A Sense of Purpose

Unless we are out of town, you’ll probably find me teaching class on Sunday morning. I volunteered to fill in five years ago and got hooked on having a regular audience. At first I was positively terrified. Getting a room of adults to find interest in and discuss the same old book they’ve been reading since childhood is not always the easiest. I’m no stranger to thousand-yard stares that may or may not be battling the after-effects of a late Saturday night. We are Methodists after all.

After literally sweating through many awkward moments of silence in the early days, I realized that the necessary skill inherently was not in communicating new information. Talk at people long enough and you lose them. The key to success was asking the right questions so folks would open up and explore the topic. People love to talk about themselves. Sharing is therapeutic. I love talking about myself so much that I’ve typed it all out for you to read.

Through our time together, I’ve grown more comfortable asking the tougher questions to my class. They have stuck with me through surprise meditation sessions, optimistic reading assignments, and even a four-part series involving Kathy Lee Gifford. Admittedly, a few visitors have not returned. 

On a recent Sunday, I challenged our group with a question that my 7-year-old had laid on me just days before while walking into a Milo’s. While my mind had been doing the math on how many extra sauces would be required, Libby so casually inquired “Daddy, what is our purpose in life?

Needless to say, I was not ready for this. A mere twenty steps from ordering cheeseburgers and my kid turns into Aristotle. It felt like one of those moments I didn’t want to sear improperly into their beautiful heads, so I sputtered for a second then asked to reconvene later at a less beefy establishment. 

Then naturally, I forgot until Sunday when I realized I could once again saddle the class with my personal challenges. What did they think was their purpose for being on this planet?

With little hesitation, my buddy Steve broke the silence and piped up. “You know, it’s funny you ask, because I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately too. Here it goes.” 

…

My paternal grandfather died at the age of 48. It’s an unspoken rule in our family that you don’t get too certain about one's future. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. This hits harder each day, as my forties seemingly pick up speed. I recall my father and uncle being this age - having a crazy look in their eyes while chasing tornadoes and playing chicken on jet skis. 

Since I was only four when my grandfather passed, my mental image of him has been slowly reconstructed through the relics and stories that live on. Judging by these alone, one can only picture a full and amazing life. In storage behind the underground home he built, I would stumble across the wildest stuff. It was par for the course to find a parachute, an antique crossbow, race car parts, a suitcase full of knives or something equally awesome. The stories that inevitably followed would be told through a smile, and always included a chuckle. 

With a keen eye, you begin to see his sense of humor woven through everything. There’s a  treasured photo of my grandparents as young sweethearts. It’s the quintessential fifties scene, two young lovers holding hands on a swing set, keeping their chastely distance. But when viewed at close range, you’ll see that there is a pair of painties hanging in the foreground of the picture. The story goes that Ed found them in the woods, but in either case, I’ve spent hours upon hours laughing at his artful execution.

And that brings me to the point.

Steve told us that, in this phase of life, his purpose is to do everything he can to facilitate a happy and safe family. Simple as that. He has career ambitions, hobbies and cooks excellent desserts, but the thing that matters most above all else is delivering the next generation to adulthood with good heads on their shoulders. 

I enjoyed hearing this perspective. It was refreshing and frankly pretty badass for a dude to say that out loud. We go through seasons that ask different things of us, but the foundational requirements are generally the same. You can’t fake being a good father just like you can’t fake happiness. Working for the benefit of something larger than yourself, and doing so in the right spirit, inherently helps you understand your own why.

Being honest, I totally punted that day at Milo’s. I promised my little ladies that we would discuss Libby’s question in an environment less beefy. It felt like one of those moments I didn’t want seared improperly into their beautiful heads. I started by admitting to them that I can’t tell them their exact purpose, but that I’d be happy to share mine and maybe that would help.

The last eight months have been a rollercoaster of freedom and fulfillment, but hanging over all of it has been a heaping pile of guilt. I’ve been so fortunate to have this opportunity to figure myself out a bit. Until recently, it was hard to shake the thought that this whole thing is entirely selfish. Each day not spent toiling away at a profitable or hugely impactful enterprise was seemingly wasted. But Steve’s insight helped put things in perspective. What if instead of trying to wrangle some complicated existential meaning from life, I simply live it the best way I know how?

It surely isn’t a coincidence that everything that puts a smile on my face also tends to involve trying to put one on others. Teaching, cooking, throwing parties, playing music, writing stories about how dumb I am - it doesn’t take a thorough psychoanalysis to see what gets me going. For better or worse, I feel like I was put here to show people how fun and funny life can be. Taking things too seriously makes Chappy a dull boy. Besides, I genuinely love being in a place where the bad days at least make for great stories.

