The Little Black Dress was adamant she would be watching said show. The SONS of Thunder were pretty adamant they would not. The Dress pointed out if the SONS would like to earn some “points,” it might be wise for them to join her for a while. And let’s face it, the fact the SONS need lots of “points” right now was fairly well implied.

So with a few “ughs” and “do we have to” comments, the SONS settled down. As least settled down as much as the SONS can when they are forced to do something they really don’t want to – which basically means they didn’t.

Anyway … so the young ladies start parading and it is obvious a little competition is starting among the SONS. They are all pushing for their “birth” state. Youngest with Georgia, Middle has Nebraska and Eldest takes Alaska. The Dress is pushing Miss Oklahoma all the way.

The reason for that is she competed in Miss Oklahoma for several years. The only blemish to that incredibly fine organization is that The Dress never won the state title. Everyone makes mistakes.

The SONS are quite happy with Miss Oklahoma as well. They lived there for about two years, yours truly and The Dress grew up there, plenty of friends and family are still there. And, well, you know, mom was in that competition.

Well, Top 10 come out and all three of the SONS’ home states are out. Which means they are basically “out” as in continuing to watch.

Yeah, and then comes the bathing suit competition.

“Um, we can hang around for a little longer if you really, really want us to mom.”

“You all know she won that don’t you,” I point out to the SONS.

“Won, won what” they all ask.

“Um, the swimsuit competition.”

Total silence.

They look up at the television, look over at The Dress, look at the television … back and forth.

And I’m cracking up watching that interaction. Because you know at one level they are looking at these 18 to 20 year-olds and trying to equate that age with The Dress’s age, which we all know is 29. So it’s not a hard leap, but still …

And I also see a little bit of pride and a few winks and high-fives among the SONS.

So the swimsuit competition ends and then there’s the whole talent thing and the SONS are like, so gone after that. And The Dress gives her blessing so they are like, seriously and physically gone.

For some reason, I am a master at these competitions. I always get at least two out of the Top 5 and almost always pick the winner. I got three out of the Top 5 this year. But I admit, I did pick The Dress, or rather, she allowed me to pick her, so I do have some good practice.

Anyway, so with it down to the Top 5 The Dress and I are pulling all out for Miss Oklahoma. And The Dress is going crazy with all her “Go Betty,” “Go Betty”- like it’s some big football game or some huge national competition for young women with a title like Miss America or something on the line.

Miss Oklahoma misses by one – she’s runner-up. And yet The Dress is quite proud of Miss Betty Thompson.

The Dress will see Miss Betty soon.

The Miss Oklahoma pageant will be gearing up this summer. The Dress will be there, as will all the contestants. The young ladies are competing for the crown – the Miss Oklahoma title.

The Dress will be there, helping and showing them another Crown.

You see, The Dress was named this year as chaplain for the Miss Oklahoma pageant. Her role is to mentor and guide and also to help them “win” the true Crown. Only one wears the Miss Oklahoma crown; each of those young ladies can win the Crown – the Crown of Life.

I can’t think of a better title – and position – for the Little Black Dress. And while I know the LBD really wanted the state crown, I also know she’s really, really pumped about this title.

And honestly, I like the title better.

By that I mean if you’re going to fulfill that dream of sailing solo around the world, you might want to make sure you can get across a small lake in a Sunfish first. And that you are okay with the whole concept of having conversations with yourself, and by that I mean answering yourself, for weeks at a time.

Think about that.

Anyway, recently yours truly and two other dads decided to hike Pine Mountain in Georgia, along with an assortment of SONS. Those SONS including all three SONS of Thunder, one SON of Lightening and one SON of Scoutmaster. A 23-mile hike and we were going to spread it out over three days/two nights.

And yes, I know hikers on the Appalachian Trail can do a 23-miler in a day. Again, baby steps. We have the SONS to think about. And I’m getting old.

The plan was six miles the first day, 12 the second and wrap it up with the remaining six or so on the third day.

You know that expression about one’s eyes being bigger than their stomach? Keep that in mind.

So prior to this little jaunt we hit the Backpacking and Camping Store of Nirvana. Loaded up Middle SON with a new one-man tent for his birthday, got Youngest SON a new backpack and somehow Oldest SON, who has everything possible relating to backpacking, somehow found a few things he absolutely, positively, had to have.

I of course needed nothing.

I just shot coffee out my nose writing that.

