You're Really Growing On Me

Thanks to the internet, I can tell you exactly what I was doing on the evening of April 8, 2004. My college roommate and I ditched afternoon classes so we could drive up to the Tabernacle in Atlanta and attend one of the most entertaining concerts of all time. 

The Darkness was a hot new British glam rock band with one album to their name, but oh what an album it was. Among their hit singles on Permission to Land was a song titled “Growing On Me,” a super catchy tune. It also served as a rather honest real life account of lead singer and guitarist Jonathan Hawkins’ troubles with herpes. 

While a raucous crowd sang along with the choral call and response of “You’re really growing on me. Or am I growing on you!?” the zipper on Hawkins’ leather jumpsuit malfunctioned and we were all witness to the tattooed flames emanating from his crotchal region. A Union Jack was swiftly pulled from atop the speakers and stuffed down in the offending area, but we were already rolling in the aisles already with laughter.

I don’t hear Growing on Me often these days. When it does pop up on an old playlist, I’m teleported back to that night in 2004 and crack a smile. But I also still appreciate the age-old philosophical ponderance of the song. Who really is in charge? And when does the parasite become the host?

In April I left a job that served to largely define who I was and had been for over a decade. If my team was getting acquainted with a potential partner or customer, my bosses wouldn’t hesitate to introduce me simply as Chappy (many thought that was actually my first name) and drop a nugget about my involvement since the very early days. I can’t say I minded this. People love a good origin story, and I was proud to be a part of it.

But here we are four months later and that former life is feeling a bit distant. While I’m tempted to say something cliche like “that part of me is missing” I’d be better served to ask “Who am I, really?” If you pull back the superficial egoic layers that have accumulated over time, what is left? Simply put, what ideas do I cling to so tightly that they have started getting in the way of personal growth?    

I lean heavily on consistency and predictability. A well-maintained schedule is my jam. We Chapmans eat dinner at exactly 6pm every night. Why? A long time ago, my wife casually indicated that time sounded good to her. After years of dogged adherence, this evening routine is now ingrained in my bones - to the point where food regularly hits the table at six and zero seconds, even without the aid of a clock.

While you might place such obsessive dedication in the good column, I could share plenty of examples of where this need for comfort and consistency quickly turns unhealthy. A type of madness develops where my mind is constantly yearning for that next warm embrace of familiarity in the day, that little hit of adrenaline when I check another predictable box. I also hardly ever pivot with a positive attitude. Throw a change into my snug little world and you’ll get a look that says “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?”

Bob Goff is an author, lawyer and humanitarian who is one of my favorite personalities. Bob has a few interesting quirks. For instance, he always wears a Boston Red Sox cap (for a friend that died of cancer) and lists his personal phone number publicly so people can call him (I actually did this and had a lovely chat). Another is that every Thursday, Bob chooses something to give up. This could be literally anything - from a personal habit to a project, involvement or business venture.

Why does Bob insist on this constant change? Because he understands the impact that attachment can have. The love and want of material things is a pretty noticeable indiscretion. We can see that impact on our bank accounts, as well as our closets and storage units. But what about the simple ideas that start to trap us over time? I’ve had a bit of fun channeling this mindset - indulging in a bit of self reflection and simply asking why I do pretty much everything. Let’s rip off that band-aid. 

Exhibit 1: So Long, Large Hunk of Meat

Food has always had an outsized presence in my life. I will spend hours a day planning future meals and reliving the delights of dishes past. As much as I love it, though, we’re still talking about “feces in waiting” as a famous Canadian chef put it on Parts Unknown. It’s perfectly OK to celebrate food, but in a measured and intelligent way.

The American plate, like many things in this country, is a bit over the top compared to the rest of the world. I find that to be quite selfish of us, especially since it doesn’t seem to be working for our waistlines. My entire consumptive life has featured a sizable hunk of meat with a little bit of vegetables (usually from a can or fried) thrown in to fill the remaining space. If the rest of the world carried on like this, there wouldn’t be enough dead animals to go around. 

