A journey to fatherhood

There’s no words to describe that feeling when it finally sinks in that you’re going to be a dad.
Believe me. I’ve been dealing with this for the last 37 weeks.
It’s a roller coaster of emotions. You’re nervous, anxious, you doubt, but most importantly the emotions always come back full circle to happiness.
You stand there, appointment after appointment, as the ultrasound nurse gives you glimpses at your baby. Each time, your baby looks more and more like a tiny person. Each time, however, the smile that freezes on your face is the same.
It’s hard to explain, but I’ll give it a go. I know that I’m not the first person to have a baby, but this is my first. We’re having a little girl that we’re going to call Eliza Cait.
Our originial due date was set for February 2, but it’s looking like we’ll induce on January 28 unless my wife Erin goes into labor before then.
This road that has led to this was long and winding for me as I’m sure it is for most fathers.
From the moment that the two purple lines appeared on the “stick” to now was a rush of adrenaline.
We did the whole jumping up and down, screaming thing. We did the parent and grandparent tours announcing the little one that was coming. My mom hasn’t stopped smiling yet and I’m starting to think that her excitement has passed ours. But that’s okay because she’s my mom.
Then there were those painstaking weeks before the ultrasound that would tell us what sex our baby was. I got to say that those weeks were the longest of the pregnancy. Those weeks were spent with pen, paper, baby name books and endless searches through family trees and Internet databases to find the perfect names for a boy or a girl.
I think we might have looked at a million names. We had an idea of what we were looking for. We wanted something southern, yet meaningful.
As for the whole family name thing, I hope you will allow me to get on my soapbox for a second. There’s this movement in baby naming circles that seems to be moving everyone towards family names.
While I understand the whole family-name concept, not all names have to be taken from your family tree. Everyone asks if our names are family names and I always want to ask everyone if it really matters.
To me, it doesn’t, but I digress. In the end we chose Camden Slade for a boy and Eliza Caitlyn for a girl. We felt we were armed with two great names for the ultrasound. We have since changed the boy’s name to Katon Slade. Slade, however, is a family name on Erin’s side. In case you’re wondering, Eliza came from the play “Pygmalion” (or “My Fair Lady” for those that just watch the movies). Eliza Doolittle is one of my favorite characters from plays. Caitlyn was chosen to celebrate my wife’s Irish-Scottish background.
When the ultrasound technician finally told us that we were having a little girl, we were ecstatic. The cute dresses and a myriad of pink presents started pouring in. Suddenly my masculine world became a light shade of pink.
The rest of the weeks have been all downhill. We’ve been surrounded by love from our parents. We’ve begun construction on our house. We’ve turned our dogs bedroom into a nursery. They’re not too happy, but I’m sure you can imagine that. They’ll have their own bedroom soon enough. They’re still our babies too. They’re extremely happy about their new “sissy” coming into the world.
And now with all that said, we’re less than two weeks away from Eliza Cait coming into the world.
I thought I’d be more nervous. Of course I probably will be in the few days leading up to January 28.
But for now, I’m just happy knowing that I’m about to be a father. I don’t know how good of one I’ll be, but I’m going to give it everything I’ve got. I’m going to love my daughter more than life itself. I haven’t even touched her tiny hands yet, but I know already that I’ll be wrapped around her tiny finger.
I’m the happiest man in the world right now because I’m going to be a father and I’d like to take you on that journey.
My only hope now is that Eliza Cait will look just like her beautiful mommy.

Front porch preaching

Is it just me or is southern living changing?

Maybe it is just me, but for some reason I’m not seeing that southern spirit that hung over this area for so long.

Maybe it’s the fact that my grandparents’ generation is fading or maybe it’s the fact that the world is changing, but I feel like southern living isn’t what it used to be.

It doesn’t seem like so long ago that my grandparents would gather at the end of every long day, pour up some tall glasses of iced tea, and sit out in the waning sun surrounded by silence.

That wasn’t that long ago.

You don’t see those front porch congregations anymore. You don’t see that friendliness anymore.

When I’m out in my car, I glance at the passing houses and it just seems to me that the front porch is underutilized.

It’s more of a fixture than an object of use.

The other day, I pulled into my parents’ drive and my grandmother, who lives next door, was sitting out on the front porch with her neighbor, “Ms. Ruth.”