Anyway, we get back and pack all necessary stuff in said backpacks. For the record, I am not one of those “ultra minimalist” backpackers. I don’t cut the corners off the maps and saw the toothbrush in half to save 0.34 ounces. On the other hand, I don’t pack the kitchen sink either. I use a lightweight backpacking stove

I’m more toward the “light” backpacker. But, there are some things I will not go without. Like a sleeping bag and pad, especially when it’s 30 degrees outside. I can pack pretty light and I actually understand the whole backpack weight to body weight ratio and all that.

Now Youngest SON is also the Smallest SON, and for some reason that whole formula is going out the window. Because there’s no way I can get his backpack weight down despite taking pretty much everything out of it. The thing still seems to weigh about what he does.

And it’s slightly unstable. I know this because every time he leans slightly one way, he just keeps tipping until he’s on the ground.

But we finally get everything figured out and the big day arrives. Off we go.

And to my amazement, we actually get more than a mile down the trail without a “are we there yet?” As is almost always the case, we started the day slightly behind schedule. And with it being winter and the whole loss of daylight hours, we kind of need to “hoof” it to get to our campsite before darkness descends.

And because we have to “hoof” it, the SONS start dragging. And the more we dads “encourage” said “hoofing,” the more the SONS “drag.”

You’d think we were on the Bataan Death March or something. I mean, the whole shuffling feet, head down, gasping for air,  ”I can’t go another step” blah, blah, routine.

Yet somehow we make it to camp and set up right as darkness falls.

And suddenly our little Death March survivors have turned into High-Fiving Chipmunks, cause they are up and down, climbing and jumping and just basically acting like, well, chipmunks in the woods. Where did all that energy come from?

As we finally get ready to bed down for the night, I start doing a few calculations. Going at a somewhat normal pace, we can do about two miles an hour. Tomorrow is a 12-mile hike, meaning about six hours of hiking.

But then we need to factor in the “rests.” Said “rests” will include several snack breaks, followed by even more water breaks and every “we’re at the bottom of the hill so we need to rest so we can make it up,” followed by “we made it to the top so now we need to rest to restore our energy,” to the proverbial “I can’t go another step” rest.

I’m beginning to think this whole trip is not going to turn out as planned.

So in the morning we have a quick dad conference and agree we’ll do the first six miles and just take it from there. One dad left his car at that six-mile point, so if needed, we can call it quits. So we explain our plan to all the SONS. If anyone wants to, they can go back home at that point, while whoever wants to can continue.

The reactions are interesting. Our plan totally ticks off Youngest Thunder SON, who is adamant we are going to do the whole 12-mile stretch, camp and spend the night and  then do the finally six miles the next day. And for the first mile all he does is sulk about not the possibility – possibility mind you – we aren’t going to do the whole thing.

Middle SON quite adamantly says he is absolutely, positively going to be stopping at that six-mile marker.  And that goal becomes his Holy Grail.

And Oldest SON, the hard-core backpacker, offers to go home with Middle SON. He says it might be nice for Youngest SON and I to just have some “guy-time” and continue on our own. Oldest SON is blowing smoke. Because if he’s ready to pull out, you know we’ve hit the “eyes bigger than your stomach.”

Factoring in all the “rests” and “breaks,” it pretty well takes us most of the day just to get to that six-mile point.

And all the dads come to the same conclusion. We’ve had fun, but if we push the SONS anymore, they will hate it and will never want to do it again.  Even the Youngest SON, who was adamant we push forward a few hours ago, has hit the “I can’t take another step” phase.

And so we call it quits. Not “quits” really, but rather “enough.”

Basically, we cut our plan in half. We spent one night instead of two, hiked half the distance of the trail rather than the entire thing. But all the SONS are willing to go out another time, and that’s the key.

Baby steps.

The intent was there – getting together with friends and their kids so said kids can have fun. To create, as the Little Black Dress would say, “memories.” Sometimes it’s best to not go there, create the memory I mean. Because once it’s there, you never forget. And it takes decades of time before you can maybe laugh about it.

But no. We are going to create memories by golly. And so the three SONS of Thunder, the two SONS of Lightening, the DAUGHTER AND SON of Fire, along with the appropriate parental units, hit a fall festival.

And we’re actually having a good time and bonding and creating those memories. Until someone comes up with the brilliant stupid idea of trying the Corn Maze. I don’t know who actually came up with the idea, but I can assure you it wasn’t me.