So much worry over the last ten years has been devoted to doing all the right things for my kids, as if there are boxes to check. That all felt pretty hollow in moments when their concerned faces wanted to know why I rarely smiled for a long time. What my children (and I would argue all humans) really want is to be around people who are enjoying life. I’d rather be the one dancing like an idiot, hosting tricycle races and pushing the boundaries of sandwich innovation. I’m here to show y’all a good time. That’s my purpose.

“If you are happy, all of us will profit from it. All living beings will profit from it.” -Thich Nhat Hanh

Mr. Bailey's Confidence Building Country Camp

We’re loaded up and headed south on Interstate 65. Dads are in the front chatting. Our eldest daughters are in the back, debriefing from their school week. After a quick stop at the gas station for beef sticks and candy, our crew is leaving the Birmingham suburbs behind for wide open spaces.

Bailey, our host for the weekend, makes regular pilgrimages to the family farm near Greenville. There is always something to do and people to entertain. Maybe that’s why you rarely see him sitting down. When restrained to the seat of his truck, there is a story ready for every landmark along the way.

I’ve been looking forward to this little getaway. Being a father to only girls, I struggle to find the balance between what worked for me as a child and what is best for their growth. Most parents can likely relate when I say that I had a lot more freedom and space to roam as a youth. I’ve been stuck on this idea that if we don’t start introducing this generation to micro-situations where they can test their mettle a bit, we’ll be unleashing an army of unprepared kids into the real world.

So the timing of this father-daughter trip was perfect. Our pack of little ladies were all approaching ten. With no devices in sight, they simply talked in the back seat or listened in as Bailey shared sanitized versions of his own childhood exploits, which frankly put mine to shame.

As we exited and put one final city line in the rear-view mirror, a question arose from the back. “Mr. Bailey, what are we going to do this weekend?”

Lesson One: On the Job Negotiation

One part of country life that I genuinely miss is always knowing a person who can do a thing. Distance from the huddled masses encourages a sort of familial barter system where all are pretty self-sufficient but forces combined could literally rebuild the world from scratch. It takes me a week to get an electrician out, but Bailey’s “backhoe guy” is casually smoking in his Dodge Ram dually by the roadside as we ease up alongside. Drive-through job quoting as the sun sets on a Friday afternoon.

Upon surveying the area in question, a number is given which is way too high. Instead of caving to get this land cleared in a hurry, there’s surely another backhoe guy. Plus “we could always rent one and do it ourselves for half that.” Yee-haw. I wonder how this type of scene processes for a child whose father uses adhesive strips to hang things.

It’s already quite chilly out, so once our gear is unloaded, a fire is the first order of business. Although there is a house, the fire pit and pole barn that surrounds it become the epicenter of all weekend activities. 

Lesson Two: Fire Starting for Beginners

My oldest is no stranger to a good fire. Like any cool suburban dad, I have a Solo Stove, which admittedly is a fun science lesson in how to burn wood as fast as possible. This custom rig before us on the farm was on a completely different scale - logically designed to hold that heat in. Colossal grates would allow a few pigs to slowly roast for special occasions each year. 

But before you can make a big fire, one must begin with a small one. Cold, tiny hands did their best to overcome childproof features on the available lighters. Matches fizzled in the wind. Kindling was broken off of the wall of firewood. Eventually, their persistence, teamwork and ingenuity paid off. They basked in the warmth of achievement, only occasionally straying from the opportunity to throw another log on.

Lesson Three: Welcome to the Waffle House

If you have never been to Butler County, the hottest fashion trend is camo. Same as it has been since forever. People talk about “the rut” in whispered reverential tones while longing for the moment where they can disappear up into a tree and cross paths with a huge lusty buck. 

This wasn’t my first Waffle House, so I didn’t bother to dress up. The girls, free from any critical motherly eyes, were goofily disheveled and a bit smoky smelling. It was hard to tell, though, once we were settled into our booth. The aroma of all that butter and fat had us ready to put those orders in.

While the glossy double-sided menu may not look intimidating, my nerdy friends will tell you there are approximately 1.5 million different ways to have your hashbrowns. Complicated decisions must be be made and clearly communicated above the din of a lively open kitchen. When the time came, chocolate waffles and milk were successfully ordered before our server’s patience ran out. It was a fantastically efficient breakfast of champions. I was also reminded that these kids can’t be too self-absorbed if they’ll happily walk out of a restaurant with chocolate still on their faces. 

Lesson Four: Agronomy & Critters

I love when people are incredibly passionate about something they do. It can’t always be a paying gig, but don’t we all want to find that? 

While deer hunting isn’t my usual jam, I do understand why people love it. I’ve spent three days making what ultimately is an Italian beef sandwich, so the idea that someone puts down hundreds of pounds of seed, months in advance, for the chance at a few deer…well that’s a labor of love. Playing the long game makes for better stories.

