A Tale Of Two Boys.

A guest post by David R. Bonner, a.k.a., "Cougar Bait."

The story begins May 6, 1988.

Easy for me to remember, because it was the day my son Matthew was born. Funny thing though -- one of my sister’s best friends was in the room next to us birthing her own son, Benjamin. The boys were born within minutes of each other.

What timing.  We all had been in Lamaze class together and as luck would have it, the boys came into the world on the same day. We pledged to stay in touch and make sure the boys played together as they grew up. But like most good intentions, it just did not happen. We had led different lives before, and I guess we settled back into them.

We stayed in touch a little, I guess. Went to each other’s birthday parties and such. And of course, we knew that Ben was diagnosed with liver cancer when he was 2 years old. 2 YEARS OLD! I was shocked and scared -- one because I worried for Ben, but I couldn’t help but wonder whether this horrible disease would strike my son also. After all, they were born right next to each other. Fortunately, Matthew was fine.  And eventually, so was Ben. Ben was strong and feisty and quite frankly kicked cancer’s ass. Again at 2 YEARS OLD! But some small lingering heath issues have remained -- the result of chemotherapy on a toddler. As recently as last week, though, his doctor gave him a clean bill of health.

Both boys did well throughout their teen years. Ben went to Bishop England High School, Matthew to James Island High. Ben went to the Citadel.  Matthew went to the College of Charleston.

Currently, Ben’s hair is what you would expect of a Citadel man, high and tight. Matthew has hair down to his shoulders. They truly look like the odd couple. Ben’s father and I exchanged stories concerning both of them today. Oh yea, did I mention that we put the boys on a flight for three-month visit to Costa Rica today? Did I mention neither of them has a job there, or an apartment, or any idea what they are going to do, other than surf, chase girls, and go clubbing?

Matthew has dreamed of doing this since he was in college. Ben shared a similar dream of spending time in the Virgin Islands. Last year, almost 22 years after they were born, they ran across each other at the Hibernian Hall March 17th banquet.  Matthew told Ben of his plans and Ben said what any red-blooded young man should say -- Hell yeah, I’ll go with you!

For a while, we weren’t sure they were actually going to make it happen, but Matthew worked and saved his money, and Ben knocked off a Brinks truck (Just kidding).

And finally the day came. Ben’s father and I took them to the airport and dropped them off. We chatted on the way home and made some side bets on who would crack first, Ben or Matthew. Then a phone call came. It was Matthew. Small change of plans. They meet a woman in the airport and she owns a bar in Costa Rica! How convenient! (Did I mention that both Ben and Matthew are proficient in clearing their livers with alcohol?) She promised to help them get an apartment and possibly employ they. Only catch is that she is on the other side of the country from where Ben and Matthew were planning to go. For me, that would be a deal breaker. I like to plan and then I like to execute the plan. Not these boys. They thought for a nanosecond and said, you guessed it, HELL YEAH!

So off they go on an adventure. No telling what will happen. Hopefully neither will come back married. But Ben’s father and I absolutely agree: we are proud of our boys. Many kids have big plans and dreams for what they’ll do after college, but few actually follow through. Our boys are doing it, and they are doing it without hesitation.

So do me a favor boys, take photos. Lots of them. Write your mothers as often as you can. And most importantly, enjoy. Then again, I’m guessing you already are.

Putting Our Lives Into Words and Our Words Into Lives

I am, by turns, both thrilled and terrified by writing.

I feel compelled to "use my words"  – I find the process exhilarating – but even as I post my carefully constructed phrases and meager manic ramblings, I cringe, bracing for the worst. The criticism. The discovered typos. And the nagging fear that no one is reading.

Yesterday marked the birthday of James Dickey (1923 – 1997). You may know him as the author of Deliverance. Or, as one the great poets of 20th century America. To me, he was more. Author and poet laureate James Lafayette Dickey was my first college English professor.

With his massive 6’ 3” frame, Professor Dickey was imposing even before he unleashed his booming, raspy drawl. There were about 10 of us in the class – 10 slack-jawed, sleepy-eyed, wildly unappreciative 18-year-olds.

I was, by turns, both thrilled and terrified.

I can’t recall ever feeling so inspired – or scared to bits.  I came to tears listening to him recite Randall Jarrell's "The Death Of A Ball Turrett Gunner."  I dreaded handing in assignments. My eyes watered to think of Professor Dickey critiquing my ill-conceived, dashed-off essays.  Some days, I couldn’t even bring myself to cross the classroom threshold.  I couldn’t bear the scrutiny.

Like a moth, though, neither could I stay away.