Because we get to the entrance of the corn maze and the first thing they hand you is a flag on a long stick. And then you read a bunch of rules:  rules like don’t cut through the corn maze, stay on the path; don’t start a fire (I will come back to that one); STAY WITH YOUR GROUP (why yes, we’ll be coming back to that one too); don’t freak out because you are totally lost in a field of corn and are going to die as the corn stalks slowly bend toward you, wrapping their sheaves of gold ever so tightly around your body and take one of their ears of bountiful corn and ram it into your eye.

No, on that last one, you are supposed to remain calm and wave the aforementioned flag and someone will come to get you. Even if it takes a day or two. And hopefully before the corn stalks have done a number on you.

I bring up that last point because one of the more inquisitive SONS asked what I thought was a pretty smart question; namely, how long does it take to get through this pit of hell corn maze.

And the nice woman says some people have actually made it in about 10 minutes. And then she says some people … and she looks off in the distance, like she’s remembering something. Like a relative who died a slow and painful death.

Remember those memories I was talking about? Yeah, here’s why sometimes memories should not be created in the first place. Because we walk into the corn maze and the first thing I think of is that D-Grade movie, “Children of the Corn.”

It was decades ago, and as near as I can remember, it involved some children and some corn fields and some psycho minister. Thus the title, naturally. And basically, if you didn’t do exactly what the psycho guy said, you got sent to the corn field to be shucked.  Or stabbed to death with a bunch of ears of bountiful corn. Or something.

All I remember is 1. you never wanted to go into said corn field and 2. if you did get sent there, you were going to die a horrible death.

So I’m thinking about that as we walk into the corn maze.

And it takes about, oh, six seconds or so before the SONS of Thunder and the SONS of Lightening and the SON of Fire have totally violated Rule No. 3 – the one I put in big capital letters – STAY WITH YOUR GROUP.

As an aside, the DAUGHTER of Fire and her father went for a pony ride. She was the only smart one in the group.

Back to the maze of death. Basically, it takes another seven or eight seconds before the various SONS are all screaming each other’s names. Because they are already lost and a couple of them are already freaking out because some SON did not STAY WITH THE GROUP. And I look back and realize I’m only about 10 yards from the entrance to this incredible memory I got suckered into and I start walking back and The Dress looks at me and says, “don’t even thing about it.”

Ugh.

So we round up the various SONS complete with the STAY WITH YOUR GROUP lecture, which, as all parents know, is a complete waste of time. But as parental units, we have to give said lecture to show that we are, you know, parental units.

And that lasted about a minute – I mean the STAY WITH YOUR GROUP impact.

And suddenly we come to the proverbial fork in the road. And there’s a sign with a question and three possible answers. Depending on your answer, you go straight, left or right.

It’s at this point I should mention this pit of hell corn maze has a “theme.” Why a theme? I have no friggin idea. But the theme is “space exploration.” How does a pit of hell corn maze and space exploration tie together? Again, I have no friggin idea.

So the questions relate to space exploration naturally. And I’m just standing there waiting on the various SONS to tell us the answer because they are the ones in school and getting the education and should know this off the top of their heads because The Dress and I just wasted about a month of our lives building a space ship out of flour and salt and duct tape for some science project and as soon as we got them to school with said project they opened the car door and the project fell out and broke into a million pieces and our precious SON failed said project and we ruined his life forever.

And I’m still waiting.

There are some technological advances that I truly am thankful for, especially at times like this.  Because another dad and I do what any sane person would do in a similar situation – we pull out our smartphones and just Google the answer.

And we end up doing that on more than one occasion.

And that’s pretty much how this memory went. Some SON would violate the STAY WITH YOUR GROUP rule, everyone would start yelling and freaking, we’d hit another multiple-choice crossroad, Google the answer and move on. And the whole time I’m singing “children of the corn, children of the corn, children of the corn …”

Until the mother of the SON of Fire hits me in the arm.

Ouch.

So by now I pretty much have this “memory” seared into my brain. Time to get out. But of course we’re in the deepest, darkest part of this pit of hell corn maze and the wind is blowing and the corn stalks keep bending toward me and the sheaves are starting to wrap around my legs and …

I’ve hit my wall.