The establishment our truck backed up to next does not exist around our usual stomping grounds. Considering the sheer quantities and cross-section of goods, one would need ambitions of scale. The smallest bag crossing our tailgate was fifty pounds. 

You want crickets? How about thousands. When they are mating, they shake rhythmically, so we all realized together that this cricket disco was truly a miniature Sodom and Gomorrah. I nearly felt compelled to buy some just to make space for the next generation that would undoubtedly be here by Christmas. 

The variety of goods on offer was staggering. While Bailey stood in line for deer snacks, I used our rare cell reception to field questions about why someone would buy these things and what their uses might be. 

Seasonality can largely be ignored in the world I normally occupy. I just made a blueberry cobbler in winter for crying out loud. This bustling operation in Greenville couldn’t help but carry what this time of year required. All of the patrons this Saturday morning were operating in step with what you had to be doing now, in the chill of December, to have a chance for results in the spring. I think we all needed that perspective. 

Lesson Five: Firearms

As soon as I could hold a gun without falling over, one was placed on my shoulder and pointed in a safe direction. Not yet old enough to comprehend the methodology of a shotgun, it just seemed like I hit everything! Eventually, I was proficient enough with the steel to earn a rifle shooting merit badge in the Boy Scouts. But we literally moved to suburbia within weeks of that triumphant achievement. 

Whether or not you consider yourself a gun enthusiast, they are legal in the United States of America. Bailey is a responsible gun owner and hunter. That’s why our collective of Dads had no issues with him setting up a controlled range so the girls could squeeze off a few rounds. Instead of a peanut gallery of tipsy uncles and a piece of trash as a target, however, their indoctrination included a detailed safety overview, shooting chair, and an array of targets set up a comfortable distance downrange. 

I anticipated needing to give my oldest a pep talk. Dangerous things are not her usual jam, but I’ve heard tales of her summer camp exploits. Maybe there’s a side I hadn’t allowed to flourish. 

Without hesitation, she casually settled in. Then got down to business clinically putting holes in that target. I must say I was impressed. You could see the little confidence boost it gave each girl to survey their handiwork - wrangling accuracy out of loud and forceful instruments. 

Lesson Six: Off Road Vehicles

Streets can be so boring. Also safe. Everyone has a story about a guy they knew who got hurt super bad on an ATV, Motorbike, etc. And note that it’s always a guy. If you give a dude any set of wheels, he will undoubtedly have two questions to investigate. How fast can I go and how high can I jump it?

I have lived enough years to remember three wheelers bebopping around our family property. These days, commercials have to tell people not to take something if they are allergic to that thing. But back in the good ol’ days, a company could sell a heavy unstable death trap without a second thought.

The farm vehicle of today is comparatively innocuous. Known as a Mule, this thing has a full roll cage, seat belts, and costs more than some commuter vehicles. Notably, the radio also kicks ass on this model. We are bouncing through dormant fields while giggles ring out. Their learners' permits may be half a decade away, but these girls were experiencing the joys of mashing the loud pedal and taming yet another beast.

Also in the stable was an ATV. Four wheels are better than three, but these things are still heavy and super dangerous when used incorrectly. I have come off of a few in my time, but then again I am indeed a dude.

The most experienced rider was limited to a reasonable gear. Slowly but surely, trust was earned and the reins loosened. The girls took turns riding off into the distance two at a time, experiencing that unmistakable bond of putting full faith and trust in one another. 

In the end, there was a near miss or two. Shouts rang out from our Dad collective on occasion, correcting a young driver who had gone astray. I love a good teachable moment, and I was in good company. Go ahead and make those mistakes in a controlled environment. It’s one thing for me to tell my kids that you only brake in a straight line. It’s another thing for them to feel the vehicle pitch sideways when they violate that rule. Nothing gets harmed except a little topsoil. 

Lesson Six: Fishing

Fishing, unlike most outdoor activities, is a pretty level playing field. It used to drive my Grandfather absolutely insane that my younger sister could catch more fish than him. She wanted to be anywhere else, and made little-to-no effort to keep her line untangled, but without fail she’d just drop the worm in the water and impatiently jerk up one lunker after another. 

There are skills to be acquired and mastered, however. These were no snoopy poles. Bailey had the girls rigged up with spin casters. And then to turn it up to 11, we were fishing a pond that was stocked full of mutant bass. These freaks of nature were intentionally bred to be stronger and more aggressive than the lazy bass you are used to.

You should never fish alone, so there is also a need for spacial awareness when casting your line. I don’t know about you, but my kids generally do not have their wits about them. I often lose dad points for using the tops of their heads to steer them out of harm's way. This, I’m told, is embarrassing. 

Rather than micro-managing through the whipping hooks, I felt more content to focus on my own line. We got stuck a few times, but when those first two fish finally came out of the water, it was on the hooks of our little boss ladies. Then we took them to a fruitless pond down the road for a little dose of humility.

