When I walked onto campus, I had yet to acquire the inevitable freshman fifteen around my waist. Yet I was already too big for my britches. I arrived on a full tuition scholarship to play drums, and I was fairly certain my presence would change the course of college life forever.
I knew this because I brought with me something more powerful than talent, more promising than scholarships. I had . . . potential. I loved my potential, and I carried it everywhere. I’d been carting it around since the 6th grade, nurtured by well-intentioned teachers, preachers, and family members.
That all ended when I met Dr. Ed Jones. As the Director of the UNA Pride of Dixie Marching Band, Dr. Jones sported a handful of eccentricities. Among them was a take-no-prisoners pragmatism wrapped in a flaky crust of common-sense colloquialisms and served with a gravy-thick, south-Alabama accent.
He was like Glenn Miller meets Foghorn Leghorn.
On that first day, he told me something I will never forget, largely for its emasculating effect on me as an over-confident young upstart with delusions of grandeur.
“Listen up, you confound namby pambies,” he poured out in our first rehearsal. “Don’t come in here thinking you’re something special. Sure, you got potential. But potential just means you ain’t done nothin’ yet.”
And THAT’s when I started working on that freshman fifteen.
Potential? Oh yeah, I got it. In fact, I’m buried in it. So I’m at Barnes and Noble, and I see the book Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. And it occurs to me that perhaps one of those seven habits should be actually READING the book once you buy it. The problem is that I love owning books. I love knowing they’re on my shelf. I love knowing I can just pick them up and read them anytime I want. I fact, I plan to read many of them one day. Furthermore, I plan to be very smart as a result of reading them one day. They create for me potential beyond my wildest dreams.
And so I have amassed a small library that is actually more like a crypt, or rather a great big pit of potential. This could be valuable one day, kind of like black crude from Jed Clampett’s back forty. But that day never comes. Instead, I sit in my pit and ponder its potential.
And I’ve always been this way, a prince of potential – most likely to succeed at being most likely to succeed.
So, you come here often?
Oh, come on. It can’t just be me. Surely some of you are also princes of potential. Does any of this sound familiar?
You spent so much time dreaming about college that you totally missed high school.
You started six projects last year, and didn’t finish any of them.
Your current job is just until you can do what you REALLY want to do, if you just knew what that was.
You’d rather day dream about who you could be than look in the mirror at who you actually are.
That’s what it is to be a prince of potential.
The problem with potential is . . . Potential makes you hopeful, prideful, and it gives you a false sense of already being ahead of the game, even superior to others. Potential tells you that you don’t have to try. Good things will come to you, because you have potential.
But potential breaks down when the guy next to you, who wasn’t supposed to even graduate, finds his place among the truly successful people of the world. It breaks down when you start realizing that you’ll never be the absolute BEST at anything, because no one really ever is. Then you start to wonder what your potential was ever worth. Those well-intentioned affirmations on which you once hung your future are now folding up like that load of laundry when I forgot to add the fabric sheet. That’s when you know for a fact that potential has passed you by.
Jane, get me off this crazy thing! So how do we move past the false promises that potential can place in our way? How do we climb out of the pit? The answer is simpler than we might think. We go back to square one, to the beginning. We determine what it is we want to be. For some of us, potential is (if nothing else) a great marker or indicator of where we might devote our time and our efforts. But the reality is that we have to start somewhere. And while potential is a lousy barometer for success, it’s actually a fairly good indicator of one’s strengths and talents.
Tales of a fourth grade slugger slug When I was a kid, I played softball. I was slow, overweight, and lacked any degree of raw athletic ability. But I could spit real well. And that came in handy. My real problem was hitting. I tried to kill everything. No ball was too high, too outside, or too short to keep me from trying to de-thread it with my aluminum hammer. Consequently, I struck out a lot. Too many swings at too many balls, all of them ill-advised.
Then I had breakfast at “The Club.” Unfortunately, it was twenty-five years later and far too late to affect my softball game. But it was helpful all the same. I sat with my boss across from a Welsh gentleman who had invited us as his guests to one of Florida’s more exclusive golf resorts. The man was the epitome of success. He even had the cool accent (not unlike Dr. Jones.)
What left an indelible impression on me that day was not the fine linens, the incredible scenery (I’m almost certain I saw Tiger Woods), or even the cool little breakfast quiches in the filo cups. Instead, it was what the man said. “Brandon, I tell every young man I meet this same thing. So hear me, please. Choose what it is that you do, and do it well. One, maybe two things, but no more. That is all. Focus on those things, and you will go far.”