And I realize I have about 538 different ways to start a fire in my backpack, being the father of Boy Scouts and being prepared and all that. And I think if  I start a fire right about here, the wind will blow it and we can just follow right behind the inferno blaze and walk right out. And then I realize knowing my luck the wind will shift and the headline will read “Idiotic Dad Freaks Out In Pit Of Hell Corn Maze, Burns To Crisp.”

Somehow, after lots of googling, tracking down lost SONS and doing the whole STAY WITH YOUR GROUP lecture way too many times, we find the exit.

And I kiss the ground.

And I think the only thing that would make this an even super-duper gee-whiz bang better memory was if we had done this in the summer, in 100-degree weather.

And I decided I’d rank this “memory” right up there with sleeping in a cave.

The kind of memory where you think back and go, “been there, done that … and never again.”

But all the SONS said they had a great time. So I guess we’ll let them keep the memory.

As you know, the SONS of Thunder and I are one with fire. And pretty much one with various knives and basically anything that involves the woods, burning things and sharpening sticks.

We are becoming, as the Little Black Dress points out, gear and survival junkies. For The Dress, “survival” means no lipstick – or high heels. But I digress.

And, we’re pretty much experts on the whole “you are playing the role of a couple of really, really stupid tourists who decide to wander around in the Amazon jungle with nothing more than a toothpick, a left shoe and some gum” shows – the ones where you take said implements and somehow start fire, build a canoe and kill a hippo.

There are three main shows relating to said “I’m a tourist trying to survive” shows: Man Verses Wild, Dual Survival and Man, Woman Wild.

And based on which show you prefer, I can pretty much sum up your entire life history and personality.

Let’s start with the original one – Man Verses Wild featuring Bear Grylls. He already gets points for his name – Bear. And let’s face it, he does fall into the “stud” category. He climbed Everest at the age of 23, broke his back parachuting, and circumvented the United Kingdom on jet skis.

He’s also a former Special Air Service member, which as near as I can tell is the equivalent of our Navy SEALS. Except they take a break from fighting for afternoon tea.

Bear started off well, but let’s just say he’s sold out to the commercial world. He’s now teamed up with Gerber – not the baby food, but knife company – and has all kinds of Bear Grylls’ survival knife, fire starter, glow-in-the-dark compass, all-in-one survival kit and just fill in the blank.

When he starts a clothing line at K-mart, I am definitely done.

He’s also become more of a “don’t try this at home” type. Like he’s standing at the top of some waterfall and for some reason the only way to get down is to jump 60 feet down into a 3×4-foot pool of water. Or, he jumps across a gorge by leaping 30 feet into the air and smashes into a tree, with his weight pushing him and the tree to the other side. Did I mention said gorge is about 500 feet down?

And every time he does one of those stunts The Dress looks at the SONS and says “If you even think about …”

He’s becoming too commercial, too perfect, too daring, too …

“Eye candy,” The Dress says.

And there you go.

The newest member of the survival shows is Man, Woman Wild.  This basically involves Mykel, another one of those SAS guys, and his wife, Ruth, a TV journalist. They happen to be married. Trust me, it shows.

I had high hopes. Think about it, The Dress and I out in the woods, surviving with what’s in our pockets, just hanging out together while the SONS bring up coconuts they scrounge off the beach, watching the sunset …

And then I always wake up.

In a nutshell, here’s how it goes. Mykel will go into this long explanation about something involving the equinox and tidal currents and how that somehow relates to building a fire. And Ruth will do something, or not do something, and Mykel goes “now honey.”

And Ruth will call Mykel a horse’s arse. She says that because she’s English, but it sounds funny and is not nearly as powerful as the American version. And then Mykel gets mad and puts on his helmet cam with an extended pole for the video camera and goes out to kill an elephant. And that pretty well kills the show. Because Mykel can probably decapitate you with a credit card, but when he puts on the helmet cam, you’d laugh in his face – even knowing he can decapitate you with a credit card.

And in the meantime Ruth starts playing journalist and gives us the history of how the Incas used to take acorns and smash them up to make a pie, but first they had to leech them to get rid of some weird something in said acorn. And Ruth does the whole leech thing with a sock.

And then Mykel comes back and they both say they love each other and kiss. And the SONS go “ugh.”

The Dress does not like this show. And she always asks why I watch this show and I simply say: Eye candy. Ruth that is.

And then there’s Dual Survival, which is the favorite of the SONS and I, and even The Dress likes this one. It’s probably because they don’t wear helmet cams, leech acorns in socks or leap over tall buildings in a single bound.