I could continue along, putting this thought in the far reaches of my mindspace, leading my family down an unsustainable (and pretty unhealthy) path of endless chicken tenders and cheeseburgers. Or, I could put on my big boy pants and get to cooking a more comprehensive offering of vegetables, grains, fruits and nuts. Anything coming fresh out of the garden gets priority vs. what our discriminating palates might have historically found on Doordash.

I’m a month into this new routine and it has made a big difference in my overall energy, along with growing our family recipe library. This simple change has reawakened my imagination a bit, while simultaneously helping fuel…

Exhibit 2: Outside Time

Having moved across state lines at the age of 14, I don’t have many people in my current life that understand how different things were for young Chappy. While goobers who haven’t visited Alabama may assume the inverse, I went from a very rural situation to the type of suburbia where they give you floor plans to choose from. For ten years in the tiny town of Senoia, Georgia, my parents would encourage us to get lost in the fifty acres we shared with my Grandmother. There was a pond, trails, wide open fields and all kinds of wildlife. I loved it. 

There are people who take comfort in the hum of city life and proximity to their human neighbors, but it still gets to me occasionally. I’ll pass another huge parking lot with two cars in it and get pissy about how much better that would have been as a park. But this is the same guy who has started to count watching soccer on our screened in porch as “nature time.” I live in fear that Patagonia is going to come for all the stuff I’ve bought and REI will revoke my membership for being a fraud.

It makes sense that so much of our days are spent in the comfort of the indoors. We’ve outsmarted bugs, inhospitable temperatures, rain and such. If comfort is the sole aim, however, we’re on a fast track to Wall-E playing out in real life. 

In an effort to get reacquainted with the out-of-doors, I have been leaving the house in search of trails and hills. I participated in my first legit trail race in over five years this Saturday - a test here in the summer heat of Alabama called Ridge to Blazing Ridge. I got so close to nature during my quiet two hours in the woods that I was digging bits of it out of my shoulder afterward.

It has also helped my sanity to simply walk out the front door and down the street whenever I have a break in the schedule or need a reset moment. Rather than putting exercise and nature in their own little boxes to check, I’m getting reacquainted with the idea that one can simply go outside for fun and get lost in it.

Exhibit 3: Why So Serious?

We had a few whole family beach trips this summer that churned up my childhood nostalgia. I can’t recall exactly when it stopped, but I recall goofing off as much with the adults as I did the kids in our family. We played sports, had rollicking adventures and were constantly on the move. There wasn’t a screen anywhere.

Nobody knows how, but eventually I transitioned from adolescent to adult. All fine and good there, but the shenanigans largely stopped. On our more recent trip, I put the beach beers aside and delved into the activities that I had long since ascribed to the younguns. Boogie boarding is dope, as are scooters, sandcastles, beach bikes and games. Despite the heat and bugs, I successfully drug the entire family outside for an evening croquet match.

As the person who generally does not have a hard and fast obligation with the workweek rolls around, it should be my civic duty to get the party going for everyone else. As a solid first step, I’m now the social chair for our neighborhood organization. They gave me a very respectable budget and plenty of autonomy to get real weird with it.

Exhibit 4: Wabi Sabi

There’s a natural rhythm and flow to life. Though I consider myself a competent percussionist, it seems I often miss the beat because I’m forcing my own tempo. This is why I can’t bear to serve up a 6:30 dinner, go on a spontaneous trip or try out a different hairstyle. I like controlling my own little world. It makes me feel safe and snug living in this illusion that I am in charge.  

This nagging need historically manifests itself in anger when things don’t go my way. My head explodes, leading to worry that needn’t exist in the first place. More than anything, I want to savor the moment for whatever that moment brings. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. I want my kids to learn to live that way too. 

It hurts my heart a little when the girls say things like “I can’t wait to be older.” My thoughts were the same at their age and the mentality has never stopped. Here I am at forty, finally realizing each day is a blessing. Meanwhile, I’m walking circles around the kitchen island trying to get my steps in while the girls lounge away watching cartoons. It’s time to break the cycle.

