Four Crying Out Loud

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Cold Hands, Warm Heart

My son, Holden, strapped his GoPro to our dog, Tucker, and we let him run around the park. We joked about the lame footage that would be on the camera once we reviewed it: Tucker biting at my son's bike tires and eating clumps of snow. When we got to the top of the hill, a young boy seemed to appear out of nowhere. He called out to us, asking if Tucker was a German Shepherd. I asked if he wanted to meet him. He quickly said yes and ran over to us. As he got closer, I noticed that he was just wearing tennis shoes and the snow was already thickly caked onto his laces. On his upper body, he simply wore a thin rain jacket and a puffy vest. When he removed his hands from his pockets he wasn't wearing any gloves. He asked to throw Tucker's snowy ball anyway. The icy ball stung his fingers and he shook them for the warmth to return. I asked him where his gloves were. He said his mom still needed to buy him some. He said he just keeps his hands in his pockets. I asked

Creators, not consumers.

My father used to have great bonfire parties in October. In the months leading up to them, he would spend loads of time gathering old brush, fallen limbs, and dried leaves to add to the mountain he was assembling in his field. All of his friends looked forward to it, mostly because he was such an excellent host. On this night, his dining room table transformed into a buffet of appetizers, chips and dips. And his porch boasted several galvanized tubs complete with a sea of chilled craft beers just begging to be sampled. His friends, many of whom he had known since childhood, spent the evening mingling about, laughing, and drinking, their faces warm and glowing from the fire, and probably a little from the alcohol, too. When my son was three, he attended his first bonfire party. I took great care in ensuring that I was outfitting him with a true bonfire "look". I bought him bibbed overalls, a thermal shirt, and hiking boots. So many of my dad's friends were going to

You Messed It Up Again.

Our son, Holden, recently signed up for a lifeguard course. I was certain that the amount of hours he would have to commit to the course would turn him away. Not to mention that it was being held during the most glorious weekend weather we'd had in months. From 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. each day, his mind was not on Instagram or You Tube video of BMX stunts. No, there was no time for that. He had to be hyper-focused on compressions and breaths and making sure he called out the "tweet-tweet-tweet" of the whistle during his drowning victim scenarios. Each evening, Holden came home exhausted. We watched him use just enough energy to eat dinner and share a little bit about that day's lesson. He was showered and nestled in his covers earlier than in his toddler years. Part of us felt badly for him. He was missing movie nights, favorite restaurant breakfasts, and the spring-like weather. He would mention it in passing, "It sucks that I can't be riding my bike tod

What Have We Become?

Six months ago, our four person family was living in a one bedroom apartment. We had been there for a year, waiting for our home to sell and to find and purchase a new one. We celebrated every miserable holiday inside those walls. Our bedroom was the dining room. Our children shared a bedroom, my son sleeping on an army cot to save space. We ate on tv trays. We could hear every step that the neighbors upstairs took. We heard every cry and every argument within their family. And they heard ours. It was dismal. Hands down, it was the lowest point of our lives. I don't think a day went by that we did not feel sorry for ourselves. Poor us. We don't deserve this. We are so above this. What the hell are we doing in Section 8 housing? I remember asking myself, "What have we become?" I had so much anger toward God. Driving in my car I would look up and cry out, "Why are you punishing us? Haven't we been through enough? Can you not see

Open Letter to the Man Who Sleeps in Our Stairwell

You startled me. When I turned to walk up the parking garage stairway and saw you lying over in the corner, you startled me. You didn't mean to, I know. It's just that I'm not used to seeing anything over in that corner of the Washington Park Garage , let alone a body. I took a few steps forward and my hand took hold of the stair rail as if to begin my ascent. But I couldn't. I had to pause for a moment to get a good look at you. You were lying on your stomach, using your bag as a pillow. My body took a chill when I thought of yours pressed against the cold, cold concrete. Your coat was decorated with black scuff marks, dirt, and stains. It wasn't a proper winter coat. As one would do for a cranky toddler, I began to rummage through my purse looking for something, anything, to give you. I cupped the contents of the bottom of my purse for anything packaged, edible. I sifted through the lip gloss, pens, and grocery store receipts. I was only able to

It's just hair

My son, Holden, wanted rid of his prohibition haircut. We were in Cincinnati's Clifton neighborhood. It was late. The salons were closed. I knew there was a small barber shop a few blocks down the street so my daughter, son and I set out to find it. It was still open. We walked inside to find three black men cutting three black men's hair. There were two tv's blaring the Emanuel AME church massacre. There were three black men, staring at us, with electric razors suddenly paused in mid air. It was like we were a record on a player and someone had just lifted the needle. We didn't belong and I recognized that right away. I wanted to turn Holden by his shoulders straight back out the way we came but that thought was interrupted by one of the barbers. "Can I help you?" he said. I tried to think up a lie. Ask where the nearest ATM is, ask if they had seen my lost puppy, ask if they could give me directions to the nearest white place. But I didn't lie. "