It features Dave, an Army-trained Scout and sniper, and Cody, a primitive skills expert. That’s what the bios say. To cut to the chase, Dave is from the backwoods and drank too much moonshine, Cody is a hippie who experimented – a lot – with peyote.

And they are like an old married couple. Cody plays the wife, gathering wood chips and snails to eat, building the “home” back at camp and muttering to himself. Dave is out hunting for meat and beats his chest will bring back a wildebeest. Cody is mellow; Dave is an ADD poster child.

But these guys are good. Dave can make fire from a rain cloud. Dave can take a boa constrictor and squeeze it to death.

And what I admire is they’ll look in the camera and say “don’t try this at home.” And they’ll look at each other and say “and we’re not trying it either.” And they don’t have a clothing line at some Big Box Store In The Sky and don’t say “arse” and would kill any producer who tried to make them wear a helmet cam.

At least, not yet.

And there you go.

Incentive has such a nice ring to it. It’s positive, uplifting … a goal to reach. A bribe is tawdry, it’s more of a, well, bribe.

When it comes to the SONS of Thunder, you can dress it up all you want. But boil it down and trying to get the SONS to do something out of their comfort zone involves a bribe.

Such was the case this past weekend. Middle SON, who is about to “crossover’ and become a Boy Scout, was off to the woods with yours truly and other scouts and dads to have a bonding experience of freezing to death.

It was also time for Middle SON to man up and sleep in a tent with his friend. Just the two of them. No dad(s). Said friend and his younger sibling are affectionately known as the SONS of Lightning.

Putting the SONS of Thunder together with the SONS of Lightning results in one of two things: it’s that calming sound you play at night with some CD of nature sounds you paid way too much for but still soothes you to sleep; or it’s the mother of all thunder/lightning storms – all hell is breaking loose and you just know your eardrums are going to explode right into your brains. And that’s just before you get fried to a crisp.

And with the SONS and the SONS, it changes about every five minutes. You’re calm. You’re going to die. And so forth.

So night approaches and it’s time to bed down. I have my tent on one side, Lightning dad has his tent on the other and in between is SON and SON sharing a tent.

I won’t bore you with how many times Middle SON asked what time is it and how much longer till morning and is there an extra flashlight and now he has to go to the bathroom and what time is it and this flashlight doesn’t work and does he have enough clothes on and where’s his hat and …

Guess I just did.

Let us jump to morning. I look in my tent and I am alone. This observation can only mean one thing. Middle SON is in the other dad’s tent. But no. Because the other dad emerges – he’s probably coming over to get his SON out of my tent. And we look at each other and smile. The SONS have made it through the night. Together. In their own tent.

And sure enough, Middle SON soon emerges with a big, big grin on his face.

“How’d you sleep,” I ask.

“Mom’s going to pay me $30,” he replies.

Come again?

“Mom’s going to pay me $30 for sleeping in the tent,” he says.

And then Middle SON goes up to the fire pit and informs all his friends that as soon as this arctic camping trip is over, he’s off to the Big Toy Store That Is Completely Overpriced With Toys That Last All Of Five Minutes Before They Break And Cost A Month’s Car Payment.

And all the other dads look at me and say “thanks.”

This was not a “thanks” like you’d say if someone saved your kid from drowning. No, it was more like a “great, now I have to go to the Big Toy Store That Is Completely Overpriced With Toys That Last All Of Five Minutes Before They Break And Cost A Month’s Car Payment” kind of thanks.

So I call the Little Black Dress and very sweetly ask what is going on with said SON and said bribe.

“It’s an incentive,” she informs me.

“And he only gets $15 a night. He has to spend the night in his tent for two nights to get $30,” she continues.

“You bribed him?” I ask.

“It’s an incentive.”

And that last “it’s an incentive” is said in the tone one uses to end all discussion.

After nearly 20 years of marriage, I am slowly learning when to just let it go.

And yes, Middle SON made his $30.

This will make 29 such milestones.

The oldest SON of Thunder is now 13. Which means … you do the math. For the record, we  - The Dress and I that is – were both well past the legal drinking age limit when we married. It’s sorta complicated.

When the SONS were younger, they would inappropriately ask The Dress her age. The answer was always the same – 29. That worked for a while when they were younger, but now the SONS just look at her and go “oh Mom” and “weren’t you 29 last year?” and then look at me and I look back at them with a “don’t go there” look and we just let it drop.