The stories, experiences and growth opportunities are here for the taking. It’s time to shed some compulsive layers - finding freedom in loosening the grip a bit.

Life is never going to be perfect, but it always has a sense of humor. Allow the real you to shine and have a good laugh about it all.

Island Love

“Beautiful blue water. Make sure you get on a boat - that’s the only way to really see the islands. I’ll send some recommendations.”

I’m not usually talking to other humans at five in the morning, but Birmingham is a small city and of course our friend Bill also happens to be in step with Allison as we walk through Shuttlesworth Airport. By our luck, he’s been to Turks & Caicos plenty of times. He obligingly provides a thoughtful summary on our destination before peeling off to get a chicken biscuit.

We were going to save our hunger for Atlanta-Hartsfield, as my professional traveler wife was already scouting lounge options for our layover. My duty, after a brief husband-wife debrief on Bill’s suggestions, was to find a boat on short notice. After responding a little too-quickly to my early morning email, the island tour operator drowsily took down my payment information before signing off with “and take it easy on the rum punch, my man.” 

Landing in a new country is always sensory overload. The smells, sounds, weather, and notably - what kind of cars are scuttling about. Turks & Caicos is a “British Overseas Territory '' which means the locals drive on the wrong side of the road (with a wide array of right and left-hand drive saltboxes) and everyone speaks English. American Dollars are curiously the currency of choice, they just don’t make it easy to get more of them.

When I hear the term resort, my imagined scale always goes to americanized proportions - endless buffets, mini golf, theme nights and pools with an ABV. The options on Providenciales (our specific island) are much more measured. We stayed at the Wymara, which had two respectable restaurants, a lovely pool and perfect beach setup on Grace Bay.

If you are going to order a frosty beverage in a far away place, I think it best to have what the locals are having. In Turks & Caicos, the easy-drinking ubiquitous beer is called I-Soon-Reach from Turks Head Brewing. Admittedly odd for a beverage name, the explanation is a healthy expectation setter. It’s the regional equivalent of when my buddy Fritz says he’s getting off at your exit but he really just left his house. If he were living on island time, he would simply say “I soon reach” and all sins would be forgiven. Things happen when they happen. No need to rush it.

We learned our lesson soon enough and settled into a pair of well appointed beach chairs. Historically, I don’t know what to do with myself once I am firmly planted in the sand, or anywhere really. A book by a lady who makes a sweater from scratch (step one involved her shearing the sheep) did hold my interest for a bit. Eventually, we waded out into the super clear water and struck up various conversations with our fellow vacation enthusiasts.

When you share a small resort with other people, it is inevitable that you will see them many times throughout your stay, starting every day at the same breakfast buffet. This was my exact thought as I returned from a sweaty, disorienting trip to the local grocery store. Though I still came out good in the long run (resort beers were $9 each), I somehow dropped $60 cash on cab fare for a 4-mile round trip and made some interesting purchases in a rush to beat the meter. My impulsive cheese grab was all for naught, however, as the checkout process was more of a social affair than a business practice. By sheer determination, I carried my haul to the register, but somehow needed a cart to get it to the cab. And this is how I ended up being “that sweaty guy,” lugging his torn bags one by one past all who were lounging their afternoon away in the pool.

At dinner, it became apparent that any fuss made over a week’s worth of reservations was superfluous. The eighty degree temperatures were absolutely tolerable for us, but those not from Alabama must think it unbearably hot this time of year in Turks & Caicos. What we didn’t escape by going south, however, were the bugs. Allison understandably wanted to finish off the night on our first floor patio, but that ended quickly when some devil creature stung her right on the face. Being the gentleman that I am, I sacrificed my cocktail ice to help alleviate the swelling.

