So my family was at a restaurant the other night. We were situated in a booth, strategically arranged as usual so that (a) my two left-handed kids had free reign to swing their eatin’ arms and (b) there was no brother-sister under-the-table leg kicking capability. (Team Gibbons getting situated at dinner often looks like a well-choreographed dance. We’re fun that way.)
When the zombies attack, I’m sticking with my daughter.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Aww, what a super awesome dad who will be protective over his baby girl.”
To which I say, “Um, yeah, that.”
When did you first see him?
It was, I’m pretty sure, 1980 for me.
When I was a kid, Christmas morning was always celebrated in our living room. In my parents’ house the staircase that leads down to the first floor is next to a wall that separates us from our Christmas bounty. The third step was key – no descent past the third step.
Farewell, noble warrior. Your service will never be forgotten.
Alas, today I bid adieu to a trusted family member who was always there to make sure our family was complete. Goodbye, coffee maker.
The last time I owned a pair of expensive sunglasses, I’m pretty sure there were two Germanies.
I was in high school, and I saved up around $100 to buy a pair of really nice sunglasses. They were Bollé brand, and anyone who just Googled that brand for his column can tell you that “Bollé is a world leader in the manufacture and sale of technical glasses, goggles and helmets for everyday life and specialised sports.”
One would think the simple act of reaching down to pick up your keys would not send you reeling back in pain and create a cascade of blood down your face.
Mainly, you would think that because rarely when you pick up a dropped item do you get your head split open.
Typical phrase you might hear in my house: “Can someone go upstairs and tell Yoda to be quiet?”
Don’t get me wrong. I would love to have the actual Yoda just chilling around the house being part of our everyday life, saying things like, “Dinner ready, it is” and “Walk dogs, I will.” But this particular Yoda only speaks in high-pitched beeps. Mainly because he is an alarm clock.
Originally published in the Aiken Standard, April 22, 2004.
On Friday, I sat in a small room with seven other people and watched a man die.
The execution of Jerry McWee was carried out with quiet efficiency, and I served as one of three media witnesses who would later relate the details of the execution to other members of the press.
Originally published in Easy Street Magazine.
Amelia Knoedler sat in the study of her boarding house, winding down from another evening as the sole employee of the weekly paper in tiny Unadilla, Ga.
Dear Quaker Oats,
It is with a heavy heart that I must tell you that I have decided to see other oatmeal.
No, no, don’t cry. Stop. Listen to me.
We have been together for a long time, some 30 years, by my count.