It was something that most wouldn’t think special, but for me it was touching sight to see my Nanny Jean out on the front porch.

It brought back so many memories and senses. I immediately snapped back to a spring night in the early 1990’s.

I saw glances of red chairs with flowered cushions. I saw my Papa Ed in that brown sweater he’d wear until the sweat of summer overwhelmed him. My mom sat in the swing beneath our shade tree with our neighbor, “Ms. Peachy.” My dad was sitting on the front porch steps.

My Nanny Jean was coming out of the house carrying Dixie cups filled with iced tea.

And there I was, a little tyke, running around trying to catch fireflies in a mason jar.

To me, that’s what southern living is all about. It’s about sitting out on the front porch, enjoying family and friends, and better yet, enjoying the world we live in.

My Papa Buck was a man who understood that. With the exception of a baseball game here and there, he wasn’t interested in television such as Jerry Springer or Oprah Winfrey.

Instead he spent his long summer days out on the front porch in his rocking chair, counting cars and waving at friends.

It came to be expected that my Papa Buck was going to be out on that porch. It’s as if you prepared yourself to blow the horn as you drove by long before you got to his house.

My Papa Buck and my Nanny Ophelia loved that front porch.

In my mind, the front porch was a symbol.

It was a symbol of a world that was simplistic. It was a time when the world revolved around the little piece of the world that surrounded you, not Iraq or Iran.

That wasn’t to say that those front porch dwellers weren’t patriotic, because they loved the flag and the country more than people today do, I believe.

The front porch, to my grandparents, meant freedom. I believe that with all my heart. These people worked hard for that small piece of the world that they lived on and in.

Their blood, sweat, and tears were on that front porch. It was their window to the world they wanted to see. The front porch symbolized friendship and love.

There was nothing sweeter than congregating and chatting with neighbors and friends. It was a way to stay connected to the world around you instead of being desensitized by the destruction and violence that was seen all over the news.

The front porch meant family. The front porch meant friendship. The front porch brought you face to face with Mother Nature.

In some cases, it brought you face to face with God, as the ministers from our churches would come by and sit out enjoying the neighborhood, hoping to bring some more souls into church.

Those were the days that you knew everyone around you.

Somehow, I think all that’s lost and I’m jealous.

My grandparents had something special that I can’t just seem to find. They had the ability to sit and enjoy life without doing a thing.

I have yet to find that peace.

My generation is surrounded by television, movies, games, and so many other things that are designed to occupy our time.

I can’t for the life of me just sit and watch the world turn. I can’t sit and enjoy the world that God has created for us.

Why can’t I enjoy my window to God’s world?

The world has taught me otherwise. The world that grabbed my brain taught me that it’s better to be stressed out and busy rather than just settling back and relaxing.

Somehow, some way I want to find a way to change that mentality.

My world can’t be that different than that of my grandparents. Sure… life was just simpler then, or was it?

Has life gotten more complicated or have we just complicated life?

Maybe southern living hasn’t changed. Maybe we are the ones changing.

My grandfathers were content with the life they led. They weren’t caught up in the hustle and bustle and they weren’t caught up in the dollar.

Maybe that’s the problem.

Maybe we should all step out onto our front porches and look at the world the way our parents and our grandparents did.

Maybe we should all just stop in, breathe in the air around us, rock in a chair, and watch as the sun fades and the moon rises.

It might give us a different perspective on the world around us. It might slow us down, help us appreciate the gifts we already have, and it just might put a smile on our face.

Lord knows, it put one on the faces of my grandparents for many years. There’s some kind of magic on the front porch and maybe we just need to let it work on us.

Country singer Tracy Lawrence probably said it best in his song “If the World Had a Front Porch.”

He said:
“If the world had a front porch like we did back then
We’d still have our problems but we’d all be friends
Treating your neighbor like he’s your next of kin
Wouldn’t be gone with the wind
If the world had a front porch, like we did back then.”

Dancing down highway to health

German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once said that “we should consider every day lost in which we have not danced at least once.”

A few weeks ago I would have looked at Nietzsche, if he weren’t in his grave, like he was crazy.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind watching dancers who know what they’re doing “cutting a rug,” as my grandpa used to say.