Lesson 7: Open Fire Cooking

In the fleeting hours of daylight, we gave the girls agenda space to get weird with it. They gathered assorted deer, hog and bird bones to construct a terrifying mini museum of natural history. Having mastered fire in a controlled environment, they took it upon themselves to start a baby fire at a separate location. When they composed visually stunning vegetarian snacks for deers and lightly smoked them in said fire, the girls were just showing off. And to think, they could have been on the couch watching television.

Our crew did not go willingly when departure time eventually came. Being a passenger once again seemed pedestrian to these hardened outdoorsladies. My child had rarely been so filthy. Bags of mostly clean clothes were returned to the truck bed…

Parenting is hard. The blueprint that molded me into the strange human I am cannot (and many would argue should not) be copied and pasted to my two offspring. The world is different. They are different. As soon as we think we’re figuring things out, the target moves and we are on our heels once again. One thing we forget is the world is a moving target for them too. It’s their first go at being a human. What I know for certain is that just about every kid in my part of the world could use a dose of Mr. Bailey’s Country Camp.

The Long Game

As a fun experiment, Allison and I have been unearthing our favorite shows from when we were children. Our kids don’t always understand the references or analog lifestyle, but rewatching Full House has provided an opportunity to show our girls what life was like back then. Compared to entertainment of today, which is chock full of product placement, shock value and CGI, this TGIF anchor feels legitimately wholesome. The big family hug that concludes each episode still manages to warm my cold heart a touch. It’s also great to feel that 90s vibe again. 

I knew it would finally happen. Fashion, as we know (but tend to forget), is cyclical. It was only a matter of time before the style of my youth came all the way back around. The track suits that make regular appearances in Full House would be totally fly in any seasonal lineup today. Those goofy cotton button ups sported by Uncle Joey would go for hundreds in Brooklyn. Nike Air Maxes, once a staple for aspiring cross trainers like myself, are flying off of shelves again. Suburban eight year olds are sporting mullets. I hear some folks are even putting up wallpaper again despite everything we learned. It’s all pretty hilarious.

With the distance between, a quick glance back in time would have you believing we were really kicking ass on the confidence meter. Hair was big. Patterns were bold and plentiful. Our clothing conquered the wind. I distinctly remember seeing the design package for the 1996 Atlanta Olympics and thinking they really nailed it. Then, just like always, yin and yang did their thing. We decided none of that was cool anymore.

My forty first birthday was a few weeks ago, so farewell to this “I just turned 40” business. We’re progressing through the decade I was told for years would be my happiest. And you know what? Seeing it all cycle back around has provided a welcomed reminder.

My historically high blood pressure has been driven, more than anything, by worry about things outside my control. The future has always been an unknown beast that I have felt unprepared to wrangle. Having kids, a wife, and a few respectable animals to care for seemingly magnified this sense of dread. What I’ve come to realize, however, is I have fifteen thousand days worth of data to go off of. Statistically speaking, I can reasonably surmise what the future will hold, and it ain’t so bad. Those fears are largely unwarranted. I’ve also come to realize the following things will continue to hold true.

1. Your day is always more enjoyable in comfortable shoes.

2. Experiences are better than things, and those experiences are better with company.

3. More is rarely an improvement.

4. People are nicer if you just talk to them.

5. Most of things that keep you up at night are quite silly when you put them in perspective

6. It’s a lot easier to just be happy now. Nothing is actually stopping you from this. 

For the first time in 20 years, I went in for an annual physical and my blood pressure was well within the normal range. I asked them to do it again. Hypertension has always been my thing. But maybe, just maybe, I’m finally gaining a little of the perspective that accompanies age.

More often than not, broken things can be fixed. Problems have a resolution out there somewhere. Good eventually raises its head in response to evil. I’ve spent my childhood and adulthood worrying about the future. But now I’ve lived long enough to see the same things be cool twice. It’s a lucid reminder of how silly we are to let fears about the future keep us from enjoying today. 

Y2K came and went. The swarms of murder insects, prosthelytized on nightly news broadcasts since forever, have yet to arrive. All of those presents that people fought over on Black Fridays of yore are now in a landfill somewhere. Might as well accept that even as everything seems to change, it’s really just more of the same repackaged.

I suggest we play the long game and keep those tracksuits. 

Fluffy Life Decisions

The average adult makes over thirty thousand decisions each day. The vast majority are trivial. Nobody lives and dies based on how many toilet paper squares you grab. But life will inevitably give rise to weightier choices. What’s my career? Where shall I live? Should I marry this person? What about children? And not necessarily at the top, but decidedly important: Should we get a dog? After all, we’re still living with that same choice we made 16 years ago.