Like my frustrated softball coach, this man was telling me that I can’t swing at every ball, and I can’t stand there letting every pitch whiz by either. To climb out of the pit of potential and actually do something, I have to choose. I have to find my pitch and take my swing. If I hit, I hit. If I don’t, I wait for the next one to come my way. I only need one, maybe two, but no more. Focus.
The Climb
To move, we have to start putting one foot in front of the other. The next step, therefore, is to simply act. If like me you tend to buy books and stick them on the shelf, then by all means take one down and read it, cover to cover. Just because a cat has her kittens in the oven, that doesn’t make them biscuits. Books on our shelves will not make us smarter until we READ them. So let’s take down that book and read it, one page at a time. Let’s pick one thing we’ve been putting off and do it. It might just make us want to do more. Wait, is that daylight I see ahead?
Um, dude? I’m still here in the pit.
To take a “next step,” there has to be a “first” step. But a pit is dark. We can’t see, so we don’t know. And if we don’t know, we won’t go. Put more succinctly, where there is a lack of knowledge, there is fear. Where there is fear, there is inaction.
How many home improvement jobs have we let sit around for months or even years only because we weren’t really sure how to begin? The job was too big, or so it seemed. Our garages were cluttered with all kinds of potential just wasting away. But then, we started. Just started. We asked a guy. We watched a video. Then we said (to ourselves of course – never to our wives), “Wow, if I had known THAT’s all it took, I would have done this thing months ago.”
So how do we turn on the light and start climbing out of the pit? We plug the holes in our brain. We eliminate the lack of knowledge. Knowledge leads to action which usually leads to more action. And that’s when potential becomes reality. To find our way out of the pit of potential, we have to see where we’re going. The first step, the one we usually miss, is to find the answers, to fill the gaps in our knowledge and our understanding.
Potential can be a great catalyst for success. It moves us, gets us going. But it’s a thin veneer of motivation that soon wears and exposes the eternal truth so poignantly expressed by the great Dr. Ed Jones . . .
“All potential means is that you ain’t done nothin’ yet.”
Well, Dr. Jones, I just wrote this post. I did something. And that’s a step in the right direction. So thanks for that.
. . . I heard one word that changed my life forever. The word was “yes,” and it came from the girl I loved when I asked her to spend the rest of her life with me. The days that followed were exciting and challenging. They were filled with laughter, tears, lots of joy, and plenty of anxious moments.
Today, I was reminded of one such moment. On the night of our wedding, my bride was determined to have her picture made in her gown on the steps of the Opryland Hotel’s Magnolia Lobby. This would have been fine, except that our wedding took place at the First Baptist Church in Cullman, AL. That’s roughly 153 miles from church altar to hotel steps. Since the complexities of getting into her dress prevented the option of simply changing clothes, we were stuck in our matrimonial best for the duration of the trip.
Furthermore, while we left the church in a spacious limo (thanks again Mike and Melanie), the bulk of our journey took place in a two-door Nissan Sentra. The train of Darlene’s dress alone contained more fabric than the entire interior of this car. Nevertheless, my two eyes peered through a sea of white satin as we made the perilous journey toward those fateful steps and on to the rest of our lives.
Now, I told you all of that to tell you this. I dropped Darlene off at the entrance of the Magnolia lobby, along with all of our assorted bags, suitcases, and ancillary items. Then I set out in search of a parking space, which I eventually found somewhere in the neighboring city of Hendersonville. When I finally returned, I found Darlene in the lobby out of breath and frantically gathering our things around her.
Apparently, it was only after I left that she realized there was no good way to get through the revolving door in her dress. And once she was in, how would she get back to all of our bags? She saw no staff to ask for assistance. She was stuck. So she waited, and waited, and waited. But since I was walking back from the next county, it took a while.
In the mean time, people began noticing my lovely bride in her sparkling cathedral gown. Even now, I can hear what they were thinking. “Oh look, Henry. That poor girl has been abandoned on her wedding night, and in such a lovely dress. What a shame!”
Eventually, a few well-intentioned bystanders learned of my wife’s plight. Suddenly and without warning, they grabbed our bags. They took Darlene by the arm. They propped open doors. And in less time than it took us to say “I do,” they ushered my new wife across the threshold . . . without me.
She still talks about the fear and panic that set in immediately as all of those people, some she had just met, some who were total strangers, began swarming her and taking our things. The flurry of good intentions left her disoriented and scared.
