Fun times in Toccoa

This weekend we loaded up for the annual family retreat hosted by the GBC at the Georgia Baptist Retreat Center in Toccoa. This is one of the parts of the state I see, oh, about once a year. Usually around now. I wish it weren't so, but 'tis. The last time we went the crew consisted of myself, Amy, and Rylee. That was two years ago (schedule conflict last year). This year it was us three plus Jackson and Reese, a friend of Rylee's. 

Of course, Amy had them in their cutesy matching outfits. I had an orange shirt and thought I could pass off as a pumpkin, but instead everyone thought I was a Halloween version of the Kool-Aid man. Gotta drop some weight. 

I've heard going from two kids to three is a huge change. You effectively go from man-to-man to playing a zone. That's rough to switch your system and expect immediate results. Just ask Auburn (couldn't help that). The retreat was only a one-night event, so we weren't in too bad shape. The first night Amy took care of Jackson while I went to a desert thingy with the two little girls. All was calm until they discovered the chocolate fountain. 

By the way, let's all admit the chocolate in the chocolate fountain really isn't all that great. It's simply the fact it's a fountain of chocolate. I haven't had the pleasure of experiencing a cheese fountain or ranch fountain (for my hot wings and pizza), but I eagerly look forward to it.

The girls went chocolate fountain crazy. Marshmallows and strawberries were being dunked like a mass baptism. Except on those little skewers. Maybe the baptism analogy isn't the best when those are brought into the equation. 

After that I knew shuttling them off to bed wasn't going to work from the chocolate overload. Somehow I convinced them checkers was fun. Not sure how I did that, but gave myself a dad merit badge for it. Some creative rule-making during the match allowed them both to have a piece left. Both wanted to win. They even declared the last two pieces could jump each other (try it, doesn't work). As the grand pooba of ches-eckers (the chess pieces were more interesting, so they were effectively playing checkers with chess pieces), I declared a tie. The sisters kissed and it was off to bed.

The next day there were inflatable games (moonwalk, giant slide, and obstacle course), pumpkin carving, boat rides, crafts, and a petting zoo. I ended up in charge of Jackson. The first task was to take him on the slide. Pretty big. It was one of these things where you climb up between the two sliding areas, with these bars providing your foothold.

There are some activities not meant for big guys. Rock climbing, Chippendales dancing (despite Chris Farley's best efforts), and climbing an inflatable rank of there. Add the level of difficulty to helping/carrying a chunky almost-two-year-old up and it's a feat of survival. 

We soon learned it wasn't a good idea for Jack to be around the pumpkin-carving table for too long when he decided he wanted to carve it himself, thus being the weilder of the butcher knife that could've slayed us all. He and I went to the petting zoo, where we remained for more than an hour. More. Than. An. Hour.

Jackson was most enamored with the little goats and pony. He kept referring to it as a horse minus the "s", which sounded like he was repeatedly berating the animal for its promiscuity. Here he's petting the llama. Llook, llamas may be somewhat llame to you llosers, but I llike them. However, I was on a higher level of alertness due to something I saw a llama doo (misspelling on purpose) in a parade once. It wasn't so much the action, but the trajectory and velocity with it. A neat little addition was in the cage behind the llama, which contained a spider monkey. I know some of you are wondering. No, there were no flagrant (yet hilarious) displays that would've led to an uncomfortable discussion on animal behavior and anatomy. He was a little gentleman. 

Followed was a little hike down to the lake and, after waiting our turn, we were off on a short cruise. Soon we were dropped off for a lunch of barbecue ribs and chicken. Part of the desert were Rice Krispie treats cut into little squares. This is one snack I could eat and eat and eat. Put it in tiny pieces and I'll pop them in like tic tacs. Once in college I had a hankering for them and ended up spreading them on the cookie sheet not in a neat little flat area, but in layers like a cooled lava flow. Instead of cutting them up and putting them away like a normal person I left them and over the next few days would walk by and rip off a chunk like George "The Animal" Steele going after a turnbuckle.  

To all my fellow Bama fans ...

Yes, whupping Georgia last night was great. Yes, the guys looked impressive the first half (got outscored 30-10 2nd half. I can almost see Saban partially thankful for that as some flogging fuel this week in practice.). We're #2 in the AP poll now. 