I’m fascinated by how humans make important decisions. Machines might follow a logical path to conclusion but we have this wonderful element called emotion. For my mother and her lineage, the measured purchase of a single television may draw out across years, encompassing countless hours of research and intense debate at holiday gatherings. Conversely, a Chapman could be headed for Oklahoma tomorrow with a trailer ready to go all-in on a random new hobby they just heard about today. This has historically put me at the precarious crossroads of being a collateral beneficiary of Dad’s super fun toys while also agreeing with my mother that it was a silly thing for a person to spend money on.

Allison and I are a balance of these two extremes. One of us will bring up an idea half-jokingly. We’ll both say “not right now” and brush it off. Then, after a few weeks, if it survives incubation, we’ll start texting links to nudge each other. This is when we enter the research phase. A final decision is then rendered by whoever cares the most. In this particular case, that would be the person choosing to light his free time on fire in order to mind a puppy.

We recently saw friends who have made many children and therefore don’t get over to our house as much as they used to. The husband saw our seventy-pound mix breed and asked what the dog’s name was. When I told him it was Lucy, he exclaimed “THIS IS THE SAME DOG!?” Yep, now 112 dog years in, she’s trucking along against all odds. We had Lucy prior to the girls being born, so it has been a life of constant, unwelcomed change. In her stubborn cataract-covered eyes, our little humans do not exist unless they are holding a droppable snack. 

Worth mentioning is that we already housed two cats. Lucy didn’t care for them either. Peter, a gleaming feline poster child, makes delightful conversation and is always fun at parties. Frank, on the other hand, is beautiful but oddly mysterious. Despite their differences, this triumvirate had been relatively easy on us. Our felines are catered to by robots while Lucy sleeps and farts the day away. This is a relatively easy homeostasis to maintain.

My reasoning for expansion was three-fold. For starters, the girls could use a companion that would grow up with them and evoke some character-building responsibility. Secondly, while we await the inevitable with our old girl, she’d prove to be a chill role model for a young impressionable pup. Lastly, out of pure selfishness, I wanted a friend to take along for outdoor adventures. The timing was good, if that is ever possible. 

There is always this moment of recognition when I’m about to do something with large implications. A hotness starts to throb in my ears and then radiates throughout until a thin veneer of sweat begins to form. Whether the setting is a car dealership, a negotiating table or the checkout line at Costco, I have this semi-helpless feeling that the freight train is in motion and all I can do is mentally buckle up. On that beautiful summer morning in Albertville, Alabama I found myself with a whole bunch of furry adoptable cuteness running around. The heat was coming.

How does one choose a best friend? I had already narrowed my dog preferences to male, under seventy pounds and the regular allergenic kind. Fluff is my jam and we have the good Roomba. In surveying options available within these boundaries, my mind naturally went into risk assessment mode. While the hopeless romantic in me couldn’t rule out an instant soulmate connection, statistics favor the middle of the pack. An overly friendly and outgoing guy was cut. As was the little goober who hid in the back, repeatedly getting stuck in precarious positions. Two of the more independent chaps were selected to move on to the holding phase. From there, I Facetimed Allison for input, but the signal isn’t great in Albertville. I was on my own for a final verdict.

Unlike our haphazard adoption with Frank, I was prepared this time with all the things a proper puppy could need. The crate was decked out and Lando Norris Chapman (a name I pre-selected) slipped easily onto a bed made for kings. A pitiful whimper rang out from the back as we drove away from the only home he’d known for two months of life, but Lando settled in for a nap after only a few minutes. My nerves calmed considerably. This was a good sign.

You always remember day one. Everything is new. Normal is thrown out the window while our new paradigm materializes. Not having had a puppy since rearing two human children, I recall scoffing at those who couldn’t stay anywhere for more than an hour because of a silly dog back at home. In a flash, we are those people.

Children are great for helping devalue all the stuff in your house. We’ve seen some wild oopsies over the course of nine years. There’s the incident when our television was busted with a teddy bear. Or that time we learned never to leave a Sharpie sitting around. A day will eventually come when we can finally invest in quality household appointments, but today is not that day. With Lando, however, we were playing a whole new ballgame. I can’t ever recall Maggie eating parts of our actual house.

The chaos of potty training was totally expected. Razor sharp teeth, crazy puppy energy and a short attention span dialed up a cocktail of sheer madness. I would run into the bathroom for what cyclists term a “nature break.” Meanwhile, young Lando would be nibbling away on a tasty door frame. My head was on a perpetual swivel as our entire coterie adjusted. Thought previously to be impossible, Lucy was even more annoyed. The cats were genuinely displeased. Even the enthusiasm of our girls waned as their bite wounds grew in number. Then, to make things more interesting, Allison left the country for a week…

This puppy thing was, after all, my idea. I knew the schedule and had my usual steely-eyed resolve when staring down seven days as an only parent. Normally I would ratchet up the fun a notch so our kids will like me more - offering science experiments, arcades, fun dinners and such. Not this time. In between soccer and dance commitments, we banded together to shape Lando into a respectable citizen. 