If The Dress says she’s 29, who am I to argue?

I have a tradition of writing each of the SONS a letter on their birthday.  And so one for The Dress as well:

Dear LBD:

You wore a pink dress when we got married. And everyone gasped when you started walking down the aisle. And my best man hit me in the back and said something along the lines of “you lucky dog.”

Yes I was, and am.

I know you like lots of fawning and adjectives and adverbs and, well, lots of words.

And you know that’s not me.

All I can say is “thanks.”

Thanks for marrying me.

Thanks for putting up with me and the SONS.

Thanks for the SONS.

Thanks for all the bonfires and times in the rocking chairs.

Thanks for all the times folding laundry.

Thanks for being you, and staying you.

Thanks for being my Sam.

Happy birthday.

Love you

The Writer.

Cooler weather has finally arrived, which among our Clan means one thing.

Time to burn.

As I mentioned in a previous post here, the SONS of Thunder and I are one with fire. If it can burn, it will; if it can’t, well, we’ll find a way.  Outside, we have four designated fire areas. We designated said areas because too often I’ve watched the SONS stare off into the woods behind our house and start a sentence with “wouldn’t it be really cool if we …”

That would be a “no.”

Anyway, said fire pits include a chimenea, a basic pear-shaped and clay-made device made to, well, burn things. But it falls under the “ambiance” level of fire pits, meaning no human sacrifices. And it only takes really small pieces of wood. And I have to look up how to spell “chimenea.” Every. Single. Time.

But the Little Black Dress thinks it fits the whole “decor” thing, so we play along.

We also have small portable pit No. 1 and bigger portable pit No. 2. They are those iron things that you can put on your back deck.  I say portable because they are, well, portable, meaning you can basically move them wherever The Dress tells you to. And they come with some dome-shaped, wire mesh lid so sparks don’t fly out, land on your roof and burn you house down.

The SONS fail to see the point of the lids. To them, the lids deter from the overriding, deciding factor of any good fire.

Height.

The SONS have become quite adept at fire-making. Just recently, Eldest perfected creating and implementing char cloth.

And what, pray tell, is char cloth?

Let’s turn to gold ol’ Wikipedia: “Char cloth (also called charpaper) is a swatch of fabric made from vegetable fiber (such as line, cotton or jute) that has been converted via pyrolysis into a slow-burning fuel of low ignition temperature (capable of being ignited by a firesteel) that can in turn be used to ignite a wood splint to start a fire. It is sometimes manufactured at home for use as tinder when cooking or camping and historically usually provided the “tinder” in a tinderbox.”

In English, all that means is you can wave an unlit match in front of a piece of char cloth and it’s on fire.  Isn’t that easier? Now you don’t have to go find any “jute” or look up “pyrolysis.”

Bigger portable pit No. 2 was located beneath a tree with high branches. Let us just say that the lower elements of said high branches no longer exist. And as the SONS reached for greater and greater heights, it finally dawned on me that I needed to move the portable pit, or else watch the entire tree burn up, fall over onto my house, light the woods on fire and in a very short order, make about 300 families in my subdivision homeless.

But The Dress likes where the No. 2 pit is and the SONS are now capable of making a fire much larger than the dimensions of said pit. And there’s that whole tree branch issue.

So we built another one, one that is non-portable and not directly under any trees. It’s rocked in. Gravel sides. You look – if you’re into such things –  and go “dude.”

It is, shall we say, something to meet standards used by the Inquisition when they were into that whole burning everyone at the stake thing;  something to cause Joan of Arc to shudder in remembering similar devices centuries ago.

It fits our needs.

And so this past weekend we made some char cloth, got some new lighters and cleaned out the fire pits. We cleaned the pits the old-fashioned way – we threw in a bunch of wood and basically burned any and everything out of the way.  Which was fine with me, as the SONS still have little to no concept of a broom and the term “sweeping” as suggested by The Dress.

We burned pretty much all day, and I can attest you probably couldn’t even find a single pine needle in our back yard now.

Unfortunately, since the SONS are, well, the SONS, rules are needed.

Said rules include: one cannot shove a burning stick into the back of another; one cannot build a fire outside of a designed area – despite how woody the woods look; one cannot build a fire so big it encroaches on the designed fire area of another; one cannot throw firecrackers into a fire without fair warning, with said warning being more than two seconds before they blow up in your face; one may only use pine needles to help start the fire, and may not dump an entire 39-gallon trash bag full of pine needles into the fire after it’s already started just to win the “height award;” and so forth.