Last night my wife had a great analogy for how she's still somewhat scared to really believe in this Bama team. For years now we've dominated no one, it seems. We're still used to beating, say, Northwest Memphis Tech, but only by 18-10. Last night Amy commented how Crimson Tide fans still in this phase are the chubby girl who has lost weight but still has the shyness that came with her chubbiness. She doesn't realize yet how good she looks.

Let me take you back eight years. My wife and I are in Cheyenne, Wyo. First game of the year. Third-ranked Alabama is coming off an SEC-Championship and facing UCLA in the Rose Bowl. The opening kickoff goes to the Bruins, who are forced to punt. Freddie Millons, who many of us had already christened the second coming of David Palmer after he waterbugged around Florida in the SEC title game, takes the punt and goes to the house. Amy and I were screaming like prepubescent Jonas Brothers groupies.

That was the highlight of the season. What followed was a 3-8 disaster, ending with five straight losses including Auburn.

We're way past the beginning of the season and a pox on you if you think I'm comparing Nick Saban to Mike Dubose, but let's dial it back a little, however hard that may be. This team's way ahead of schedule. We're playing a lot of guys who are just a few months beyond their proms. The SEC is so tough two losses in it still don't disqualify you a shot at the national title. Enjoy it, but try to keep the even keel we saw in our guys after that punt return closed the gap Saturday night.

Four Days Late and Casting Crowns

On Sept. 20 a college buddy of mine, Adam Blalock, and his band, Four Days Late, are opening for Casting Crowns in Dalton, Ga. Pretty cool but somewhat weird when a guy you remember as a scrawny freshman has now started hitting big. Of course, we're planning on going.

Here's a video of Adam talking about his guitar gear.

Here's another of his band.

My running this month has gone downhill ... or is that uphill?

Just finished up with a run that barely covered two miles, but I was heaving and sweating like a ... well ... a guy who hasn't been running a whole lot lately and has been treating his stomach like a dumpster.

The challenge about running in my neighborhood is that the hills will slap you around and make you feel like you're running in a dream -- the dreams where you're trying to get away from the monster/kidnappers but your legs just won't go as fast as you want. Instead of doing the mileage I wanted, I cut it short and went in.

Excuse: I've got the hook-up that makes your iPod talk to your shoes and vice versa. While running a voice will actually tell you how many miles you've covered. For some reason this time it started calling off the distance in kilometers. Maybe it was having Olympic withdrawal.

On the settings I have it set to "miles," but it still rattled the distance off in kilometers. On one hand I kind of dug it because hearing I had completed 3 kilometers sounds longer than the mile-and-a-half (or thereabouts) it actually was. Still, that was all the reason I needed to stop the run .. and the fact that I hadn't done much running in the past week and was winded.

Another ready excuse is that I'm planning on starting back into my running (jogging or puttering might be a more apt word, but running sounds more athletic) schedule tomorrow and don't want to over-exert myself. Yet another is if I'm chugging along around the neighborhood in the morning before daylight, I can go shirtless and no one is awake at that ungodly hour to complain or laugh. Trash pickup guys and the newspaper delivery dude have had words with me though. It's all good. They chipped in for my very own bro.

We've all met Jericho Scott

Sports commentators and bloggers erupted over the wussification/panzyfication/puddination (choose your term) of America when the story about nine-year-old Jericho Scott trickled out of New Haven, Conn. Scott has too much of a cannon for a right arm and parents of competing Little Leaguers are afraid he's going to bean little Johnny. As the Black Star Ninja said of a a young Michael Dudikoff in 1985, "He possess gdate skeel."

Wherever there's a controversy in youth sports, however, there's usually a sniveling adult manipulating things for their own benefit. Further into the story it's revealed Jericho was invited to play on the league champion's team ... the team sponsored by the employer of a league official. Smelly, smelly stuff. Jericho opted to play with his current team (8-0 and headed into the playoffs) when some group somewhere declared since he couldn't be fitted with a Hasbro restrictor plate he shouldn't pitch.

The vitrol and spewage coming at the bad guys in all of this is well-deserved. The when-the-going-gets-tough-the-tough-have-a-meeting message they're sending to their own children is unmistakable. These are the things that plant a seed of something bad coming down the road.