While the mayhem between puppy naps was often maddening, one couldn’t help but laugh at the little quirks that emerged as Lando’s personality blossomed. We offered a pile of toys and things to chew upon, yet an iconic yellow cup from a filthy bar in Tuscaloosa was all this pup needed. Lando would prance back to the shower, cup in mouth, so he could bark with maximum acoustics. Maddeningly, his favorite party trick was to nip the toilet paper dangling in the hallway bathroom, then joyfully gallop as far as he could before getting caught. In one go, he managed over fifty feet of run, then did all he could to suspend the reclamation project. 

As days of incessant rain hemmed us all indoors, Chapman house began to show the strain of being a very cute war zone. Areas that had previously brought me moments of peace and tranquility were now barricaded due to the mysterious gravitational pull they had on young Lando’s genitals. I aspire to a rational level of cleanliness, which also brings me joy. Less joy filled my heart, however, as I personally handled gallons upon gallons of puppy excrement. There was one touching baby parallel, thankfully, that had me getting used to the experience. Y’all are all friends, so I can admit this to you. There were several times when I was still chewing on carrots, grapes, nuts, etc. and already working a newly discovered cleanup site. Mine is always the weakest of stomachs, but maybe that’s a little love creeping in to get me through it.

Silver linings were struggling to outpace the not so great times. Three days into Allison’s trip, we reached a low point. For such moments, it was a familiar setting…on my knees in front of a toilet. This time the circumstances planting me there were more mechanical in nature - a clog that was defying both logic and reason. Lando’s toilet paper hobby had caught up with us, as had the lack of available drinking toilets for Lucy (she’s a classy gal). I had tried multiple plungers, boiling water, my own flippin’ bare hands, a coat hanger and a 6 foot plumbing snake. Sitting down had become a concept of the past, as I was either reigning in the fury or preparing battlements while the beast slept. To top it all off, our frantic movement about the house had led to several accessories being ripped clean off the walls. Two new holes in the sheetrock and a busted sliding door lay in wait. As Allison casually sipped rosé and snacked on Hungarian delights next to the Danube, I was losing my flipping mind. 

The light of a new day brought with it a cautious optimism and an increased plumping budget. Doing is the only way I know how to cope in times of crisis. For his part, Lando certainly intuited a correlation between my anger at the toilet and his actions. He sheepishly cooled his belly on our tile floor as I fished ever further into our pipes. When the clog finally let loose, I rode that serotonin boost down the hall to our assorted other projects. There’s something very empowering about spackling over your sins.

Meanwhile, we had a little dude that was starting to pick up on the lack of screams when he used the bathroom outside. Lando was trying to please us, or at least get as many reward treats as possible. The scales were tipping in a favorable direction.

On Friday morning, the girls and I were optimistic. The weekend offered a bit of relief from our hectic schedule. It also meant that we would be a complete foursome again soon. As had become typical, I leapt from bed in a rush to get Lando outside, back in to eat, then back out again before anything unwanted could exit him. The girls were fed and readied in spurts as I darted back and forth. Requiring another nature break myself, I took solace back in our master bath for a solitary minute or two. Then a tiny little howl of terror rang out, followed by frantic puppy yelps all the way down the hallway…

About sixteen years ago, the Chapman clan was gathering for a lovely afternoon at my parents’ house. Allison and I, engaged at the time, had brought Lucy over for her first meet and greet with everyone. Indy, the hosts’ lovable black labrador, greeted all guests with his usual benign disposition. Things were going swimmingly until young Lucy’s bouncy enthusiasm rubbed Indy the wrong way. One jump too many was all it took to elicit a quick bite to the face. Along with a fresh cut across her snout, Lucy’s face now bore the expression of a dog who had just realized the world was not a safe and wonderful place. Pitiful yelps lasting for minutes not only broke our hearts, but could be heard clear across Jeffferson county. She still has the scar, and frankly hasn’t been the same dog since.

Back in 2024, I burst out of the bathroom all out of sorts. The room was still dark due to our mad morning rush, but I could faintly see a ball of fluff hurriedly making its way under our bed. With Lando recovered, I checked for damage. On his snout was a massive gash, open and bleeding everywhere. His puppy heart rate was blasting out of the stratosphere, but familiar comfort was calming him down. On the bottom of his chin was another notable cut. A tiny black flake of puppy nose dangled loose in the front, creating the saddest of all visuals. 