The evening wore on and the fire materials collected earlier finally hit empty. Time to put out the fire.

The putting out of the fire has become not only a ritual but a contest among the SONS. Lots of liquids are drunk in preparation of the “I put mine out first” award.

The SONS do not use water to put out fires.

And almost every time The Dress makes some comment about raising a bunch of wolves or something similar as the contest begins.

And if you are totally lost about how those fires are put out, let’s just say it’s a guy thing.

It must be related to certain milestones. I bought my first truck as I approached the big 4-0. Ten years later, and coming up on the half-century mark, it was time.

I do not “do” fancy. My latest toy does not have a gun rack, rear camera, GPS or anything leather. “Stereo” is questionable and the paint is that in name only. There are dents and rust and scrapes and … pure character.

Age-wise, this symbol of manhood is roughly that of the SONS of Thunder – combined.

Why a truck? As I said in my post about my first one, to do, well, truck things. Like going to the dump, camping, hauling whatever new/old knick-knack The Dress discovers, just driving around with the SONS.

Eldest SON, who was three at the time of the first truck, called it a “frack.” He loved it, primarily because there was no muffler. Which basically meant it sounded like a jet engine, which Eldest thought was beyond cool.

I had two great memories from that first truck. The first was as collection, just driving around the cornfields of Nebraska with Eldest.

The second was when I sold it.

Next door to us was a house converted into a couple of apartments. In one lived two 20-something girls. They struggled to survive, working at a custom T-shirt company. They just didn’t have any money. Their transportation was one of those baby trucks, the really small ones that probably would fit in the back of my truck. The back window was broken out. The heater didn’t work. This was Nebraska.

One day in winter, I came home from yet another late night at the newspaper to see our walkway was cleared of snow and a path was dug all the way to the back alley where the garbage cans were. The Dress was only a few days away from delivering Middle SON. The girls had gone out and shoveled the snow, just to help us out.

Later, I transferred within my company to Georgia. The question was what to do with the truck, because we really couldn’t take it with us. I wasn’t even sure it would make it.

I decided to give it to the girls. But Nebraska has absurdly high taxes, especially on cars – even beat up old trucks. I knew they couldn’t even pay the taxes.

So I walked over and knocked on the door. The girls answered, and I asked for a dollar. Yes, I got a really weird look, but they dug around and gave it to me.

And I handed over a bill of sale: one truck, one dollar. And the keys. And they cried. And they hugged me. And I cried.

It was a very good day.

They had, to them, a new truck. One twice as big, with all the windows intact, and electric ones at that. And they had a heater.

It was a very, very good day.

About a week ago, The Dress spotted the truck by the side of the road. Here’s the irony: my old truck was grey, this was – at least at one time – tan and green. But they were the exact same models, Ford 150 EFT, two-door, with a bench in the back.

“Sometimes birthdays just have to come early,” The Dress said.

So today I got tags for my new toy. Oh, and dropped it off at my mechanic’s shop. Yes, we’ll probably spend more just to get it somewhat roadworthy than what we paid for it. But that’s okay.

For example, the gear indicator is broken, that red line that tells you what gear you are in as you move the gear shift. The Dress was pretty adamant that get fixed pronto, saying something about how would she know what gear she was in without it.

And, doing that speak before thinking mistake, I politely pointed that if she stepped on the accelerator and the car didn’t move, it probably was in park, if she stepped on it and she went backwards, she probably was in reverse and if she stepped on it and went forward … and I then realized I might be sounding a little condescending and ducked just in time.

The SONS are, shall we say, stoked. They are already demanding to camp. Not take the truck camping, but rather camp inside the truck. I told them we probably need to clean it up a little first.

The Dress starts in with telling the SONS it really is an old truck and lots of their friends’ dads have brand new trucks with leather and power this and that and awesome stereos and GPS and digit do-dads and someone might make fun and …

“We don’t care,” they say in unison.

They get it. They see the vision. They have the imagination. Because they know this truck is special, one that will take them places those fancy new ones will never go because the paint might get scratched.

It is a truck of adventure. The time is now.

Let the journey, and memories, begin.

And to The Dress – thanks.