Everybody who's played youth sports has come up against Jericho Scott. That guy in our league was Stan Brooks. This was more than 20 years ago, but I can still see his windup, clearly. It was deceptively slow, like when a snake rocks back slowly before striking. He had a straight overhand delivery that seemed to put even more velocity on the ball because of that downward motion. Toward the end of his windup, another gear kicked in and his right arm became a rattlesnake, those two fingers down the seams fangs, the ball venom coming at you.

Believe it or not, 11-year-olds have their own scouting reports. The one on Stan was he had two pitches: that fast one you basically swung at in mid-prayer and hoped it connected, and a change-up that made you look like you were taking a whack at the firefly in front of you instead of the ball drifting by a full second later. (Later Stan came up with some kind of pitch that actually had some dispy-do movement. We were on the same team [prayer works] and I was catching for him. He'd signal to me it was coming but I still couldn't catch it.)

At some point, that fear of getting into the batter's box turned into respect. He was still hard to hit, but familiarity had given many of us at least some confidence. Success wasn't an impossibility.

These kids in New Haven aren't going to get that if Jericho Scott is benched for nothing more than being an insurmountable challenge. The best lessons in life come with the greatest risks. Often the result will failing. The biggest failure, though is if they never take that swing.

Those moments ...

Welcome to my restaurant. What would you like to eat?

Before I answer she asks me where I would like to sit. I have a choice between three chairs. At each one is an old birthday card that I assume is the menu.

I think I'll have a frog sandwich.

We don't have that.

How about a turtle biscuit?

She rolls her eyes for a moment and says,"We have two specials: birthday cake and a vegetable basket."

We're at the dining room table, which usually only sees action during holidays or when family/friends are over. Rylee, my soon-to-be six year old, is taking my order in her restaurant.

As she goes over to the box of plastic food to get my vegetables and cake (balance is everything), I realize this is one of those moments. This sappy thing happens to me occasionally. I blame people who tell me to cherish this time when my kids are little as well as the fact that she's starting first grade tomorrow. Someday I know I'll be looking at Rylee, Jackson, or another future Barkley and wishing for one moment I could hold them again like they were little -- back when I was their superhero before they became teenagers and realized how lame I am. I'll wish I could quantum leap back to here and live for a few minutes in this make-believe restaurant. I'll think how cool it would be if I could actually go back to that time ...

The time I'm in right now.

We don't have vegetables. Would you like a fruit basket?

That would be great.

Here's your toast. Be careful. It's really hot.

A few minutes later I'm finished with my birthday cake, fruit basket, toast, coffee, and chocolate milk. Don't laugh. It was good.

Would you like anything else?

It's getting late and she needs to go to bed, as does her brother. Tomorrow's a big day and another milestone.

Will you come back?

Often.

Picking up the running ...

A few days after my last post I broke down and got some more running shoes. I should've done it sooner. There are a lot of hills in our neighborhood and running shoes don't last as long on a big guy like myself. Imagine a semi having to go up and down mountains constantly -- the tires are going to wear down as are the brakes. Going down one hill near my house in early July I found myself looking for the sandy pit off to the side for an emergency stop.

While visiting my in-laws in Alabama, I looked into getting the Nike shoes that sync up with your iPod and monitor your progress. I've never spent more than $40-$50 on a pair of running shoes and didn't like what I saw in these things climbing to $80, $90, and more than $100. I finally saw a pair that had been marked down to $50, presumably because they weren't that great looking. Being a dude, I didn't care. The idea is I'm going to be running in these things, not modeling on the catwalk ... on the catwalk, hey ... doin' my little walk on the catwalk ...

Well, I'm hooked. I was worried the technology would be cool but the shoes would hobble me like an arthritic Budweiser horse, but that's not the case. Yes, I'm giving them a thumbs up. Just wanted to give my endorsement for those crazy kids at Nike and help them get their little business off the ground.

Last month, I set a goal for myself of running 60 miles. You gazelles out there do that in a week. For Clydesdales such as myself it's quite the undertaking. Well, not only did I make the goal but I started on the 6th and finished on the 30th. I love how you can track your progress and goals online. Your results from your latest run(s) are instantly sent to Nike Plus when you hook up your iPod as well.

Goals are to use the training program to get my 10K time under an hour. I'm hovering a few minutes above that right now. Soon hopefully I can go from being a semi to at least a moving van or something.