I just never thought about dancing myself. I’ve watched all the popular television shows because I’m a reality TV addict. I’ve seen “Dancing with the Stars” and “So You Think You Can Dance” and I really like both of those shows.

I’ve just been a big, slow dude with no rhythm my entire life. I couldn’t hear the beat in a song even if the song’s only instruments were drums.

I’ve always listened to the singer more than the music. There are exceptions. My favorite two bands are the Dave Matthews Band and O.A.R. and I listen to those guys for their music.

For the most part, I’ve never really thought about dancing. My only exposure has been some beginner’s shag lessons and many college nights spent “in the club.”

Of course, shagging is great and I can still do it a little bit, and those “club” days, which weren’t really dancing at all, are long gone.

It was strange that I got excited at the possibility of dancing. For me it has always been awkward.

I think a lot of people shy away from dancing because of their adolescent days. I know everyone out there can relate.

As teenagers, we’re put in this awkward position, especially guys, of asking someone to the school dance. Now… we didn’t know how to dance at that young age and we definitely weren’t sure about that end of the night slow dance.

Even before the dance, we’re placed in a state of shock because we’ve got to ask a girl to the dance! Some just decide not to ask anyone to the dance because they “can’t dance.”

Here I am now with my 30-year-old birthday on the horizon and I still don’t know how to dance.
How embarrassing!

I know I’m only 27, but I’ve been in a reflective mood lately. I don’t want my life to pass by without trying different things. I’ve got a list that I’m mulling over in my head. There’s tennis, skydiving, hiking, scuba diving, sailing, and a whole host of other things.

Dancing just happened to be near the top of that list and it’s something easily accessible.

That’s where my search for a dance teacher came in. The road toward light feet and some wagging hips led me to Laraine and Ki Wells.

I called Laraine and asked her about teaching me how to dance. This poor woman didn’t know what she was getting herself into.

There’s an old saying that “white people can’t dance.” While that may be an offensive stereotype, it was complete truth in my case.

As I told you before, I couldn’t hear the beat of any song. It could be the most blatant beat in the entire world and I wouldn’t hear it. The beat could walk straight up and slap me in the face and I wouldn’t hear it. My wife gives me these strange, embarrassed looks at concerts when I begin clapping to the beat. In my mind, I’m on the beat, but those looks always tell me that I’m not on the beat. It’s gotten to the point that at concerts, I’ll watch others clapping just so that I can clap on beat. Isn’t that sad?

What were the Wells going to do with a guy like me?

I was a duck out of water.

However, that didn’t matter. Dancing is good exercise and I was going to try it. It’s a part of my cardio routine as I journey down my highway to health.

Not to mention that I’m willing to try just about anything to escape the mundane boredom of life. I have my limits, of course, but dancing doesn’t exceed those limits, unless of course I pull a muscle doing the Triple-Step Swing or break my wife’s toe doing the Fox Trot.

Nonetheless, I’m now a dancing machine.

Next week, I’ll give you insight on my actual experiences with learning to dance so far.

I can go ahead and tell you that I’ve had my ups and downs and the road has been fun so far.

So stay tuned as your favorite sports reporter learns to bend his knees, loosen up, get down on the dance floor, and how he finally hears a beat!

As a preview, I’ll tell you one thing. Nietzsche was right. A day without dancing is a lost one.

Why rescue a greyhound?

Greyhounds make the most amazing house dogs.

While they have been boxed up most of their lives by the time you rescue them, don’t sell them short.

They’re smart dogs.

By the time you get your hound home, more than likely, it’s already been house trained. While the occasional accident may occur, for the most part we have had no problems with Sadie and Sabrina using our furniture as a bathroom.

Of course, they are both girls so I’m not sure what boy greyhounds are like.

Another reason you might consider a greyhound would be that they don’t shed.

At certain times of the year, Sadie (our tan) greyhound sheds, but Sabrina doesn’t.
Sadie’s the rare exception. Her coat is different than most greyhounds you will come across.

You wouldn’t believe how well-behaved our dogs are. For the most part they do what we tell them to do.

They dance and play, but sleep most of the day away.

They’re so loving. Of course, they show it a little differently than most dogs. They lean into you or just kind of hang out beside you, waiting patiently for some love and attention.

I will say that Sadie is a little more patient than Sabrina. If you’re not quick with the love and attention toward Sabrina, you may find a cold nose in your face or her entire head shoved into the space between you and the armrest of your recliner.

