I remember the stage, the electrical cords, and the grass but that’s about it. I don’t remember the exact location and I don’t remember the names of the bands, but I’m pretty sure I was seventeen years old and I’m nearly certain it was in Charlotte.

“The Barefoot on The Grass Festival" wasn’t so much a festival as it was a small crowd watching a couple of local garage bands on a tiny stage. There were maybe 100 people, and admission was free if you brought a can of food for the homeless shelter.

But I loved it, and I was hooked. I remember thinking how cool it would be to put on something like that.

Building a stage, setting up a PA system, making posters - it all seemed so incredible…

My stepson, Walt, spent the last year volunteering with Americorps working alongside FEMA on disaster relief projects. In that time he’s seen more of the world than the previous twenty years of his life. His growth and personal development have been extraordinary to the point that we’re considering making Americorps a requirement for the rest of the kids when they finish high school.

Anyway, Walt decided that he wants to make a career of emergency management or disaster relief. Towards the end of his term with Americorps he accepted a position with FEMA working on an as-needed contract basis.

When disaster strikes he could be called up and deployed to pretty much any where in the US or or US territories. In the meantime he’s volunteering at the The Red Cross getting experience with emergency preparedness…

That’s what I want for Christmas.

I want to “be present.”

On my way back from dropping the kids at school last Thursday I was thinking about our morning. What was it that Sam said about a concert? Who was is that called Lily a bad name on the playground?

I couldn’t remember.

Truth is, I wasn’t paying attention…

Jack was seven, and Jack was not happy.

I crawled under the dining room table where he’d hidden from everyone to take a shot at straightening this mess out. He was staring at the video game in his hands, but I could tell he wasn’t really looking at it.

An hour earlier we’d had our first “you’re not my dad and you can’t tell me what to do!” moment…

Y’all, it’s happened. With one of our girls, Julia and I have hit the bitchy teenage years. At some point in the last couple of months the hormone production must have kicked into overdrive because this girl who used to be made of sugar and spice is now 90% piss and vinegar.

Yesterday Sam, the baby in the family, wanted to play a game on the Nintendo Switch which is a portable video game console.

“Jack,” Sam says, “have you seen the Switch?”…

I don’t watch CNN. I don’t watch Fox News. I can’t tell you the names of every cabinet member and I don’t know what bill is being debated on Capital Hill today.

I’m not affiliated with any political party.

Perhaps I should, but the truth is, I just don’t pay much attention to politics.

But I do pay attention to people…

Lily, my daughter, is going through some terrible anxiety right now. She’s naturally high-strung, so anxiety is nothing new, but the last few months have been terrible. She’s having what I can only describe as panic attacks, although they are not really panic attacks in the clinical sense.

It happens at night when the house gets quiet and still, usually after all the other kids are asleep. Everything has been totally fine, we’ve had a great evening, and then all the sudden. . .

BAM!…

I have always wanted to keep a journal.

As a child, I had various notebooks, diaries, and the like with which I would regularly begin to log daily activities, thoughts, and plans.

I had grand visions of being seated in my library years later, perhaps with my grandchildren at my side, recounting from my life's collection of journals some youthful struggle as they listened intently.

In later years I would envision myself as the artistic, professorial type...

“Daddy, come here I want to show you something.”

Normally when Lily says this her eyes are wide with anticipation. Despite the fact that a decade of experience tells her otherwise, she actually believes she’s going to talk me into buying whatever treasure she’s found.

On Saturday though, she looked anxious. But she’s strung higher than the fifth string of a banjo so a look of anxiety on her face is nothing new. So I didn’t think much about it as we walked from the back of the 47K Marketplace towards the front and out the door…