Over the years I have developed a fairly high tolerance to physical pain. I cannot remember the last time I shed tears due to suffering an injury. This includes sprains, broken bones, and even kidney stones. You also can’t speak poorly of me and expect me to cry. That ole “sticks-and-stones” thing has evidently stuck with me. With that being said, I will confess, I am a crier.
Who knows when this began, but it becomes very evident when I watch certain movies. Toy Story 3 and The Blind Side are recent culprits. Sports movies like Radio, Rudy, The Rookie, and We Are Marshall, not to mention Brian’s Song, are no escape. TV is guilty too as Home Makeover requires a box of tissues every week.
Grief is a given, but a variety of other emotions can turn on the taps. As we near football season I have to steel myself to the National Anthem being played as my patriotic heart swells and I think of all the men and women who have given their lives to make this country great. Tears of joy have also overcome me at times. It’s gotten to the point where I am being invited to parties. “Ladies and gentlemen, introducing the Incredible Crying Man.”
Tears come when I see a child hurting, a loved one suffering, or when I am overwhelmed by love and generosity. I cried watching the news reports of the 9/11 terrorist attack and the effects of Katrina on our own gulf coast. I cried even more witnessing the generosity of friends from across the nation as they attempted to help us recover.
I keep telling myself that crying is okay. It is a natural reaction. And, as long as it’s not in baseball, crying is acceptable (because everyone knows there’s no crying in baseball). I have now come to believe that crying doesn’t make me less of a man. It just makes me more of a human.
Musician and lyricist Bob Carlisle penned the following words, “When a grown man cries, you can feel the thunder. He can call down angels with signs and wonders. He’s a powerful man with a weary soul, and his tears can touch the very heart of God.”
Who’s Bob Carlisle? He’s the man who shared the story of his daughter growing up in the song “Butterfly Kisses.”
Yeah, that song gets me every time.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Childhood Memories
Life in 1977 on Sunset Drive was everything this boy could hope for, and I could not have experienced it in a better neighborhood. Oh the stories that street could tell.
On Sunset Drive the light posts still bear the marks of Frisbees flung in countless games of disc golf.
The yards were so spacious then, allowing us to throw 30-yard bombs from the Tatums' driveway end zone to the Hewitts'.
Neighboring houses would quake in fear that a coverless baseball wrapped in black electrical tape would find itself resting among the shards of glass on the living room floor. And the Christmas footballs had a life expectancy of about two days around the Galloways' yucca bushes.
After a hot morning playing ball we would all gather at my friend Les' house in the hopes that his mother would take us to West Hills Country Club so we could go swimming.
Sunset Drive had enough boys on it to field our own football teams so our own Super Bowls were Sunset vs. the world.
While we won more than we lost, the record wasn't what counted. It was the tales we told later that would have had the Dallas Cowboys quaking in their boots.
The city seemed much safer then as we rode our bicycles everywhere in town. The trip to Cloverleaf Mall was a simple jaunt through the woods that today are decorated with the colors of the fashion season on the racks at Walmart.
If trees could talk the leaves would tell of prepubescent war heroes that would get shot, count to 30, and get back up to fight again. The bark would smell of gunpowder and the forest floor would be littered with rolls of expended caps.
Al, John, Les, Steve, Jay and the gang have all grown up and gone their separate ways. Our world has gotten bigger and the neighborhood houses and yards have gotten smaller over the last 30 years or so.
I witnessed that fact myself when I rode past my old house the other day. The trees now dwarf the houses and the houses themselves seem so much smaller than they were in the days of my youth.
But if you walk down the street today and listen carefully, you can probably still hear the screams of joy. If you climb into the trees of the vacant lot and look far enough you can probably still see the Frisbees making their way down the street. And somewhere among those sites and sounds you can imagine all of the things we left undone for the next generations.
I hope they have as much fun as we did.
On Sunset Drive the light posts still bear the marks of Frisbees flung in countless games of disc golf.
The yards were so spacious then, allowing us to throw 30-yard bombs from the Tatums' driveway end zone to the Hewitts'.
Neighboring houses would quake in fear that a coverless baseball wrapped in black electrical tape would find itself resting among the shards of glass on the living room floor. And the Christmas footballs had a life expectancy of about two days around the Galloways' yucca bushes.
After a hot morning playing ball we would all gather at my friend Les' house in the hopes that his mother would take us to West Hills Country Club so we could go swimming.
Sunset Drive had enough boys on it to field our own football teams so our own Super Bowls were Sunset vs. the world.
While we won more than we lost, the record wasn't what counted. It was the tales we told later that would have had the Dallas Cowboys quaking in their boots.
The city seemed much safer then as we rode our bicycles everywhere in town. The trip to Cloverleaf Mall was a simple jaunt through the woods that today are decorated with the colors of the fashion season on the racks at Walmart.
If trees could talk the leaves would tell of prepubescent war heroes that would get shot, count to 30, and get back up to fight again. The bark would smell of gunpowder and the forest floor would be littered with rolls of expended caps.
Al, John, Les, Steve, Jay and the gang have all grown up and gone their separate ways. Our world has gotten bigger and the neighborhood houses and yards have gotten smaller over the last 30 years or so.
I witnessed that fact myself when I rode past my old house the other day. The trees now dwarf the houses and the houses themselves seem so much smaller than they were in the days of my youth.
But if you walk down the street today and listen carefully, you can probably still hear the screams of joy. If you climb into the trees of the vacant lot and look far enough you can probably still see the Frisbees making their way down the street. And somewhere among those sites and sounds you can imagine all of the things we left undone for the next generations.
I hope they have as much fun as we did.
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