Our dogs know where their beds are and when told to do so, will run and curl up for bedtime. Most times, we don’t have to tell them to go to bed. They’re already there.

The hardest part is waking them up so that they can walk to the door all sleepy eyed to go to the bathroom before bedtime.

Every morning before I head off to work, I feed them in their crates and they run into their crates with no problems.

All greyhounds, like most dogs, are looking for is love and attention. As long as you love them like they’re family, you’ll have no problem.

Greyhounds aren’t outside dogs. If you don’t believe me, ask my little Sadie. If we leave her outside too long, she’ll come up to the door and let us know with a high-pitched bark.

I say this because it is very important. Greyhounds are not outside dogs.

They are not meant for the extreme heat or the extreme cold. Don’t get me wrong, my babies like to go outside and lay in the sun just like other dogs, but I would never leave them outside. For one thing, it would mess up their routines.

Greyhounds become very routine oriented the longer you have them. They have their place to eat, their place to sleep, and they abide by those boundaries that you have set up.

Sure, Sabrina will lie in the living room and sleep a lot, but for the most part, they’ll both go off into their little piece of the universe.

That little piece of the universe that belongs to them is important. It’s their home.
It’s not newspaper inside of a box. It’s a soft, comfy bed that their new mommy and daddy has provided for them.

That alone is the most important reason why I encourage greyhound adoption.

These dogs have had a rough life. They’ve lived through hardship. The more greyhounds that I can help find a home, the better I’ll feel.

They’re sweet, loving dogs who just want someone to love them back. They’re tired of running circles. They’re tired of living in a newspaper lined box.

They want a warm home, with a loving family.

Most importantly, the more we rescue, the fewer die.

Save a greyhound and you save a life. That’s reason enough for me to bring a greyhound home.

A piece of Harley lives in us all

Margaret Cho, a comedienne, once said that sometimes when we are generous in small, barely detectable ways, it can change someone else’s life forever.

These words ring truer than the loudest bell in the world and a perfect example could be found right here in our small area of the universe.

We lost a good man this week that embodied the meaning of the tiny quotation.
Harley Solesbee, the long time proprietor of a gas station on Rutherford Street in Landrum, passed away.

Throughout his many years on this earth, Harley was a gracious and caring man, who touched just about everyone he came in contact with.

For years, he operated one of the last full service gas stations in the Upstate. As recently as last year, you could pull up and Harley would come out to pump your gas.
He was the last of a generation. In fact, Harley was a member of “the greatest generation,” and he was the definition of why the World War II generation has that nickname.

To Harley, a handshake still mattered. To Harley, faith and trust in friendship still mattered.

So many times, Harley allowed friends and loyal customers to just sign for gas. He was in the truest sense, as glorified in Alan Jackson’s song, the “little man.”

As the concrete rose up around him and all the bright, generic gas stations popped up all over the country, Harley strived on the small town principles he had lived by his entire life.

Harley spent his life serving this community. He spent his life pumping his neighbors’ gas. He spent his life providing Landrum students tons of candy.

He was dedicated to what he did. In a world where everyone is used to getting their Thanksgivings and Christmases off of work, Harley would go into work.

He loved what he did.

He didn’t just pump gas. Harley talked to his customers. He asked about their families. He asked how they were feeling.

He cared.

When was the last time you walked into a gas station and the attendant asked you about your sister, your spouse, or your parents?

Harley was more than just our gas attendant. He was our friend and our neighbor.
I just moved to Landrum three years ago, but I did know who Harley was. He was a friend of my wife’s family and it was the only place that they bought gas.

Of course… Harley did that. He inspired customer loyalty by being loyal to everyone.
People would drive the extra mile to get gas from Harley. They would pay the extra dime for Harley’s gas.

I didn’t meet Harley until last year around this time. I heard through the grapevine that he was selling his gas station. I knew then what he meant to this community and I wanted to do a feature on him.

It was a privilege and an honor to talk to Harley and his family. They’re sweet people who share his kindness with the rest of the world.

The part of my talks with Harley that sticks out the most was his love for his wife, Nellie. The couple met at a church weenie roast and they were married for 70 years. She passed away last year. In our talks, the love he felt for his wife shone from his voice like the sun.

