Change Orders

You know what’s really easy to do? The same thing over and over again. It feels nice, doesn’t it? That warm hug of familiarity -  knowing that today is going to be very much like the last. Because it will, right?

I have friends who could be woken up in the middle of the night and asked to do something really important, like save a human life. Meanwhile, I can hardly be trusted to sleep safely. One evening, my unconscious self walked straight out the back door to pee in the woods. 

My grandfather was a volunteer emergency medical technician who slept with the police scanner on. He possessed an unwavering ability to take life as it came, enthusiastically rolling with the punches. With that kind of upbringing, it’s no wonder that my father has also been first on the scene many times. I’ve watched him get right in there for a snow day cow-birthing. He’s taken the lead on legally burning down a house (very rad) and extracted countless vehicles from being stuck when someone’s day went pear shaped.

I did not inherit such coolness in the face of adversity. My days typically consist of making a thoughtful plan and sticking to it. God forbid someone submit a change order for an unscheduled bathroom stop or an errand that wasn’t accounted for.

So I was ill prepared last Wednesday morning when things hit the fan. We were standing in line at the Delta counter. The time was 5:16 am. Boarding for our flight started in just over 20 minutes. I took out our stack of passports and realized that mine had some old looking stickers on it. Eyes grew wide as I opened what was obviously my old booklet - you know, the one that you are supposed to discard? Sweat came immediately. 

Allison usually begins her special requests with a little sarcastic “Don’t let your brain explode” but this time it really did. It was panic, disbelief, regret and shame all rolled into one terrible feeling that buzzed through my whole body. There was a glitch in the matrix.

A passport card does not really count for anything if you are trying to leave the country. I knew that. You probably knew that. That didn’t stop us from burning precious time waiting on an understanding Delta employee to confirm that the one in my wallet was indeed worthless. I threw everything but a backpack at my three ladies, who collectively looked at me the way I deserved to be looked at - like a father who had just ruined a perfectly good vacation. There was no other option than to try. I sprinted back to our car, foregoing crosswalks in favor of a straight shot down the passing lane for departures. 

Birmingham is a city possessing many lovely attributes. The one that I was certainly most thankful for, in this moment, was a conveniently located airport. With the relative unpredictability of security lines and parking, I felt like the Lexus and I could at least hit our number. It was twelve miles each way. Sport mode engaged.

The cats were really confused when I came flying back in. They were surveying their unusually large buffet when I sprinted past. In the most predictable fashion, my usable passport was shoved all the way in the back top corner of a drawer. My typical reaction in these scenarios is to get all upset but I was already pegged. Hastily, I emptied the drawer of its contents while giving myself a pep talk in the third person.

Stock car racer grandpa would have been proud of how I took those turns back down Rocky Ridge Road. Man and machine became one as we timed the lights perfectly and zipped back through downtown. Empty parking spaces, which had been plentiful earlier, were now seemingly nonexistent. Every section I passed took me further from the terminal, further compounding the challenge that still lay ahead. 

A blurry image on my phone chronicled the faraway wasteland where I finally found a spot. 4F is not a place I would recommend to any fellow travelers. One star. Back on my feet, nothing left to do but hustle and hope. 

Surely ‘sweating profusely’ is a standard red flag in the TSA handbook, but bless them for not giving me the full pat down. I made relatively quick work of security, but before I could get my shoes back on, Allison called saying they were about to close the doors. We were running again, and this time Terminal B was cheering me along.

When I made it as far as one can go (because that’s where they put the Atlanta flights) I turned to see an empty stand, door closed. “Where is the attendant!?” I yelled frantically. People not already looking at me like I was a lunatic now did so. Then I turned around and saw the other Atlanta flight. This one was still boarding, and it was mine. 

It is then that I am both thrilled with my victory yet somehow quite irritated that there is still a line of people waiting to get on this plane. Are we really this inefficient as a species? There was a family ahead of me that we saw at check in, and I wonder how mundane their last half hour has been in comparison. I queue impatiently on the jetway just like always, then find my seat next to a relieved ten year old who had likely been scanning the section for better dads. 

People continued to board. I hugged my beautiful child, exhaled, and thought about what could have been accomplished with these luxurious few minutes before the door finally did close. Though my ears were still a bit hot with embarrassment, I had improbably beaten the odds. Our vacation was proceeding as scheduled. The rest of that day was a different level of awesome, because for a while it wasn’t going to happen.

Though I’m certainly not aiming to experience another passport whoopsies or return to the limits of adhesion in our six passenger suv anytime soon, I’m very grateful to have weathered an emergency test of my mettle. And it was quite a rush, I tell you. Life is never going to work out exactly as planned, so bring on the change orders. They make for better content.

The Best Fifteen Hundred Bucks I've Ever Spent

I love Amsterdam. Mention the destination in mixed company and there will undoubtedly be snickers about hazy cafes and the red light district, but what really titillates me are the many modes of transport that the Dutch enjoy. Reaching your destination in Amsterdam can involve any number of wheeled or floating apparatuses. It is also quite flat, so even on trains (all above ground) you can simply identify the destination and aim accordingly. Drive a car if you dare, but the humble bicycle rules the streets of Amsterdam. As far as I’m concerned, that’s pretty great.

The automobile is a wonderful invention, but it has brought with it a slew of unintended consequences here in America - notably heart disease, traffic jams and sports talk radio. Suburbs springing up in the heyday of cheap gasoline didn’t even bother catering to pedestrians or cyclists. ‘To heck with them and their tight clothes!’ For why would anyone ever want to move about in such a laborious fashion?