Running

It seems like I've hit a wall in my running. I tap out at only two miles, which is pathetic. Mental toughness is the biggest part of it. This morning I tried wearing my old shoes (the newer ones developed a hole in the air cushion-ey part and made a flatulent-sort of sound when I pushed off). About a mile and a half in I realized why I had relegated them to yard-mowing duty in favor for the new ones - it was jarring and felt like I was running in sandals. At my size you need a lot of padding on the ole tires.

Usually I can go 5 and even 6 miles before calling it quits. One thing that makes it harder is that in running around my neighborhood I'm back at my house every two miles. It's sooo easy to just pack it in and go inside. There are a million reasons to do so as well (need to get ready for work, check my email, it's Arbor Day, etc.). I've just got to toughen up and maybe get "Eye of the Tiger" playing on a loop on my iPod.

Why can't technology catch up?

I have this rant every time I go to the dentist. It begins with the framework of us being a very technological society. People living 15-20 years ago wouldn't recognize our lifestyles at this point. Small, tiny portable phones are capable of ordering a pizza or giving us a map of Machu Pichu. We take organs out of dead people and place them into living people. I write something on a computer screen here and almost instantly someone on the other side of the planet can read it. All that's pretty neat.

With that in mind, why is the dental world still using the tiny little hook?

Surely we can do better than this. It doesn't matter what office I'm in. I could go to Dr. Bob Marley, wolf down the complimentary brownies in the waiting room, and I'll still be tense when the sharp little hook is coming toward my very soft gum tissue. During the scraping I'm a full-blown body cramp. It's an especially nice touch to have hooks on either side of the torture instrument. This way I can contemplate on the hook inches from my eyes (another tender part of my body) as the other works me over.

It's 2008. I watched Val Kilmer do wonders with lasers in "Real Genius." You're telling me we can't get a teeny, tiny version of that to zap the tartar off my teeth? We have lasers that shoot into people's eyes and give them perfect vision! Take that one, ramp it up a bit, and replace the tiny hook!

Another recent advancement has replaced the twirly-brush thing, which kind of resembles a small circular buffer for your teeth. Sandblasting technology apparently has now advanced to give us the new teeth-cleaner. Not sure if I'm on board with this step. It felt like a small version of those cement-cutting saws that need water flowing on them at all times, except this was going on in my mouth. It was explained to me that this tool gets the stuff between teeth the rolly-dohickey didn't, but that just made me wonder if it was worth getting rid of that stuff in between.

My disappointment with technology started with those X-ray specs in the back of comic books. Didn't work at all. I've given up on the flying car coming around. Just give me a replacement for the tiny hook and I'll be happy, at least twice a year.

The iPod revealeth ...

Probably one of the best investments I've made in the last year is my iPod. Even at 34, I'm getting a little curmudgeonly and when these little devices first came out I poo-pooed them as just an extravagant little expenditure I didn't need. Eventually I decided to get one, but not one that of those with the screen. I still don't get why you would want one of those. Sure, I can watch "School of Rock" on it, but Jack Black could be dancing on the head of a pin, he's so small. Didn't want a shuffle, either, because I wanted to be able to control what I listened to. Wouldn't seem right to be working out and wanting angry metal music coming through and something from the High School Musical soundtrack comes on (From my daughter's playlist! Don't judge!)

I ended up going with a silver little 2-gigger. When given the option of paying another 40 bucks for the extra guarantee or whatever I firmly said no. (By the way, why do I have to pay extra in case your product craps out? If something goes wrong shouldn't you be open to fixing/replacing it anyway?) For the first 6-8 months I was extry-careful with it. Since then I've dropped it on the pavement many times and it still works fine. Bogus offer for extended warranty. Came out feeling like the man on that one.

The iPod is revealing about oneself, I've discovered. It didn't take too long before I realized iTunes was my own personal jukebox to Back-in-the-Day music. I went back to the late 80s/early 90s rock tunes and got them on there before putting on some music further into the 90s from the college years. I laid off after the initial gorging and then began a curious process of putting on a song here or there -- stuff that just struck my fancy (can dudes use that term?) and I wanted then. Later at some point I would scroll through my artists and wonder things like "Trixter? When did I download Trixter? Why did I download Trixter?"