Also, I could tell that he appreciated those long days at the gas station, where he was surrounded by friends. Harley had a group of friends that were always at the gas station with him. He was never alone.

Those same friends were invited to hang out with him at his home after he retired from the gas business.

The thing that Harley will be remembered the most for, however, is his love for Landrum Cardinal sports.

He was an avid football fan, but didn’t get to attend many games. Last season, he was honored at a football game and the night was deemed “Harley Night.” Harley Davidson motorcycles were driven out onto the field to honor the longtime fan.

To celebrate his love for the Cardinals, he was buried in a Landrum Cardinal hat.
I’m sure he’d be proud of that hat. It’s sad for Harley to go.

There are not a lot of Harleys left in the world. It’s a sad fact. In a world of ever-growing businesses, there are more faces than names. There is less personal conversation and more speedy checkouts.

Harley was a good man.

He left a kind, friendly legacy that most in Landrum and Polk County will never forget.

Harley may be gone, but there is a small piece of him in every child that has bought candy in his store, every person that has been honored to have him pump their gas, and so many friends and family members that have loved and cherished him for the man that he was.

I’m sorry I didn’t know him sooner, but I’m thankful we met and I’m thankful for the honorable way that he lived his life.

Harley was generous, sometimes in small, barely detectable ways, and in a sense, he’s changed all of our lives in some way through his kindness.

We should all be more like Harley.

Discovering life with rescued greyhounds

Editor’s note: This is the third in a series of columns from Bulletin sports editor Joey Millwood about rescuing greyhounds.

What greyhounds don’t know when you first get them could fill a library.

Huh?

I’m sure that’s what you’re asking right about now.

While a rescued greyhound is no longer a puppy, in a lot of ways they are puppies.
They don’t have the knowledge of a lot of things. They learn things by watching.

If you’re still confused, I’ll give you an example.

Stairs.

While we walk up and down stairs like it’s nothing, greyhounds may not see it that way.

It took a while for Sadie and Sabrina to master steps. Sometimes it seems they still don’t know how to use them.

They’ll either try to jump over them or they just look up at me all confused.

How could a dog not know how to use steps?

It’s simple.

They’ve never seen them.

You may not understand the way these dogs are treated at the tracks yet.

When I say that they’re kept in a box for 22 out of 24 hours of each day, that is fairly accurate.

The lucky greyhounds are the winning ones that the owners may want to breed to create more racers. They escape their little box to breed for a little while.

Greyhounds don’t get to experience life and the things in it. They stare at four walls until it’s time to eat or race.

They come out and eat their raw, old meat and then it’s back to their crates.

They hear the bell, chase the rabbit around the track, and then it’s back to their crates.

Greyhounds don’t experience anything. They’ve never seen glass doors. They’ve never seen stairs. They haven’t experienced the things that most dogs have experienced. In essence, their minds are a clean slate as far as knowledge goes.

I don’t mean to say that greyhounds are stupid because they’re not. They’re very intelligent dogs that pick up on things very easily.

Picture this. A child is born. It’s kept away from anything and everything that all other children come in contact with. Instead of going to school, visiting the playground, discovering games and playing with other children, this child is left in a room with nothing. All that’s in this room are walls and a hardwood floor.

What do you think that child will learn?

Greyhounds aren’t given the luxury of experience. They haven’t seen the world like other dogs and humans have.

They have to learn how to do things late in life. They have to learn how to walk up stairs after their racing days are over.

They pick up on things rather quickly, it’s just that they have to learn it late.
They come from owners whose only concern is how fast they run and how much money they can make.

It’s just another thing that is special about rescuing greyhounds.

You get to discover life with greyhounds. You get to watch their ears perk up at noises they’ve never heard or watch them stare at the television they’ve never seen.

The most beautiful thing is to watch them run around in your backyard. While they still run circles, it’s fun to watch them run all over the place. Watching them discover the feeling of not being on a leash or not having to chase a rabbit in order to run and play is a beautiful sight.

The most important thing with greyhounds, however, is that you have to keep them on a leash or keep them in a fenced environment. They can’t run free. For one thing, they’re way faster than you are and they don’t understand that they have to stay with you.

The exploration of a greyhound is a fun thing to watch. It’s a beautiful sight to watch a greyhound discover life and freedom.

