Raining in Nashville
It is raining in Nashville. And it is cold. Maybe an ice storm. Maybe not. I can predict my moods better than they can predict the weather here. Either way, they say, be careful on the roads in the morning.
The Boy has another ear infection. Daycare called me at 11:00 this morning. “We have a sick little boy here,” they say. “Fever of 102 degrees. Lethargic.” Jesus, it sounds as though they are ready to harvest his organs. 102? “He eats 102 for breakfast. Give me 105 and we’ll talk,” I say. They aren’t amused. Truth be told, I’d rather lose an appendage than have him uncomfortable for a minute. But a bigger truth? You try to protect him too much, shelter him, save him from life’s cruel jokes, you’ll fuck that kid for the long haul. Em’s a good boy and takes it in stride. I pick him up within 30 minutes of getting the call. “You feeling OK, Boy?” He is feverish, tired—just pitiful. Know what he tells me? “I’m just a little tired, Daddy.” I hold him tight and make him smile. I sing him the Handsome Boy song. A little Motrin, a little Augmentin and he’s as good as a broke-eared boy can be. He sleeps now—the rhythm of his breathing, a perfect dance. I shuffle-step as best I can, keep time like a challenged father.
I’ve put together 20 cds for Ken in Portland. Waterboys, James, Hayseed Dixie, John Prine, Todd Snider, more and more. In our running days, we were all Judas Priest and Dokken. Today, it is Widespread and Yonder Mountain for him, Americana and Folk for me. We like to meet in the middle and embrace in that old comfortable friendship of long ago. But we can still appreciate a Vain, or Dio, or L.A. Guns homecoming. Yearn for it, actually. I will mail the cds tomorrow.
It is raining in Nashville. And it is cold. I don’t think the ice storm will come. But it might.
The Boy has another ear infection. Daycare called me at 11:00 this morning. “We have a sick little boy here,” they say. “Fever of 102 degrees. Lethargic.” Jesus, it sounds as though they are ready to harvest his organs. 102? “He eats 102 for breakfast. Give me 105 and we’ll talk,” I say. They aren’t amused. Truth be told, I’d rather lose an appendage than have him uncomfortable for a minute. But a bigger truth? You try to protect him too much, shelter him, save him from life’s cruel jokes, you’ll fuck that kid for the long haul. Em’s a good boy and takes it in stride. I pick him up within 30 minutes of getting the call. “You feeling OK, Boy?” He is feverish, tired—just pitiful. Know what he tells me? “I’m just a little tired, Daddy.” I hold him tight and make him smile. I sing him the Handsome Boy song. A little Motrin, a little Augmentin and he’s as good as a broke-eared boy can be. He sleeps now—the rhythm of his breathing, a perfect dance. I shuffle-step as best I can, keep time like a challenged father.
I’ve put together 20 cds for Ken in Portland. Waterboys, James, Hayseed Dixie, John Prine, Todd Snider, more and more. In our running days, we were all Judas Priest and Dokken. Today, it is Widespread and Yonder Mountain for him, Americana and Folk for me. We like to meet in the middle and embrace in that old comfortable friendship of long ago. But we can still appreciate a Vain, or Dio, or L.A. Guns homecoming. Yearn for it, actually. I will mail the cds tomorrow.
It is raining in Nashville. And it is cold. I don’t think the ice storm will come. But it might.
posted by Ryan at 2:00 AM
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