Our couples massage the next morning was very relaxing. The lady assigned to me had more real estate to cover, but was still gentle enough not to disturb the breakfast buffet that was working its way through my system. Being our trip planner, I had opted for the more cost-effective 50 minute option. When we saw the final bill, however, our eyes met and there was a faintly audible gasp. It was in this pivotal moment, that Allison, household money manager, took the lead on setting our new strategy for the remainder of our trip. “You know what? Screw it. We enjoyed this. We’re on vacation. This is what it costs, so screw it.” We clinked our paper cups of cucumber water and scheduled a pedicure for later in the week.

With a $16 mimosa in hand, I struck up a conversation with an older couple who were stationed next to us on the beach. Cathy was 76 and reading the first Harry Potter book to get in on the action with her grandchildren. She met her husband, Dwayne, in Barbados while they both served in the Peace Corps. Much had changed since that time, including kids, grandkids and a recent Alzheimer's diagnosis for Dwayne, but you could see that they still felt at home in the Caribbean. At one point, Cathy giggled as she walked past us soaking wet and proclaiming to be the oldest person to ever try extreme tubing at our resort. 

Day three was the highly anticipated boat trip. There were private charters available, but we decided that was a bit ridiculous for two people. We instead opted for an all-day group trip on a catamaran that was loaded down with a little water, a lot of rum punch, and enough I-Soon-Reach’s to drown a small army. We’re not going deep on Chapman family boat history here, but let’s just say our chance of yacking is right on fifty percent when aboard large vessels. To help our chances, we set up camp on the top level chez lounges which (important note) were fully exposed to the sun.

Once all passengers were rounded up from their various resorts, we dropped anchor and were handed snorkeling gear. We Chapmans are not frequent snorkelers, but I think we would be if our regular options were anything like this reef. After exploring for a bit and poking Allison at opportune moments, I was content to float, meditatively taking in the vibrant scenery until it was time to depart.

Our next stop was a beautiful island that was uninhabited save some iguanas. We trekked around, enjoying the scenery immensely - to the point where we almost got left. Alone being fresh in our minds, Allison and I got caught up planning how we would survive if we were left, but our fantasy nearly became real. As an apology to our crew, I hand delivered I-Soon-Reach’s to all who had thirst.

The crew navigated us to their regular beach barbeque spot where we were instructed to occupy ourselves until lunch. This is when things kicked into high gear. I talked philosophy with a lady smoking black & milds while we sat waist deep. Allison befriended a few children and a single twenty something girl who was traveling solo. People took turns reboarding the catamaran to grab refreshment and toss them to those wading below. The larger conversation veered into politics for a smidge but everyone agreed that regardless of party affiliation, Americans should calm down a bit and find more middleground. 

I know we were there for the scenery, but this amalgamation of different people all having a great time was something I frankly haven’t been part of since before COVID. Once the lunch bell rang, we crammed into weathered picnic tables. The standard plate handed to everyone set off a modest frenzy of trades, so the diners with particular tastes and the most hungry all ended up with a lunch to their liking. My highlight of the meal was when all the married folks went around the table giving advice to a brand new couple who met while working at the rodeo. These giddy newlyweds heard sage wisdom from forty-something lesbians, Marylanders in American flag apparel, a late in life second marriage, and us.

Another vessel appeared on the horizon and interrupted our spirited conversation. A shiny white private charter announced itself with club music and enthusiastic dancers spilling champagne all over the place. It was like an episode of The Real Housewives. These older ladies and their fashionable male friends onboard had obviously approached the day a bit differently than we and there was a collective eye roll from our group as the scene was taken in. Eventually, however, everyone came around to the idea that this could easily be them on a different day with the right group of friends.

Our penultimate stop was a collection of sandbars well offshore that were nothing short of breathtaking. I found a live conch, moved it closer to the swimming children, then skipped from mini island to mini island like a fancy man of the world. We made one last stop for a second round of snorkeling, this time using more creative ways to exit the boat with a thrill. Then, finally, everyone was dropped off at their respective resorts - forced to come to terms with their blood alcohol levels and some weird sunburns. Allison (who may or may not have said “Screw it!” when reapplying sunscreen on her still wet self) was the color of a Washington apple. For my sins, I felt like I was sitting under a heat lamp. For the record, I didn’t touch the rum punch.