It makes you love life even more yourself. It’s an amazing thing for me to have my Sadie and Sabrina in my life every day. Every morning I awaken to the miracle of life. I couldn’t imagine what would have happened to them if they hadn’t been rescued by the organization that we got them from.

If they had never found their way into our lives, what their experience would have been is not a scenario that I want to imagine. Every day with my dogs is a gift. No matter how much Brando yaps, I love him.

Dogs are truly man’s (and woman’s) best friend and we should treasure them every day. Everyone should own at least one dog and if you own a dog, make it a rescue, whether it’s a greyhound or a dog from the Foothills Humane Society.

We should all be concerned with saving a life.

The story behind a dog’s eyes

Editor’s note: This is the first in a series of columns from Bulletin sports editor Joey Millwood about rescuing greyhounds.

Have you ever just looked into your dog’s eyes? Behind every set of those precious eyes is a story. Some stories are good and some are bad.

A lot of times you can just tell what kind of life they’ve had by looking at their sweet faces.

Not every dog has had the benefit of a good home since they were puppies. I thank God for those sweet, little dogs that end up in good homes and have nothing but good memories.

I have three dogs myself. My wife and I firmly believe in rescuing dogs. The idea of saving a life is very important to us. In a lot of cases, rescuing a dog is just that. Rescue.

All three of our dogs are rescues. We have a fawn-colored greyhound named Sadie, a black greyhound named Sabrina and a rowdy German Pincher named Brando.

Each pair of my dogs’eyes tell a different story. They’re all stories that I really wish I could erase from their memories.

Sometimes I watch my dogs while they are sleeping and I think about where they came from, especially my greyhounds.

Greyhounds are a different story from most dogs. I didn’t realize what kind of life these dogs lead until three years ago when I first met Sadie.

My wife knew about greyhound rescue long before I did. It was she who introduced me to the world of greyhound rescue. As is the stereotype, greyhounds are associated with the bus company and gambling.

One could not imagine the life these dogs lead. They’re trapped in a box that isn’t much bigger than they are for 22 out of 24 hours a day. In a lot of cases, they’re fed old meat.

Sadie was our first greyhound. She raced for a long time and evidence of how she was treated was all over her body.

She had scars, a tattoo on her ear to show who she was, and there were tattoos of newspaper stories on her stomach from where she slept on them in her crate. Do you know how long it would take to have a newspaper leave an imprint on your stomach? It was the only bed she knew.

It breaks my heart to know the pain that she has felt in this life. I’m one of those crazy pet owners who thinks of my dogs as my children.

We got Sadie three years ago when she was five and I promise that she has been spoiled rotten since her adoption and the same can be said of Sabrina and Brando. We keep all three of our dogs in the house, they eat the best food, and they get lots of love and affection.

The early treatment of these sweet dogs breaks my heart. There are so many horror stories that surround the breed. There have been stories of owners cutting their ears off, dropping the dogs off in the desert or, in Florida, into alligator pits.
This is why there is such a massive movement to save these dogs. In most states, greyhounds aren’t considered domestic pets. Instead, they’re considered livestock. This means that greyhounds can be slaughtered like cattle.

I have two now, but if I could, we’d adopt 100 more. We need to find homes for these dogs so that the rescue organizations can save more of them.

If you’re interested in adopting a greyhound, there are plenty of places around here to look. You will find many to adopt.

America’s Country Store in Landrum has a greyhound rescue group called For the Hounds that meets twice a month.

Other groups are also around, such as Greyhound Crossroads or Greyhounds and Love in Anderson.

If you could just look into my Sadie’s big, brown, almost human eyes you would understand my plea.

Sadie and Sabrina are so sweet and beautiful and to imagine the life they’ve led is unimaginable for me.

Every day when they dance at dinner time or when they lean into me to show their love, I thank God that I adopted them and that there are organizations out there that are devoted to saving others like them.

Those who do it are an inspiration to me and I hope now that they are to you.

Don’t get me wrong, all dogs need to be rescued. I wish there wasn’t a need for all the rescue groups around the country. I wish that everyone treated their dogs like we do. I wish that everyone would just stop and consider the story behind their dogs’ eyes.

Each story will touch your heart. It might make you smile. It might make you cry.
All I know is that I’m busy trying to erase the bad memories from my doggies’ past.