Almost 18 days ago . . .
. . . I heard a word that changed my life forever. The word was “cancer,” and it came from the girl I love as she suddenly wondered about the rest of her life. So began the anxious moments. But this time, I found myself standing at the threshold. It was my job to get Darlene, along with our children, along with everything in our lives, through that door despite the huge obstacle in our way. There were all these things I was responsible for. And so I waited . . . and waited. I stood there not knowing what to do next.
That’s when it happened. The people around me began picking up my stuff. They began taking me by the arm and ushering me forward. But wait! I don’t want to go through that door. I’m not ready. Put my stuff down. I can carry it. I just need time to figure this thing out first.
Fear and panic set in as all these people began swarming me and carrying my things. The flurry of good intentions left me disoriented and scared. That lasted a couple of days. That’s how long it took me to realize how to do what only I could do. So I reached out and took my wife by the hand. And with the help of our family and friends, we’re now walking across that threshold . . . together.
This is a special note of thanks to all those who have suddenly grabbed a bag or gathered a gown or opened a door. There are so many of you. And you are so good . . . so God. Thank you for loving us during this time. I can’t say that it’s easy to let you do these things. But this is simply a journey we can’t take alone. We love you.
Arab was not a large city. I don’t believe it is now either. But at the time of my childhood, we boasted a population of approximately 8,000 people. As it turns out, 2005 estimates place it around 7,500. So it seems we might have been a bit ambitious some two decades ago.
But I gotta say that I love it when people ask me where I’m from. ”Arab,” I say. Of course I pronounce it appropriately. Not like /ˈarəb/ as in “Arab Muslim.” Most of us were Baptist or Methodist. But /āˈrab/ as in “a rab-id coon bit my dog and now I have to shoot ‘im.” There’s always an odd silence that follows. Once I savor that moment, I continue. ”It’s a little town just south of Huntsville.” At this, I almost always get one of two responses.
Some just shake their heads. But most – and I do mean most – will say, “Oh, sure. I know Arab.” How so many people have come to be connected to Arab is beyond me. Sometimes they have relatives there. Sometimes they recall having sold such-and-such to so-and-so (who is usually related to someone in the first group). Regardless, it’s one of those freaky rules of nature, like Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Almost anyone can be traced back to Arab in six steps or less.
Don’t get me wrong. Arab is not without its famous events and people. For starters, there’s the annual Poke Salat Festival. But perhaps even more noteworthy is the fact that the short list of hometown successes (according to Wikipedia) includes actress Monica Potter (Along Came a Spider et al). I should note that I find no other evidence of this anywhere online. But regardless, she joins my friend Jill King (Country singer and songwriter) as the only two mentions.
I am predictably NOT on the list. Apparently they don’t consider winning the University of North Alabama “Ugly Walk” Competition worthy of recognition. Well, I’m not bitter. But I would also like to point out that I was the star of the brief-but-popular morning radio segment “Breakfast with Brandon” on AM 1380 – WRAB (Your Friend and Neighbor). That listening audience spanned from Joppa to Scant City. So it was a pretty big deal.
Regarding the name, (and this could just be the product of myth – but one which also eventually found its way to Wikipedia) I’ve always understood it to have come from little more than a clerical error. The city’s founder was also it’s first postmaster, Stephen Tuttle Thompson. His son’s name was Arad. Yes, that’s A-R-A-D. When the city decided to incorporate in 1882, three options were given for the name: Ink, Bird, and Arad. Apparantly, we went with Arad, but a tragic typo in the process of incorporation deemed us forever . . . Arab.
I’m glad they went with Arad. If one of the other names had been chosen and misspelled, I might have ended up being from Jnk. I can only guess how we would have pronounced that one. Or we might have been known as Bord, which was what most of us were anyway growing up in that town.
Make no mistake. Arab is, and forever will be, at the very top of my list of favorite places to grow up – and that’s not just because it’s the only place I grew up. I love that city. Ask any one of those 8,000 7.500 people, and they’ll have their own stories, their own history, their own notable people, places, and things.
Got a good Arab story? Click “Read More” and post it below. My friend Jackie works for Otelco, so I know they have internet now.
After a grandly public post celebrating the presence of Sports Night on Netflix Instant View, the show mysteriously vanished. Thanks for those of you who commented and brought this to our attention.