With our torsos safely covered, Allison and I enjoyed the final days of our trip with a new perspective. We attended a morning yoga session with some twin sister moms and struck up such a friendship that I handed over my recently-finished sweater book. By our final evening, we were content to hang out in the pool and enjoy the sunset instead of rushing off to another $300 dinner. Remaining bottles were smuggled out to the pool to share with a fun group from Mississipii. To wind down the evening, we opened everything we couldn’t take with us and attempted to take down a meat and cheese assortment for the ages.

I really expected to come back from Turks & Caicos with a full review of what to do, eat and experience. The blue water and our boat day were amazing (thanks, Bill!) but I came away thinking more about the wonderful people we met.  

The Scientific Method

Allison takes several extended trips each year, leaving the remaining three of us to goof off in her stead. The girls and I have naturally designated these periods as “daddy daughter fun week.” While I love my wife dearly, I also look forward to this time and the creative test of entertaining my littles. And we make quite the mess. 

One constant on our agenda is the egg drop competition. This elementary school staple was one of my favorites back in the day, as a fun introduction to problem solving and experimentation. You can instantly see it light up their little brains when I spread the materials out, hand them their egg and let them get after it. The problem as of late is that they have mastered the game. Our eggs generally have no reason for concern. 

As a juicy twist for this year’s competition, I declared the winner would be the one with the lightest successful payload. A kitchen scale was produced so they could measure their creations out to the gram and whittle down to only necessary weight. Challenge accepted, but Maggie couldn’t resist adding googly eyes to her vessel, christened Dr Egglestine. 

I couldn’t be more pleased that my children have embraced the scientific mind. With the likes of Mark Rober, Emily’s Wonder Lab, How to Win at Everything and other fairly pure educational programming, they have access to more engaging content than I could have ever dreamed of at that age. They have built robots, learned the basics of coding, studied the microscopic and interstellar alike. I know it’s standard procedure to have little faith in the next generation but unlimited knowledge is at their miniature fingertips. With some halfway decent parental guidance, who knows how far they’ll go.

Being a scientist inherently is an admission that one does not know everything. You start with a hypothesis and through the crucible of testing, measuring and analyzing, arrive at a conclusion that is supported by evidence. The edge of discovery is moving constantly, so there will always be a challenge to what we think we know. As Anthony Bourdain humbly admitted “It seems that the more places I see and experience, the bigger I realize the world to be. The more I become aware of, the more I realize how relatively little I know of it, how many places I have still to go, how much more there is to learn.”

We are well into summer at this point. “I’m bored” is a phrase that has popped up a few times already, but what I keep reminding our household is that we are constructing our own barriers to fun and growth. Go outside. Look around. We’re spinning around at a thousand miles per hour on a big hunk of spherical rock that just happens to have the perfect atmosphere and temperature for our existence. It’s a miracle you are even on this planet because the odds of you being born are in the neighborhood of one in 400 trillion. The pep talks at Chapman HQ are really strange, I know. 

In the last few weeks, the girls have used scientific rigor to figure out what animal has been sneaking onto our back porch for snacks (red fox), what kitchen items work best to catch fruit flies (bowl, vinegar, saran wrap with small holes in the top) and how to make your own non-Newtonian fluid while creating the biggest mess possible. As I type this, Maggie is on the back porch grinding black pepper on our plants to see if it will mitigate pests organically. This is the kind of stuff that makes my heart sing, even if some deep cleaning follows. I can spout off fun facts until I’m blue in the face and they can ask our myriad devices any question that comes to mind, but the voyage of discovery will always resonate more.

Stay curious, my friends. And don’t forget to keep a pair of googly eyes handy, just in case.