It seems that my inner old man is beginning to creep out. Lord help me, I actually listen to more podcasts than actual music. I've ID'd a few churches spread out whose pastor's sermons I like. Some other pastors I'll listen to but not often through the entire message due to them routinely going with the same preaching game plan just with a different verse. An interesting juxtaposition is that generally I check out Bible Verse of the Day immediately followed by The Onion. A couple of syndicated radio shows - Dave Ramsey and Tony Kornheiser - are in the rotation but I'm listening more and more to podcasts that have to do with writing and media. Perhaps the nerdiest thing I check out is one called Grammar Girl. Only a few minutes long (trying to justify already), it opens with a little Cacasianish hip-hop jingle followed by the correct usage of lain, or something like that. When it's over I feel a little bit smarter but a little more feminine.

Even with all of its other uses, I'm still psyched that the games in it include Breakout and Missile Command (they're called something else, but we all know what they are). This little device has been more useful that I thought it could be. More revealing about myself, too. Speaking of which, I'm about to go surf for a new podcast or two. Seems there are some out there devoted to fans of "Perfect Strangers" and the comedic genius of Bronson Pinchot.

Two giddy boys

20080330 Dad racing 010
Originally uploaded by sbarkley.

Last Sunday my dad turned 68. Since forever he's been a huge NASCAR fan. My uncle Chuck was actually the gasman for Richard Petty for years, cementing the King as my family's favorite driver and us kids with Petty T-shirts.

Twice a year we would load up with with a few other families and caravan to Talladega. It was great for us kids. Most of us would sit in the back of a pickup that had been rigged up with a makeshift camper using a collection of 2X4s and a tarp. Somehow it held together for the 2-hour drive to the raceway. The whole way we'd cut up and raid the coolers for candy bars and Cokes.

Plenty of memories from the infield, where we always watched the race, but not enough time for that. My brothers and I have talked for years about getting dad inside a car to ride around the track. Kudos for my younger brother, Lance, for finally making it happen this year. One of the coolest things about the whole experience is that there are, maybe, 40 people there the whole time counting guys working with Dale Jarrett racing (group this was done through) and other people there having their riding/driving time. You've pretty much got pit road to yourself.

In this photo, dad is holding Jackson prior to the big guy getting his jumpsuit on. I had a feeling Jack would like the cars as they raced by, but the word "giddy" would probably be more accurate to describe him. It would also describe dad at Jackson's reaction.

In that moment ...

Tonight my family went to eat at a steakhouse in Gadsden, AL. We were split up between three cars, so I was riding with my brother, his son, and my dad. After leaving the steakhouse, we pulled into the neighboring gas station because Lance wanted to get a drink.

He was in there a little longer than it should've taken, I thought. When he came out he told how a girl who had been pumping gas came running in as he walked in. She was hysterical and blathering about watching a teen girl jump out of an SUV with her hands bound and start running toward the road. The people in the SUV then drove up to where she was, jumped out, and dragged her back into the truck before tearing off down the highway.

My first response was for us to go after them, because it had happened only about five minutes earlier. However, a speeding truck can go a long way in that amount of time. Also, the police had been called and we realized there really wasn't much we could do other than pray.

It stayed on my mind the whole drive home. A lot of it didn't make sense, such as why the girl ran toward the highway instead of the store where there were people. After getting to the house I called the local sheriff's department. I was then informed that the whole thing was a prank by some idiots. In fact, I'm pretty sure it was a group I saw leave the restaurant just before us.

The whole thing got me wondering about what makes up a hero. I think everyone would like that title to be on them. At some point everyone's tied a beach towel around their neck and pretended to fly. It's in us to be something bigger. Something that rescues. Something that inspires others to be better in return.

Heroes are made in the moment. That instant in time where our decision to benefit ourselves or others comes so quickly it reveals our character rather than our skill in thinking things through. It's an army medic who runs through bullets to help her fellow soldiers. It's a teacher who couldn't read in the third grade, dropping out of school but getting his GED, and then coming back as a teacher to help kids like himself. It's saving a 1,000 people when the possible punishment is getting hacked to death along with your family.

I imagine it's also more common than we think. One factoid about life I'm convinced of is that, in general, we never hear about the true heroes. People who do good things but make sure others know about it don't impress me. Those who are the real deal are hard to find. They simply don't care about the publicity. Their goal is to save this person from their addiction or provide that person with a place to sleep for the night or convince this kid he or she is capable of so much more than the world has told them.