So I checked today, and . . . it’s back! In fact, it’s better. Now we have Season 2 as well (which might have been there before, but I don’t believe so.)
Unfortunately, the temporary hiatus has wiped my viewing history. So there will be some hunting for those of us who don’t remember exactly where we left the series.
Shows like “Cheers” and “Family Ties” were staples in my home. I grew up with their characters. I formed opinions based on their messages. I learned humor from their punch lines (which, I’m afraid, is still painfully obvious). Now, thanks to Netflix and channels like the Hub, it feels great to relive my early years with Alex P. Keaton, Norm, and that dumb airplane mechanic from Wings.
Recently, Netflix added yet another historic title to its list of instantly viewable titles, the 1998 series Sports Night. I should point out here that for this show the word “historic” means mid 20′s for me. Although I knew nothing about sports, I loved this show. It’s pacing and its humor were very different than anything else. It was way ahead of its time. And I have to admit, I kind of had a thing for Felicity Huffman. But that’s another post for another time . . . or not.
Sadly, the show ended when its writer Aaron Sorkin decided to concentrate on some other show that would probably never be a hit. What was it? Oh, that’s right, “The West Wing”. Cable tried to pick up “Sports Night,” but all the deals included Sorkin as a writer, which he declined.
But now, thanks to those really nice people at Netflix (who are still promising to bring me instant Mad Men in July), I can now watch all the “Sports Night” I want. And I will, thank you very much.
My friends have all laughed at me and my “free” year. Not that there was anything free about it. Gas got higher, stuff kept breaking, and my kids ate more and more every day. But imagine my surprise last year when a quick inventory of candles on the cake revealed that instead of turning 37 like I thought, I was only blowing out 36. And so I considered the days from March 17, 2010 until March 17, 2011 to be “free.”
This weekend, we bid a fond farewell to the free year. Now, I’m back on the clock. To celebrate this return to chronological bondage, my family baked a cake, burned a few candles (just to make sure we were all on the same page this year), and sang the English translation of Feliz Cumpleaños (complete with Cha Cha Cha’s and Kum Bah Ya’s).
This event brought an end to a long weekend of festivities. The peeps at the office showed their love and affection with lunch as Las Palmas followed by dessert at Pink Berry. The later was new, but good. Although I must admit it was pretty girly. So I went back to the office and gnawed on some beef jerky. I felt better.
More fun and frivolity ensued with what we all hope will become the Dunbar’s annual St. Patrick’s Day Party in Spring Hill. The weather was incredible. The turnout was great. And I had so much fun pretending that the whole thing was just for me. (Well, they DID sing to me. And they had pork tenderloin in Sister Schubert roles. How’d they know that was my favorite?)
No, nothing is free anymore. Not even time. But I can afford it. Because on my birthday I’m reminded just how rich I am. I don’t deserve my family or my friends. They’re all way too incredible for me. But I’ll take ‘em, ’cause I love them all.
Thanks for a great B’Day and the best free year ever.
Well, football season is sadly behind us, with only the post season to keep us cozy. But in the spirit of keeping football fresh in our minds, here is a short clip from one of those half time shows we NEVER see on television.
Watch as the band forms a football player, runs him down the field, and . . . wait for it . . . kicks a stinkin’ ball.
A really short story, actually more of a soliloquy, this is just a brief look at the silly justifications each of us make about our fears and shortcomings. How often do we pick that one thing about ourselves that we hate and pin all our failures on it? We say, “If I could just change this one thing, everything else would be different.”
Well, meet Purvis, the guy who’s name says it all.
What’s In A Name
This place is pretty well packed tonight. The lights are low, and the music is loud, which is good. Loud music means less talking. Talking is bad, because it requires introductions. And introductions mean I have to say it. “Hi, my name is Purvis.”
Yep, Purvis. I know what you’re thinking. “What kind of name is that?” I know, right? The first thing people use to size you up, the way they remember you, the key to the very door into your soul, and my parents choose Purvis. Really?
I guess I could understand it if I were named for some legendary ancestor like a General Purvis Augustus, leader of Allied Forces on some beach in Normandy. Or maybe a Reverend Purvis Leonidas, fearless missionary taking God to naked natives up and down the Amazon. But alas, there are no such heroes in my family tree.
I used to wonder if maybe I was named for that FBI guy who nabbed Dillinger. Turns out Purvis was actually the name of the gardener who worked for my grandmother. He sculpted topiaries of Bible characters. Apparently, his juniper Jesus was so lifelike that people would come from miles around to pray to it. And here I am, a testament to his horticultural moxy.