Maggie somehow got ahold of a red fox print to compare. She included her foot for scale.

The Life Well Loved

“The doctor told me I had ten years left. I said that’s perfect!”

We have just sped vigorously up a mountain highway, tailing a sporty Mercedes SUV as its 70-year-old operator led us to her mountain home, where she spends peaceful stretches in a Chautauqua (I had to look up what that meant). Within moments of exiting the interstate, we’ve explained ourselves at a guard station and entered a world that predates our usual modernity. 

Having delivered her terminal diagnosis in the bounciest way possible, Elizabeth concluded our tour of the house with the presentation of their community book. It would need to be referenced several times that weekend because there are a few interesting rules to abide by. My favorite is that children are not allowed to be anywhere other than snug in their leafy early-century bungalows from the hours of 1pm to 3pm daily. You might be thinking that this sounds like something a group of older people would come up with. That would be correct.

All four Chapmans are present for this trip and Elizabeth has a friend coming Saturday morning. We cover very little of the floor space on offer in this completely renovated beauty that I’m pretty sure used to be a modest hotel. The kitchen is beyond gorgeous but our host prefers to use a counter-top air fryer if she’s cooking. After meeting for a Friday afternoon showing of The Barbie Movie in the nearest town with a theater, I am quickly reminded that my duties are to be the chef and sole male representative for the weekend. 

Thinking ahead, I had pre-assembled a baked pasta with pork slowly cooked in Allison’s family red sauce. All we had to do now was figure out how to work this very french oven. It had industrial handles and knobs that meant business. There was also no way to see your food as it was cooking behind cast iron doors. Let’s just say it took longer than expected to brown that cheese topping.

We catch up on family stories over dinner. Explaining our connection to this hilarious woman can feel complicated at times. She was Allison’s stepmom for a handful of years, during a period that encompassed high school and college. Ex-step-mom doesn’t do the relationship justice, as Elizabeth has stayed close with everyone, even Allison’s mom. They used to get together and roast their mutual ex-husband for a good laugh. More recently, she was a noted saint in helping us manage the decline of Geoff’s health, being the last one to visit him before he passed.

What I love about Elizabeth is she has reached the point in life where she does what she wants. It is a remarkable case study. Her golf cart is whisper quiet when it backs up. One imagines a scene where a technician says “yes m’am” when she tells him the factory-installed safety beeps simply won’t do. Life is here to live and there is a definitive timeline. Might as well enjoy it.

A proud forty years sober, Elizabeth gets down with bridge. We gather from the book of visitors that a handful of weeks a year are intensive sessions with various groups and professional instruction. Her enthusiasm made me want to round up all the neighborhood dads and tell them we’re starting a bridge club. 

As daylight fades, we get a walking tour of the Chautauqua. This whole scene is straight out of Dirty Dancing. Long, ancient-looking wooden footbridges connecting a wide array of forest green buildings one would imagine at camp. Any given night, there could be movies playing in the gym, a kid’s dance in the activity hall or a community potluck drawing folks to a freestanding cafeteria. The pace is slower. So slow, in fact, that the community cop (known predictably as Barney Fife by the locals) regularly nabs anyone enthusiastic enough to go 20 miles per hour. 

The houses in our vicinity all seemed to contain great friends that had known Elizabeth for years. And if they didn’t, she still walked right on in to say hey. Most were relaxing on the kind of porches your grandmother had back in the day. Gentle laughter and the swinging of screen doors would occasionally punctuate the hum of cicadas and sagging fans. 

We put the kids down and our adult triumvirate capped off the evening with a terrifying movie (picked by our host) about a fella who kidnaps young women and sells off their body parts while still keeping them alive. Elizabeth had a personal connection to makers of the film and enjoyed saying “y’all watch this!” in her Tennessee soprano right before another character was hacked to pieces.

The next morning, I awoke early for a quick jog around the community. It’s rare that I go off on any trip without google mapping the hell out of a place, but it simply wasn’t possible here. I definitely got lost for a smidge and it was unclear as to whether a few neighborhood rules were violated in the process of finding my way again.