Throughout all this, my two animal-loving children were still sitting in the kitchen, casually making their way through their respective bowls of cereal as if nothing had happened. As witnesses, they were of no use. I told them as much, but they could at least confirm that Lucy was nearby when it happened. A quick look to my right and the old girl was standing there, her graying face looking guilty as hell. 

Having paralleled the moment at hand with the scar that still sat visibly on Lucy’s face, it all felt a bit surreal. Was there some twisted canine initiation our dogs must endure in order to properly understand the real world? It pained me, however, to think of sweet Lando changing his sunny outlook. Though his shenanigans to this point had been numerous, they were at least carried out with a smile.  

Thankfully, we already had Lando’s first check up scheduled that morning with my brother-in-law. I can’t tell you how convenient it is to have a veterinarian in the family. Uncle Jason, as we refer to him in the company of our pets, glued lil’ Lando’s nose skin back together while deftly avoiding curious little nips of a completely unphased pup. Our little guy was back to his old happy-go-lucky ways, at least until Uncle Jason snuck up the back entrance for a fecal sample. I don’t know if there can be a funnier look on an animal’s face than when they get that surprise. 

With Allison back on this side of the Atlantic, we began to hit our stride. Mornings were no longer a game of high stakes traffic control. Toilet paper rolls started to feel safe again. Our nights were reliably quiet as Lando settled into the familiarity of his crate. With the girls gaining confidence, we all learned how to act more appropriately around a creature that doesn’t know any better. Once folks stopped excitedly screaming at his face, he mirrored that calmer demeanor. 

Maggie really stepped up along the way, as I hoped she would. While weathering occasional bites and scratches, she took some initiative to train young Lando. Libby occasionally picks her snack wrappers off the floor now. That warms my heart. 

While Frank has gone into almost permanent hiding, Peter doesn’t much mind cohabitating with another dog. He just sticks to higher ground these days. Lucy is greeted first by Lando each morning and you can see it in her face that maybe she thought it was all a bad dream until that point.  

Meanwhile, Allison and I are smitten. I was worried initially about Lando playing favorites in the motherly direction, but I feed him more often so you can guess where that loyalty sits at present. We’re getting much more outside time, regardless of weather conditions. This has been a welcome adjustment, except maybe for some of the neighbors who have seen me chasing a dog in my undies. After a while, you simply forget that laying in bed later on the weekend was an option. If a creature is that stoked to get started with his day, it tends to rub off on you a bit.

As for the future, our little guy will continue to grow and experience all the things that a human teenager does, just on a more extreme timeline. There will be inevitable bumps in the road. But a friend adeptly cut to the chase, asking “Would any dollar amount buy Lando back now that you’ve had him for a month? Absolutely not. He’s family now. And, while we’re talking about money, it’s time to convince Allison that we really need a bright orange Vespa with a sidecar.

Truckin'

I have been witness to much handiness over the years. There is a diploma in my closet that belies a thorough understanding of physics. The spectacular nature in which I can fail at simple tasks, however, can sometimes baffle all comers. If we’re self-analyzing, I would pin much of my failure on the desire to do things without assistance. Such stubborn resolve tends to get hella dangerous when heavy, sharp or moveable (bonus if you have all 3!) implements are involved. 

I wonder how much of this hubris can be chalked up to genetics. The Chapman men, while being noted do-it-yourselfers, have a long history of getting in over our heads. Impressive failure is quite effective as a primary teaching method, plus the stories are lit. Fireworks, believe it or not, can set your cousin on fire if used incorrectly. If there is a tornado in the area, don’t leave shelter to “go have a look.” When sharing a boat with another fishing enthusiast, it’s best to hook the fish instead of your compatriot's face. Sure you could simply be told this, or you could be witness to the barb stuck in uncle Pat. Tell me what method is more impactful.

With so many memorable life lessons stored away, you’d think I would simply know better by now.

Over lunch on Tuesday, I had the pleasure of catching up with two long-time friends. They asked how I fill my days since taking a break from work. Instead of listing out things, I instead opted for the weighted priorities. Number one: keep my family happy. For this week, completing that directive meant that I would be renting a trailer from U-Haul and trucking some cargo for  our Labor Day vacation. This was a perfectly reasonable request. 

Vehicle purchases are an area where I devote oodles of thought. I hear people say they are not car people, and that’s a perfectly fine way to be. Especially with younger children, that thing in the driveway can seem like a rolling trash can simply delivering utility. The default in my neck of the woods for any red-blooded male is a big ass truck or truck-adjacent SUV. Because I wear a lot of Patagonia hats and prefer something sportier, this season of life finds me in a Subaru Ascent. My tow hitch is such a de-prioritized feature that it lives hidden behind a piece of plastic that masks as bumper. Subaru people are, by and large, more apt to use it as a way to attach assorted racks for carrying all of their outdoorsy paraphernalia. 