Hey, there’s that group of girls from HR down the hall. They already know my name, I think. I could just skip the whole introduction part. Oh wait. There’s those guys from Sales. OK, never mind. I’ll let them have a chance. They probably all have really cool names anyway. Some of them probably even have great nicknames too. I always envied guys with great nicknames. My friend Nathan Canasta played football. His number was 50. So “Five Oh” became his name for the rest of high school. Richard Barefoot was Native American, the only Native American we knew. So we called him “Chief.”
So why couldn’t I get one of those names? I was cool. Right? I knew things. I did stuff. But nothing ever stuck. I used to write names on my notebooks to try them out. I wrote “Big Show” and then “Full House,” but I’m just over five feet tall and 120 pounds with my Sunday shoes on. I also considered “Lefty” and “John Deere,” but I’m right handed, and I’ve never actually seen a tractor in real life. In the end, I’m just a tragically vanilla, homogeneous human being with absolutely no distinguishing characteristics save one . . . the name “Purvis.”
Look who just sat down at the other end of the bar. That’s the girl I saw last week, the one with the curly hair. I can’t tell in here, but I think she might be hot. Then again, it’s really dark. I might chance it and walk over. But what would I say?
“Excuse me, would you like some nuts?” No, that won’t work.
“From over there you looked pretty, so I just wanted to come over and make sure you weren’t really ugly close up.” No, better let that one go too.
If I only had a name like Fred or Ralph or something. Then I could just say “Hi, I’m Fred or Ralph or something.”
I guess I could use my middle name, Arthur. Or maybe just Art. But then again, art is what you hang on a wall or make in preschool with macaroni and Elmer’s Glue. And I certainly can’t shorten my first name. “Purv.” Nope, I don’t think so. One time I considered combining a short version of my first and middle names. But then I thought it through. “Purv Art.” Are you kidding me? Mom, Dad, how much do you hate me?
“What’ll it be tonight, kid?” That’s the bartender. I think his name is Stan, or maybe Dan.
“O’Dules.”
“Right.”
Dan’s a nice guy. He works a lot. Always here when I come in.
“Hey Dan, you got a nickname?”
“Yeah. It’s Stan.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
Hey, when did Jackson come in? “Hey! Jackson, my man! What’s up? Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure. Well, I’ll just be over here. Keep it real, man.”
Jackson runs the sandwich cart on the corner by the office. Now Jackson, that’s a real name. Like “action,” only Jackson. That guy’s gonna go places with a name like that.
But not me. I’m just gonna sit here at this bar and watch all these well-named individuals go about their happy lives while I waste away in the intoxicating wash of Near Beer. Just me, the Purv-meister. The Purvinator. Potent. Powerful. Purvilicious.
I was born in Tuscaloosa. That’s how far back my allegiance to Alabama football goes. Everything I owned was red and white and featured an Elephant somewhere. I remember as a kid having a Roll Tide metal trash can that doubled as a desk seat. Yeah, we had nice things.
Unfortunately, I never attended the University of Alabama. Nor did I ever truly understand football. I was in the band, which meant I simply had to learn when to cheer and when not to cheer (and even that was a process).
Eventually I attended the University of North Alabama, home of the three-peat Division II national champion UNA Lions. It was then that I learned more and grew more interested in the sport. The Crimson Tide had just been crowned national champions as well, so I had another good reason. Even still, my interest in football was marginal.
But now that I seemed to have somehow crossed the threshold from young adult to irrelevant bore, football is providing a new kind of solace for me. I can’t wait for September each year. I find comfort in tracking the latest NCAA FB news. And my interest in Bama has found a new level.
That’s the long explanation to why I downloaded Crimson Nation by famed Alabama announcer Eli Gold. I wanted to understand the history behind the heritage that is Alabama football.
The book was fascinating. To read of the great coaches like Wallace Wade and Frank Thomas and then trace their impact through players like Paul “Bear” Bryant gave me a great sense of the big picture.
To read about Bryant as a coach, the ups, downs, controversies, and historical moments really put modern-day football drama in perspective. Mike Leech lost his job last year at Texas A&M for allegedly mistreating a player. Paul Bryant nearly killed half of his team one summer in the town of Junction, TX as the coach for . . . Texas A&M. One of those boys, by the way, was Gene Stallings, coach of the ’92 national champion Tide.