I thought I was sufficiently stealthy, until on one assignment (which I’d turned in late), he wrote, “STOP standing outside the door during class. It doesn’t matter whether your paper is complete; it matters whether you are present.”

I was, and still am, dazzled. Exposed, to be sure, but dazzled nonetheless.

Writing can be soul-baring, and unlike the spoken word, once we put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard, our written words become permanent, immovable, memorable and susceptible to judgment. Which is why I so admire anyone willing to put fingers to keyboard and share their story.

Last week, Cougar Bait’s 22-year-old son packed his bags and set off for Costa Rica. Sure, he’ll be back, but it could be a few months. It’s a sweet story – one we’ll all want to remember – which may be why CB took the time and made the effort to put it down in words.

No, CB doesn’t aspire to be a novelist or poet laureate or even a regular blogger. Like other writers, he just has that need to share and willingness to risk scrutiny by writing it down for everyone to see. If you’d like to take a peek, here’s the link: A Tale Of Two Boys.

I was, and still am, dazzled.

Fried Potatoes
I believe the phrase I used most often with Son and Darling Daughter when they were little was, “Use your words,” which may be why I was so gratified one recent evening when, instead of merely saying “thank you for dinner, “ Darling Daughter said, “Those potatoes were great! How did you make them and when can we have them again?”

4-6 medium sized Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and cut in 3/4" dice

1 cup chicken broth

3 tablespoons olive oil

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 teaspoon paprika

1/2 teasoon dried thyme leaves

1/4 teaspoon ground cayenne pepper

Combine all ingredients is a large, nonstick skillet with a lid.  Bring to a boil, put lid in place, and reduce heat to medium low, until potatoes start to get tender.  Remove lid, increase heat to medium high, and cook, stirring or shaking frequently, until the liquid cooks off and only the oil remains.  Keep shaking and stirring until potatoes are well browned and crispy.

Into Each Life, Some Poop Must Fall.

As I write this, some 1,000 birds are twittering and fluttering around our driveway. OK. Maybe not literally 1,000. But it does resemble a scene from Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds." Literally, there are a couple hundred robins out there. Usually, I spy robins in onesies and twosies, so an entire flock might have been a breathtaking sight – except that a couple hundred winged red breasts brings a couple thousand plum-colored splatters. My little white 5-speed looks as if it’s been in a food fight with a case of Smucker’s finest. And the driveway could double as the set where Lucille Ball went foot first into the winemaking business.

Even the sides of our detached garage are spattered with droppings, which makes me wonder what’s going on in those little bird brains. Have our feathered friends found some diabolical way to fling -- or even fire -- their droppings? Or are a stalwart few taking one for the team – kamikaze style – flying directly into the wooden planks, just to deposit their distinctive purple stain for posterity?

It’s temporary, I know, but until the robins move on to juicier grounds, we've been forced to adapt. Son and Darling Daughter have taken to using the infamous “duck and cover” maneuver when making the treacherous 10-step trip from the car to the house. The driveway is no longer a makeshift basketball court. And I only cart groceries into the house under the cover of darkness -- when the winged purple bombers have retired for the night.

Grimly, we’re avoiding the driveway. Most of us, that is.

We spend a good part of dinnertime Chez Wiles fending off Josie-the-rescue-dog and Lionel-the-fourteen-pound-feline. Josie sniffs and prances, endlessly hopeful that a tidbit will fall – accidentally or otherwise -- from someone’s plate. Lionel sits in an unoccupied chair, squinting at the water bottle pointed squarely at his nose, knowing that he'll be spritzed the instant he lays a delicate paw on the counter.

As Josie bustled from one diner to another, I realized a bit of food had fallen on her back. Um.  Ick.  Smuckers-colored “food.” After registering the initial shock, I thought the kids would bust a gut.

Yep. Josie had been “hit.”

Better her than me, I suppose. Still, the story left me struggling to come up with a recipe for today. But then, it came to me. Grilled PBJs.

When I was a kid, I used to make them all the time for my younger brother and sister.  I got the recipe from my very first cookbook, aptly titled, "The Kids Cookbook."  We loved these sandwiches with their crispy outsides, warm melty peanut butter and the inevitable jelly splatter. Those PB&Js were, pardon the pun, the “bomb.”

Not literally of course. But close enough.

Grilled Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches

wheat bread (growing up, we used "Roman Meal" brand)
peanut butter
jam
softened butter 

Heat a nonstick skillet to medium high heat.  Make your PB&J, spreading softened butter on the outsides of the sandwich.  Place in skillet and "grill" on each side, until lightly toasted.  Serve warm.  With napkins.