Someone once told me that the largest U-Haul location, by size, happens to be the one closest to my house. The acres of pavement abut a Red Lobster, which my firefighter friend has seen the kitchen of and accordingly refuses to eat there. This is not a block we are eager to put on the poster. Yet such convenience does afford ample opportunity to fill one’s American belly with unlimited shrimp while figuring out what to do with all your extra stuff. When I pulled out of the U-Haul Store successfully attached to my five by nine-foot rig, there was a fury of rattling metal at every transition, but otherwise smooth sailing until the final stretch.

My mother spent over forty years in the insurance industry and regularly reminds us that almost 80% of car accidents happen within 15 miles of home. Statistically, we spend most of our time in that range, so it makes sense. The familiarity of everything can also cause us to put our guard down. I am constantly dodging walkers, scooter children, a cat named Mowgli who occasionally pops out of drains and (notably) some very hazardous bumps down the stretch. We like to say that if you can make it out of the neighborhood, then the rest of your adventure should be a piece of cake.

If you are unfamiliar with the City of Vestavia Hills, where we live, the name is a solid clue what you are in for topographically. There is not a flat place in which to park a trailer. But I had to immediately turn the ship around and pick up the kids from school, so I thought it best to drop it in the driveway real quick. First mistake.

I hopped out and disconnected, figuring I could make short work of it by simply walking twelve hundred rolling pounds into place on our flat-ish parking pad out front. It instantly started building speed when loosened and I knew where things were quickly headed. Our steep yard would only assist in adding momentum and from there it was full speed ahead all the way down to our minister’s house. 

At the last possible moment, I lunged forward and pushed the tongue as hard as I could in a perpendicular direction to the hill. Mercifully, the trailer turned back uphill and came to a precarious stop in the front yard. I said some things that my mother wouldn’t be proud of as I surveyed the scene. Sweat rolled down across a pair of dusty scraped hands. The whole front of my big toe had been skinned and that was starting to bleed like crazy, because of course I had sandals on for this adventure. Side note - I’m the guy who will happily point out every knucklehead pressure washing, lifting things or chopping with open-toed footwear, but I’m just as dumb. The skinned toe was a nice compliment to the one on my other foot that I had broken doing laundry a week previous. Dear reader, I live an extreme life.

After some further salty language, a little bit of ingenuity and a change of clothes, the trailer was parked somewhat safely on the street and loaded with a dining room table I really should have asked for help with. 

Early the next morning, I loaded in the last of our items then lined up to reconnect the Subaru. Not surprisingly, this did not go well. With a full load and no handy jack in place to steady the tongue, it started rolling on me again. For sure I was ready this time with a few well-placed wheel chocks, but the dance of moving them a little, then repositioning the hitch was maddening. When I finally succeeded, I was once again drenched in sweat. For some reason, the clamp didn’t seem to be screwing down as far as it had previously. After some furious attempts at tightening it as much as possible, I attached the chains, connected lights and started off down the hill.

I was still descending when one wheel hit a deep rut and the other caught a different one. In one of the more terrifying things I’ve witnessed in my rearview mirror, the trailer removed itself from the hitch and took a course independent of the vehicle. In a panic and with pedestrians on the road ahead of me, I stopped. The trailer slammed into the Subaru with a sickening thud. 

Believe it or not, my driving record is impeccable. I’ve never been in an accident while behind the wheel. The sound and force that came through the chassis, however, sounded expensive. I stepped out to survey the damage. One of the walkers who had witnessed the scene asked “Do you need help!?” before qualifying with “I wouldn’t know what to do here but I can call someone for you.” I must have looked a treat, sweat-dampening the third shirt that morning with assorted cuts on my hands.

Through some miracle of miracles, the front of the trailer had dropped right before impact, missing the bodywork entirely. It had glanced off the connection hardware before ramming into, get this, the spare tire. There were some superfluous plastic pieces up underneath that had seen better days, but they would all be hidden from view when I eventually reattached the bumper cover. Instead of using my still shaking hands to call Allison, I instead put it all back together (correctly this time) and carried on my way as if nothing had happened.

The rest of my cautious and solitary trip provided plenty of time for introspection. I’m not one to live life with regrets, but yeesh the previous twenty-four hours had been an unnecessarily wild ride. Certainly, my age requires that more patience and thoughtfulness be employed in dangerous situations. How lucky am I that disaster struck within walking distance of my house and with no lasting damage? What if this had all played out on the interstate just a few miles later?

As my journey came to a close, The Grateful Dead’s “Touch of Grey” fittingly was the last song to play. When Jerry Garcia sings “Every silver linings got a touch of grey” I instinctively stroke my sideburns, which are starting to betray the future color of my mostly brown hair, knowing I’ve probably just accelerated the process a bit. I continue on, dear reader - not particularly wiser but possibly better prepared against my own future stupidity.