit.

I can only hope LJ and Julianna continue the tradition when they are parents someday. What a Tweetsie Milestone that would be.

Note: I wrote this post specifically -- and happily -- for the Tweetsie Railroad blog.

Life is a Highway

It was an out of body experience. Or maybe it was in slow motion. Or it could have just been that time seemed to stand still.

Apply any cliche you want to, but it was certainly not your ordinary rest stop.

On our way back from the Woolly Worm Festival in Banner Elk last weekend, we had to pull off of I-40 near Winston-Salem. Some luggage in the back of our SUV had slipped and was crowding Julianna, so we exited the interstate and edged onto the right side of the shoulder about 50 yards from the highway.

Jack opened the tailgate and, just a few moments later, I heard him scream, "Indy, NO!"

Indy must have mistaken "NO" for "GO" because I jumped out of the car just in time to see him shoot straight down the exit ramp like a 100-lb black, furry bat out of hell.

With Indy hurtling at full speed toward his certain demise, a car headed up our exit ramp. Jack waved his arms frantically and the car slowed to a stop, but Indy was not to be denied his date with destiny. Making a sharp right, Indy headed off the exit ramp and across the median directly for the highway.

There was really nothing Jack and I could do but stand helplessly and call his name. This was puppy play, and the "come" command was falling on deaf ears as he bounded closer and closer to I-40.

But he's just a puppy, you say? Surely you could have caught him, you say? How fast can an oversized 8-month old bear be, you say?

Now I do realize that Newfs are not known for their grace or their speed. But for those who believe that giant breed dogs can't move fast, I offer you Indy.

No, really, I offer you Indy. He's already house-trained and I'll even throw in a bag of dog food for free.

My mom calls Indy the fastest dog she's ever seen. Of course, that assessment is based on the time he tore away from her grip to run down a motorcycle in our neighborhood.

Indy may not actually be THE fastest dog ever, but he was certainly fleet-footed enough to escape our middle-aged, out-of-shape efforts. So, clinging to hope alone (and with Newfie fur and slobber clinging to me), I yelled:

"OVER HERE, INDY!"

He immediately stopped, turned and started racing back toward me.

Knowing that I only had one shot to wrangle this steer, I crouched into sumo position and decided I was going for it.

This was my goal line stand. My now or never. My one shining moment.

This was my chance to tackle the Newf.

What came next is a bit of a blur.

There was a collision, a cloud of gravel dust, and a splatter of drool flying through the air.

Then Jack swooped in to latch leash to collar. The near nightmare was over and the lone casualty was a small cut on my knee.

I can only imagine what this whole episode looked like to those watching from their cars. And I do wonder if any 911 calls were placed from drivers on I-40 who reported seeing a miniature black bear attacking a woman on the side of the road.

As we walked an out-of-breath Indy back to our SUV, the driver of the first car that had stopped to avoid hitting him on the exit ramp gave us the "thumbs up" sign and then continued on.

But the next car in line stopped and the driver rolled down her window.

"Everyone okay?" she asked, as she peered from under her sunglasses.

I nodded, smiled, and said, "Yes, thanks."

She just shook her head, pushed her sunglasses back into place, rolled up the window and drove away muttering one four-letter word ...

"Newf."

Adventures in Sledding

Last Saturday, our 45-minute snow sledding trek became a microcosm of my children's distinct personalities.

Beech Mountain maintains a quaint little public sledding area that they keep refreshed with man-made snow. It is pretty tame compared to snow tubing, which is a much longer and wilder ride, but it was still high adventure for a 5-year-old girl, 8-year-old boy, and their two (dare I say) middle-aged parents.

LJ started the afternoon disappointed because we opted for sledding over tubing. He said that "the kids didn't look like they were having any fun" and it wouldn't be as exciting.

Julianna, who couldn't actually remember the experience of snow tubing a couple of years earlier, was eager to give it a try.

To LJ's credit, he sprinted up the icy path (slipping approximately 12 times in the process), and wanted to be first in line to try out his brand new disc-style sled. He threw caution to the wind, and flew down the "intermediate" hill before I could even say go.

That would be his last solo trip. He went so fast down the hill that he went careening over the stop mats and into the haystacks at the end of the run. He was fine, but quickly proclaimed: "That was crazy and I am NOT going again. I want to go home."

Julianna, on the other hand, took one trip down with Dad and then declared her independence ... from that point on, she would be taking the runs by herself. She moved up and down the hill at such a breakneck pace that at times, I could not even keep up with her.

Bundled to the hilt in layer upon layer of warm clothing, she waddled up the slopes and lugged her sled behind her like a Clydesdale. There was no stopping that girl.

Until her toes started to go numb.

We headed for the warmth of the car and then to a Banner Elk restaurant for some hot chocolate (which, by the way, was too weak by LJ's standards).

Later that night, I was reflecting on our sledding trip it struck me how much LJ's and Julianna's beautiful, unique personalities shined through the thick fog at Beech Mountain.

Julianna is eyes wide open, always wanting to try new things, looks before she leaps, and puts a positive spin on almost everything. And she'll tell you about it all day long. She's a self-professed talker. Although tiring, it is one of the things I love about her the most.

Julianna soaked up her moment in the snow like there would be desert heat tomorrow -- she was queen of the hill and took Beech by storm.

She's a lot like her Dad ... he says he's an optimist. I say he's a dreamer.

LJ is cautious, analytical, and immensely loyal. Once his mind is made up, there is no changing it. Although frustrating, it is one of the things I love about him the most. If that kid is ever in a debate, I want to be on his team! I don't think LJ has ever been wrong before (just ask him, he'll tell you).

LJ reluctantly tried sledding even though he thought it wouldn't be as good as tubing. One trip down the hill and he KNEW he was right begin with. Sledding stinks and tubing is better. One might say he's a pessimist. LJ would says he's a realist.

Hmmm... that sounds a lot like me.


Here are a few bonus photos from ice skating with my brother, Steven, and his girlfriend, Julie, on Friday, Jan. 2.