After treating our crew with some of Chappy’s famous homemade biscuits and a fanciful breakfast spread, I was thrown the keys to the Mercedes. There was a minor drain issue, so as the resident fella it was my pleasure to act as chauffeur slash plumber while we knocked it out. She encouraged me to leg out the AMG all the way to Ace Hardware and back, at least until we were approaching officer Fife’s favorite hiding spot. Some excesses aren’t worth the trouble.

We were already on pace for a lively morning and then Cornelia arrived with her big fluffy black dog, Molly. It took me a bit to decipher the correct spelling because Elizabeth went for the more efficient and southern “Ca-neel-yah.” By the end of the day, we would be kindly asked to take custody of Molly if Cornelia passed. Not to ruin the ending, but we all got along like thieves.

I enjoyed the dynamic of these two ladies in their eighth decade. Unburdened by the yoke of men, one had taken to farm life outside the city with an exceptional dog and amazing view. The other presided as matriarch over the close-knit suburban family her boys had expanded. They knew one another’s strengths, and, more amusingly, weaknesses as they constantly teased one another for being like they always had.

After a heartwarming game of fetch with Molly, we loaded up on the golf cart and made our first of four trips that day to the Arts & Crafts fair. The ladies were in their element. I always hit up the tables of pickled things and hot sauce first, but we quickly found out that this is how Elizabeth decorates her houses. Vendors hardly knew what was coming. When we finally caught up, our rendezvous was at a booth offering handmade stained glass artwork. I struck up conversation with the proprietors as they sweated in the summer sun. They were spending brief nights at a nearby hotel between marathon sessions onsite here in peak tourist season.

We were asked about a few pieces that had apparently made the final cut for purchase, but not much thought had been dedicated to exactly where they would hang. Thus began a lengthy series of trips back and forth to the house, the final one including the vendors who surely thought they would be headed back to the hotel after the fair shut down for the day.

I began to prepare our meal of burgers and simple sides, feeling like it was well within my wheelhouse. The grill was state of the art and still looked new. The propane tanks, I was assured, had recently been filled. I got the fire going on the first try and walked away for a casual beverage. 

Guests began to arrive for dinner and most inquired out of earshot who the genteel older African American couple was. It took me a few tries before I could explain what was happening without making it sound like our host had taken hostages who were now decorating her house. Without the proper equipment to hang heavier works, Elizabeth had spirited away the gentlemen in the Mercedes down to the Ace Hardware. His wife, still looking spent from a long day out in the sun, accepted our offer of some chilled white wine. That made us all feel a little better in the event the police showed up.

Eventually, everything was in its place and the spent artisans refused an invitation for dinner. I walked out to throw on our burgers and the flames were extinguished. Our primary tank was empty. So was the backup. My mind reeled for a minute with twenty raw hamburgers still sitting on that platter. For all of the grief I gave Elizabeth about her air fryer, it sure did come in handy as we rallied to feed the starving faithful. After the meal, Cornelia asked us all to stand back as she did an impromptu demo of Dawn Power Wash spray on the mountain of beef-fat covered dishes. This blog currently receives no sponsorship, but I’ll be damned if that stuff didn’t work some impressive magic. 

As the night came to a close, I found myself rocking away on the front porch with wives and ex-wives from the neighborhood. They shared various complaints about men, with some offenders being named specifically. It felt like I had been accepted into the fold as their own. First The Barbie Movie, then extreme craft fairing, and now I was gently sipping from a zesty pinot grigio while happily belittling my own kind.

Before we could get too settled, Elizabeth whisked us away to the various evening happenings in the neighborhood. Our girls danced to a DJ who was smart enough to go heavy on Taylor Swift. Faces that were new and fresh one evening previous were now familiar friends. Just like the last night of camp, we were making plans to do it again next year.

