Buckeye Mike

I will never forget that morning. It had to be 5 below zero with the wind, and the last thing I wanted to do was go outside and stand on that stupid beach. But there I was, looking out over the ocean at Cape Cod, icicles forming on my nose, watching the sun came up. It made my new Dad smile, and while I didn't appreciate the moment then, it was one of the most memorable Thanksgivings I have ever had. Years later, no matter where I have been or whose table I was privileged to sit at, I have always gone back to those times when we ate (and drank a bunch of water) at the Barnaby Inn, sat around Aunt Ann's ping pong table, and turned beet red as my very religious Papaw told a dirty joke at Grandma Kay's in 1989.  Cape Cod, Boston, and my Dad's family are my favorite Thanksgiving memories. Today was set to be much less eventful. With the boys spending the holiday with their mother and no other plans, Tiffany and I planned a quiet feast at home. She was up early (5am) and

It had been going on for months. Everyday I made the walk down the long path from Struble Elementary to our street, then followed the sidewalk across the bridge, over the creek and home. And every day I walked tentatively, not sure when or where Steve Bates might show up. Could be on the corner of Peacock and Royal Glen Drive. Could have been where the path dumped out onto Peacock's dead end. But I could count on getting beat up, kicked, laughed at, and put down. Everyday. My Mom had finally had enough of me coming home crying everyday and nothing ever changing. She had spoken to the school, gone across the street to his parents, yet nothing changed. She finally told me if I did not whoop him, she would whoop me. She gave my sister the position of informer, because Angelia was to report back what happened the next day. And, as it turned out, there was a lot to report. When I came off the path, I saw him waiting there. Standing on the corner, he told me I was a fat boy as I walk

Last Friday, before I got home from work, there was a knock on my front door. My wife, Tiffany, answered the door and was confronted by an upset father. This man, clearly frustrated and at his wits end, informed her that our son Ben had taken part in the verbal bullying of his son Jordan. And while Ben was not the primary offender, nor had he been involved since the beginning, he was still a part of a group of kids who had been picking on Jordan for 2 years. When Tiffany called me I was floored. For those who do not know Ben, he is a great kid, the last person I had ever imagined would be involved with something like this. Sweet and always caring, Ben often will give up something he wants if someone else wants it more. He asks to help around the house and is a very even keeled kid. Still he is a little awkward, not feeling like he fits in. He is an artist while his older brother is the athlete, so Ben has always felt like his identity needed to be separate from John Michael's. Th