And that leads me to believe being a hero is not as unattainable as we might think. I'm the father of two little ones. In addition to really limiting how much sleep you get, your life changes in so many ways with these little additions. I wish I could take credit for this thought, but a podcast I listen to regularly is The Village Church near Dallas, Texas. Pastor Matt Chandler, a guy close to my age, was talking about how in the eyes of my kids, I'm a superhero. How? Little things. I toss my boy in the air, he thinks regular people can't do that. I have tea time with my daughter, she knows no other man will take that time. Wrestling in the floor or helping learn to ride a bike makes me a superhero to them.

To others, it can be just as simple. If I sacrifice something of myself to help another, I become something bigger than I was before. Risk is involved, because I may invest myself and not see a return as soon as I'd like, but that's how it goes. I'm not in it for the return. I'm in it to give.

Being a hero requires us giving more than we think we're capable. Two thousand years ago a man stressed so much over what was coming his way he sweat drops of blood in a lonely garden. He took it, though. He became even more of a hero than his followers thought possible when he allowed himself to be their sacrifice, despite the risk that most would reject him anyway.

We honor that man, Jesus, by being more than we think we're capable of in our own power and will. We embrace the risk of it all. We give more than we think prudent. We look for those who need rescuing. We find those who need inspiration. In that moment we become more ... because we allowed ourselves to become less.

At the house by myself

I woke up this morning when my wife's alarm went off at 5:30. My first thought was "I overslept."

5:30.

"Overslept."

That should tell you a little bit about my daily schedule. Newspaper delivery people and morning news anchors are the only ones who wake up earlier. Sick of trying to work in some exercise time throughout the day. I got up at 4 a.m. Tuesday and ran five miles around the neighborhood.

Crazy, yeah. I got through it mentally by pretending I was preparing to fight the indestructible Drago (who cheats by 'roiding up). Lifting rocks and chopping wood came later in the workout.

Anyway, it's Good Friday and everyone else is off at school or work except me. A perk of working at a Baptist organization is that Good Friday is considered important enough to take a day, so I'm appreciative of that.

Right now I'm in that there's-a-bunch-of-stuff-I-can-be-doing-but-do-I-feel-like-it part of the day. I'll straighten the house and maybe go run at the park. It's actually gotten warm enough that I can't ignore the fact my grass needs to be cut. The drought last summer had me accustomed to a monthly mowing schedule.

Praise Gospel and Soul 016

Praise Gospel and Soul 016
Originally uploaded by sbarkley.

Choirs from M. Zion Baptist, Thankful Baptist, and Cartersville Baptist churches have what's become an annual concert. This one held was March 3.

Daddy's breath

Tonight Amy put Rylee to bed while I rocked Jackson to sleep. After putting him in his crib I went into Rylee's room and leaned down close to her.

Rylee: Daddy, your breath smells horrible.

Me: Really? What does it smell like?

Ry: Dead peaches.

It's been so long ...

... since I've actually written on this thing. Does it still work? Can blogs go out of date like a carton of milk?

It's the third day of the new year and I've (probably subconsciously) stayed away from the word "resolution." People usually have two outward responses to it: being a champion of the ways this is going to be the year or derision.

The fact is that everyone, on some level, plans to make even the smallest change starting every Jan. 1. It's natural to. We like start points that are simple to come back to. We can make general goals (be more organized) or specific ones (lose 30 pounds). The point is no one wants to be a worse person, you hope. To become better, there has to be change.

2 Corinthians 3:16-17 says that where the spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. Boy, is this an easy one to read however we want to. If there's something I want to indulge in, I can go ahead because God gives me freedom to do so, right? Nope.

The Spirit of the Lord has an element to it: conviction. For us to be convicted, we have to acknowledge we've done something wrong. At that point we take steps to fix what we've messed up. This is also called confronting sin.

After the holidays we're stuffed with food and experiencing the financial hangover that comes with Christmas. We're convicted, at least a little. Some more so than others. So we make resolutions to get our lives back on track.

What happens when we stick with these resolutions? We experience some success. We see some changes. We feel freedom from those overeating or overspending habits. When change comes, it feels tough during the process. But sticking it out brings a new perspective. It brings freedom.