I’m packing and getting ready to leave for MidSouthCon in Memphis, one of my most favorite shows.  Returning to Memphis is always special to me because of my connections to the city.  My undergraduate years were some of the best of my life, and there are parts of the city that are as much my home as anywhere else.

Earlier this week, I went to see my sons and spend a little time with them.  Seeing their little smiles and hearing their laughter are two of the greatest joys in my life.  Whenever we are together, it’s as if we haven’t been apart.  They are both as comfortable with me as they are with their mom, and of all my accomplishments, that’s the one of which I’m most proud:  I can take care of my children all on my own.

I’m often very critical of other guys who don’t take care of their kids, and during the drive back this time, I had a bit of an epiphany as to why they offend me so badly.  Physically, each trip to see my sons takes a tremendous toll on me.  The trips are also emotionally draining.  I don’t ever have much money, so they are also a financial burden.  But somehow, I find a way to get there and back and spend real quality time with my sons.  If I can travel over a thousand miles round trip for my kids, anyone can find a way to spend time with theirs.

The epiphany I had was more about the spiritual side of these trips.  Despite the physical toll, they always leave me feeling more fulfilled, and the reason why has little to do with me and nearly all to do with them.  My sons will always have proof of my love for them because they will remember these times with me.  They won’t ever have to wonder why they weren’t worthy of my attention.  In the long run, they will be happier, more well-adjusted people because I’m sacrificing part of me in the short run, and that’s what parenting is all about.  The guys who don’t make the sacrifice piss me off because their children are the ones who suffer.  I’ve seen firsthand the wounds people carry when they don’t have a relationship with their fathers — alcoholism, anxiety, neurosis, and low self-esteem for starters.  The guys who would sentence their own flesh and blood to that because it’s inconvenient or painful to find the time or energy or money to spend time with them are pathetic excuses for human beings and have my utter contempt.

If you’re one of these scum, grow a soul or a spine, whichever you’re missing, and be a part of your children’s lives.

Okay, so I made it to and from Jacksonville to see my sons, and I plan on writing about that tonight or tomorrow.  First, however, I want to share some observations from the traveling there and back.  These kinds of people are the reasons I don’t carry a firearm when I’m driving.

First, if you’re a Yuppie scumbag in a Land Rover trailering your showroom Harleys, don’t drive 60 in the left lane.  You aren’t a badass.  Real bikers RIDE their bikes.  The fact that you and your wife trailer yours means the opposite.  You’re a pussy, and you should be very grateful that the emotionally distraught man you pissed off didn’t run you out of the road and do bad, bad things to you.

Second, if there’s a line of traffic in front of me and to my right, tailgating me will not do anything except make me slow down.  I can’t go any faster than the vehicle in front of mine, no matter how close you get to my bumper.  Maybe we should teach some physics to the weekend warriors who are supposed to be protecting this country.

Third, if you’re a meth-head in car on its last legs, maybe you shouldn’t pretend like you’re coming out of the pits when merging with traffic.  You and the car both have little quality time left.  Make the most of it.  Give each of you a bath.

Those are just some of the reasons I won’t carry a firearm when I drive.  People are just too damn stupid and too damn self-absorbed to be let loose on the interstate.  How there aren’t more accidents and murders is baffling to me.

www.thirdaxe.com

It happened 21 years ago.  I was sixteen, a strong, athletic young man.  I had plans to attend Case Western Reserve University on an ROTC scholarship and hoped to try out for their football team as well.  My family didn’t have the money to send me to college, so all of my plans hinged on my physical abilities getting me there.  At 3:00 PM on March 7, 1989, I was in perfect health.  I weighed roughly 220 pounds, bench pressed 325, squatted 500, and ran three miles every day.  In my teenage mind, I was invincible.

At 3:30 PM of that day, I lay on the ground, bleeding from a gash in my head and quite literally dying in front of my track and field teammates.  During warm-ups, a fellow shot-putter hadn’t seen me retrieving my shot and had let his fly.  If you tried a thousand times to hit a target with a shot-put, you couldn’t do it consistently, but on that day, he hit me in the forehead on the right side just above my hairline.

The blow itself didn’t hurt much, and I didn’t really lose consciousness fully.  Had I been a boxer, I would’ve been counted out because I barely knew my own name and couldn’t stand without help, but I remember everything that happened, albeit a little fuzzily.  Over the next twelve hours, I fought for my life and nearly lost, but by what can only be considered a true miracle, I pulled through.  At one point, my blood pressure was 200/140 and pupils had quit dilating.  That was when the doctors and nurses thought I was a goner.  At the time, I didn’t realize the seriousness of my situation and couldn’t understand why everyone was so upset.  Over the next three days, I lost twenty pounds and never fully regained my strength.

Over the years, I’ve told the story thousands of times.  People react in a variety of ways — some laugh; others gasp; some are incredulous.  The only long-term effects I’ve suffered are a little difficulty recalling a specific word on cue (The irony that I’m a writer who can’t think of words is beautiful to me), an occasional tremor in my left hand, and a few holes in my long-term memory.  All in all, I’m pretty lucky.

It took me several years to realize that.  For about six or seven years, I was very angry about all I had lost.  Then, as I matured, one day I woke up and realized that just that fact was enough of a gift.  I woke up.  An inch in any direction and I wouldn’t have even stood up from that blow.  Whenever I meet a Marine, I’m still a little sad because that’s what I wanted to be, but I’ve come to terms with the fact that it wasn’t meant to be.  I was meant to be a writer and a teacher, and in some ways, the accident is what steered me onto that course.  By taking away any opportunity to use my physical abilities to excel, it forced me to focus on my mental abilities.

I’ll be with my sons on Sunday and hopefully won’t have time to write a blog, so I wanted to write this today.  Bobby, if you should happen to ever read this, please know that I never once blamed you.  We were kids, and it was an accident.  Janice, if you read it, thank you for yelling look out.  That really did save my life.  Dr. Olivera, thank you for giving me guidance and helping me find the good.  Even though I grumble and complain, life is beautiful, and I’m grateful for every second.

www.thirdaxe.com