The show is set up like a timeline of the events, and it’s probably the best overview of what happened that tragic September day.

At the time of 9/11, Eldest was three; Middle SON was just shy of turning one; and Youngest SON wasn’t even on the horizon.

Fast-forward 10 years later as we watch the documentary. It was not easy for the SONS. It wasn’t easy for me either. And I’m trying to explain to the SONS why I want them to watch it, and I realize I’m not really sure why. I want them to understand, to remember, to realize there is evil in the world. But I think it was a little too much.

The SONS know what 9/11 is, they’ve learned about it at school. But watching the documentary, actually seeing real footage of planes slamming into the World Trade Centers, is different.

They don’t get it. They don’t understand why anyone would hijack a plane and then fly it into a massive office tower simply to kill themselves and as many others as they can. I don’t either and my explanation that there are bad people in the world just wasn’t good enough for them.

They continue to watch, more in disbelief and sorrow than anything else. And then there’s the footage of bodies falling out of the buildings. People who just jumped. I forgot about that. It was at that point that Middle SON got up, said he would never fly in an airplane and refused to watch anymore.  And The Little Black Dress got up to go be with him.

I didn’t blame him or force the issue.

The other two SONS continue to watch, but you can hear a sniffle every now and then, and see an occasional wiping away of tears. And I know what they are thinking …

Adults are stupid.

And they are right. The SONS, bless them, are still at that age where they don’t see color. Or race. Or religion. They will play with anyone, any time, any place. Just bring your Legos and Air Soft guns.

When does that change? When do we become “adults?” When do we switch from playing kickball with all the kids out in the street to hijacking a plane and flying it into an office building.

9/11 is an extreme example. But this change from “kids” to “adults” shows up every day. We go from playing with everyone to, far too often, only “playing” with those of the same race, color and religion.

But we’re adults so we know what’s best – kids are just kids and just don’t understand.

Or do they?

Yes, we grow up. Yes, we become adults and enter the world to seek our fame and fortune. But maybe some parts of us shouldn’t grow up.

Wonder if you can judge it by its Table of Contents?

Let’s find out.  My new book, The Little Black Dress and the SONS of Thunder ~ Recipes On Life And Food, will be out shortly. It’s split into two sections, Part One details what we would call the “early years.” Part Two covers the last few.

Below is the intro to Part One, as well as the chapter titles to the “early years.”

PART ONE

There was a man, a journalist by profession,

a writer by passion. And he was alone.

One day he met her and soon they married.

She became his Little Black Dress.

Together they traveled across the country.

They started a family – the first Son of Thunder,

followed a couple of years later

by yet another Son of Thunder.

Together, they climbed mountains,

yet also fell into valleys.

And all that time The Dress kept telling him

to follow his passion.

And finally he did.

The story begins …

Sage Advice From Talking Animals

Watch Where You Fly

Obligatory Day

Basil Bread D.C.

So You Want To Fight?

So Many Toys, So Little Time

The Best Among Man’s Best Friends

Billy And The Dress Share A Dish

A Man And His Truck

Dressing Up A Son Of Thunder

Road Warrior

Blackening Mix

Define A Perfect Lawn

Revenge Of The Squirrels

Turning Strangers Into Friends

Brenda’s “Why Is This Always So Hot? Shrimp/Crawfish Etouffee

A Green Thumb … That Would Be A No

Don’t Worry, Life Doesn’t Make Sense

Because They Said So

That Potty Training Victory? Down The Drain

Calorie Nightmare Shrimp Fettuccini

How You Cook Says … Something

I Do Not Like To Rake Leaves

Golf, Like Life, Has Its Ups And Downs

Chicken Marsala Winters’ Style

It Is Seriously Quiet In Here

Golf With The Eldest Son Of Thunder

The Rules: Hanging Christmas Lights

Cobb Salad Ala Potomac

A Birthday Letter

Batteries Not Included

Turning 40

Dunnavan’s Beef

It’s Freezing, Let’s Go Play Golf

Our First – The Teacher Conference

The Difference Between Men And Women – Shopping

Eastern Market Blackened Tuna

Questions With No Answers

Time For An Infomercial

Pillows Having Babies, Making A Nuisance

Eby’s “Finally Something I Love” Seafood Stew

Welcome to The Zoo

The Sons Of Thunder Write To The Little Black Dress

It’s The Little Things In Life That Count

Eddi’s Steampot

A Father’s Advice