On Sunday morning, we collected our things and gathered around the kitchen island for extended goodbyes and promises to keep in touch. Big hugs for Elizabeth and Cornelia. One last game of fetch with Molly. I gave them my number and affirmation that we would indeed add this precious dog to our fold if the moment unfortunately arose.

If I’m seventy and still living with the vibrancy of these ladies, I would count this time on earth as a resounding success. We’re all going to be faced with suffering and situations beyond our control, but wouldn’t you want to be the person who hears they have ten more years left and decides to make the most of it?

We're headed back this July and I can’t wait to get the band back together. Cheers to one more year of living and whatever comes next.

The Family Motto

(The voice of a small human heard from across the house)

“No, Maggie! Stop! Gimme! It’s mine!”

My youngest is still in her church outfit and we’re already being covetous again. I give my wife the “I’ll take this one” look and project my voice down the hallway.

“Jesus never said Gimme! It’s Mine!”

I thought this life lesson might fall on sympathetic ears. The Sunday school content was still ringing in their little heads. I am no biblical scholar, but felt safe not consulting Google for historical accuracy.

When it comes to helpful texts concerning our particular situation, however, the Bible does have a few glaring omissions. To start, there is a lack of content concerning little Jesus. Surely Mary and Joseph had it easy, but I’d like some examples of a sinless childhood. Would Jesus throw a temper tantrum and accuse his brother James of taking his stuff? We can make assumptions, but can’t be sure now can we?

From my current role as a father, it’s worth pointing out that we also don’t have “Jesus’ Guide to Parenting’ as a handy reference. That sure would clear some things up. “Honor your father and mother” is another great one to yell down the hallway, but the Old Testament is short on notes pertaining to screen time and the Internet.

Everyone has an opinion on the best methods, but we can all agree that parenting is hard. Each day brings a new adventure in this dynamic world we live in. Through the good moments and the bad, I always try to convey in our home that we’re on the same team, and on that note, will say wise things like “Chapmans always clean up after themselves” or “Chapmans don’t pick our butts in public” to instill the proper expectations and consistency for our brand.

Such quotable edicts occasionally proliferate beyond our immediate family. My niece and nephews love to spread the gospel of “Uncle Chappy always says be cool.” Instead of dogging them for lackluster behavior, it’s a lot more fun to ask them if what they are doing fits the definition of being cool. 

While I have been on this earth a good bit longer than these young ones, it is beginning to dawn on me that the management style of casting down life lessons and rigid standards from above is not always resonating. They soak up much more from how their parents act and treat other people. The whole “do as I say and not as I do” line is a lost cause. If you fart at the dinner table, don’t be surprised when your little ladies join in the fun.

While we’re in the trust tree, I have also been noticing tendencies in myself I would rather not pass along to the next generation. There’s this constant impatience with the pace of life and a jaded attitude that frankly sucks. While I plan to diversify our schedule a bit going forward, that unsettled mindset needs a new perspective. I could try to blame my problems on the unabashed consumerism and the attention economy that surrounds us, but maybe my britches have gotten too big for being curious.

And that’s where I return to the children. They have a lot to offer if we simply slow down and pay attention. Kids also say some hilarious stuff if you take a moment to listen. Jesus had plenty of content on why we should all strive to be more like them. A child looks at the world and sees possibility, nuance and a little mystery. Meanwhile, we see bills, bad drivers and weeds that need pulling.

We went through an exercise recently where our Sunday school couples were tasked with coming up with a family motto. Not one to miss a good Game of Thrones reference, I came up with “A Chapman Always Pays Their Debts.”  There were a few laughs from the collective, but let’s admit that would be pretty lame on a coffee mug. 

Upon returning home, we put the girls on the same task of crafting our motto. Libby didn’t even take a breath before yelling out “Unicorns are Real!” We of course thought that was hilarious at the time, but you know what? That’s right where I want to be. Believe that the world has more to offer than our careers, houses, cars and stock portfolios. The moment you turn on that sense of wonder, then the rest of the crap melts away.