Lane Kiffen was skewered after coming to Tennessee, stirring up controversy, then leaving suddenly to coach for his true love, USC. Want to guess the name of another coach who took a job, stirred things up, then left after only a year to coach his true love? That’s right, The Bear.
Also interesting was Gold’s extensive commentary on a socially color blind Bryant who recognized the need for a racially diverse team in order to win. According to the book, Bryant lobbied for the inclusion of black players long before he was allowed to integrate. As I read this chapter, I also read a headline in the that day’s news revealing that the FBI had actually investigated Bryant for civil rights offenses. You gotta love history.
The book isn’t particularly well written. But then again, neither is this blog post. Yet unlike this post, the book is full of great stories, and it is structured in a way that keeps you from getting lost in the minutia of dates and names. It’s a quick read and well worth it if you’re in the market for a quick primer on Alabama football history.
As I write this, the first Alabama game of the season is one week away. And once again they are defending National Champions. When I was a kid my grandmother used to bet me $1 that Alabama would lose. Once we went double or nothing and I had to ask for an advance on my allowance to cover my loses. She cured me of any tendencies to gamble. But she only strengthened my interest in and love for the Alabama Crimson Tide.
A big thing in our house right now is the History Channel series America: The Story of Us. Our recent home-schooling experiences have taught us the value of history told in unique and creative ways. We keep recording these programs and getting sucked in by the “I-never-knew-that” factor upon which these types of series seem to be built.
Yet despite the flashy reenactments and deep-voiced cinematic narration, there’s still no substitute for first-hand experience. My children learned this on a recent family trip to Logan Jr. High School, the historic institution where my wife attended kindergarten, first, and second grades. I should immediately point out that my wife is in no way historic. The school, however, is. In fact, it’s not even a working school now, but rather a community center safely in the hands of local preservationists.
Logan Jr. High School is an unassuming, ancient structure with tan rock walls and hardwood floors that bare witness to years of young feet finding their way through life. Thanks to the afore-mentioned preservationists, almost every detail of this facility is still in tact, right down to the trophies displayed proudly in glass cases along the main hallway. Fading class photos chronicle a legacy of neatly posed children sitting in ordered rows of desks. Of the few classrooms, most are large and designed to accommodate more than one class at a time. According to my wife, her second grade classroom and its teacher were shared by an entire other grade – at the same time.
The large rooms still have all the trappings, including the manual pencil sharpeners and chalkboards of solid and dashed parallel lines. But perhaps the most intriguing fixtures are the small hallways hidden behind each of the classrooms. These narrow spaces, called cloak rooms, are lined with wall hooks and low shelves. Designed for quick one-way traffic, cloak rooms facilitated the in and out rush of children as they hurried to beat the bell or were saved by it. It’s not so odd, even now, to find an area of a classroom devoted to coats and books. But this space was different. It’s placement, it’s design, it’s feel were all oddly reminiscent of Little House on the Prairie.
I’ll spare you the true historical facts surrounding the school. Suffice to say that it housed more than one generation of the local community. Even older family members touring with us remarked several times how much smaller things were than they had remembered as a child.
As we strolled through the dark halls (apparently the preservationists are also energy conservationists), my wife began to laugh. She told our girls about a particular morning when she decided NOT to go gentle into that good school. After being dropped off, she cried and kicked and screamed and employed all sorts of unorthodox diplomacy. Her teacher, unyielding, tightened her grip and hauled her into the school. My wife’s subsequent protests turned to kicking which resulted in the unfortunate flight of one of her shoes. The flight ended when the shoe struck the principle in the forehead.
As she laughed, she told us that neither she, nor her teacher, nor the principle were laughing at the time.
She could have shared that story sitting in our living room. But now my kids have touched and smelled and felt what it was like for their mother to be a kid in school. They’ve walked those halls, seen those pictures, and heard those stories, even as they stood in the very spot where that history was made.
And so, on a Sunday afternoon, in a little town from which we get the name of our third child, our family gained a true understanding of, and perhaps even an appreciation for, one episode of The Abbotts: The Story of Us.
Just over 18 years ago . . .
Arab was not a large city. I don’t believe it is now either. But at the time of my childhood, we boasted a population of approximately 8,000 people. As it turns out, 2005 estimates place it around 7,500. So it seems we might have been a bit ambitious some two decades ago.
After a grandly public post celebrating the presence of Sports Night on Netflix Instant View, the show mysteriously vanished. Thanks for those of you who commented and brought this to our attention.