I happen to live in a community that was designed for Buicks, not bicycles. In a more brazen time, I attempted cycling downtown to work. Instead of a relaxing way to bookend the day, it was a highly dangerous, sweaty and demoralizing affair. The route, a mere six miles, went over both Shades Mountain and Red Mountain. That sounds picturesque, but instead of chirping birds and the smell of fresh air, I was privy to dawn breaking over discount seafood restaurants, Big Lots and a strip club. Though I stuck entirely to sidewalks or designated lanes (thus impeding no one), the occasional driver couldn’t help but lob a comment my way in between drags off their morning cigarette. 

Call me a quitter but I gave up on the dream after several attempts. We Chapmans also didn’t up and move to Amsterdam because their words are too long. Aside from infrequent neighborhood pedals (requiring a two hundred foot climb back up), I crumpled into a man who loads his bicycle onto a rack and drives it to places. In what seems in retrospect like a cry for help, I became a self-described “golf-cart person” the same year I turned forty. Concerned friends reached out to see if I was doing okay.

Admittedly, the golf cart did help shift our emphasis more to the journey. Every day for us was so destination-centric (what’s next on the schedule?) that it genuinely helped to make space for meandering. We four Chapmans made a pact to load up as a family after dinner, head down the hill, and simply putter around without an agenda. Our days were noticeably more sociable and pleasant. It was bike-ish.

Then technology offered up a solution to these key problems that have long been a barrier. If you want to safely blend with vehicular traffic and avoid becoming the subject of another angry Facebook post, it’s in your best interest to travel at a reasonable speed. Pedaling that swiftly up the hills around here would be impossible, even for professionals. With the recent advancements in battery science, however, one can now effortlessly ride a bike as fast as Lance Armstrong (in his juicing days) while carrying a case of Budweiser, a golden retriever and a bluetooth speaker blasting yacht rock. 

It all felt too good to be true when I started checking prices this past spring. After years considering every costly gram of bicycle purchased throughout my lifetime, I became intoxicated with the idea of what I could accomplish with such a versatile and reasonably-priced machine.

The only question was which ebike to purchase. There was the electrified version of a mountain bike, which would be fun and capable, but not awesome for smooth road riding. I looked hard at commuters, which are the most popular choice. Then a particular cargo bike caught my eye, as did its carrying capacity of a whopping 450 lbs. The promo pictures featured happy families, loaded to the gills with all their stuff and joyously pedaling their way to a picnic or something equally endearing. More than anything I saw giant racks, a huge wheelbase and a butt load of potential. Oh and it was on sale!

The first thing I noticed when my new bike arrived was its sheer size. Conventional bike racks would splinter under her largess. Instead of the attentive riding position I’ve become so used to, the long wheelbase allows me to stretch out a bit. When you hit the throttle and stop pedaling, it almost feels like a motorcycle. Visions of Easy Rider played in my mind, but only the one clip I’ve actually seen.

My maiden voyage around the neighborhood was the stuff of dreams. Waving and smiling like the luckiest idiot in the world, I passed all kinds of curious onlookers. Mr. Rob, a fun neighbor and local pizza magnate, flagged me down to talk specs. We vowed to go for an ebike ride together. Flying back up the hill with ease, I contemplated what standard protocol even is for an ebike ride. With a full battery and a smidge of gumption, the world is your oyster. 

Back at the shop, it was business time. Not a moment to waste showing ROI on this beast. With all my accessories firmly affixed and ambitions raised, it was time to make a grocery store run.

The trip is a shade over two miles through the neighborhood. Using the kickstart of our hill, I easily kept the speed limit while descending to the creekside shopping center. A strategic list of groceries had been curated to both occupy every bit of surface area (for the pics) and see how carrying capacity equates to handling on this bike. For those of you who don’t know me personally, I’m a “fill it up to the top” kinda guy. That’s why I grabbed the twenty pound box of cat litter. 

With the help of some clever gadgets, I properly secured my cargo and powered up for the return journey. Gravity’s blessings from a while earlier were to be reversed, laying down a substantial gauntlet for what was feeling to be a pretty top-heavy craft. Tentatively, I navigated the parking lot, noting that the steering had a bit more wobble this time around. If there is one thing engineering school taught me, however, is that you can solve a lot of problems with speed and power. 

I pedaled with intention but let the motor give me full beans in turbo mode. The sizable hill up past our  local High School lay ahead. Normally, I would pop onto the sidewalk for this bit, but there were some kids walking down. As I zipped into view, it appeared as if these youths were marveling at my forward-thinkingness. They had stopped on the sidewalk and several in the group of girls were pointing at me. As it turns out, they were doubled over in hysterics laughing.

I was still rather proud to return home successfully with all goods accounted for. Instead of fearing further ridicule on the mean streets of Vestavia Hills, I found myself even more driven to get back out there. There would be a new goal that I hadn’t even considered initially - embarrassing the hell out of my family.

As weeks passed in splendor and I made short work of the first hundred miles, that idiot grin held steadfast. My radius of exploration expanded, as did the bulk items I attempted to transport (mulch day was next level). At the end of each day, I secretly delighted in Allison’s summary of who texted in to say they saw me, riding my bike, looking like a total goober. 

If you see me out there, wave and holler. And yes, I am having that much fun.

The Meat Waits for Nobody

Do you walk around with a constant sense of guilt, or is it just me? I don’t know if it’s attributed to my raising, genetics, or hearing the Old Testament read aloud too many times. If I have a bad day, I feel guilty for feeling bad. What reasons have I to be terrible? If life continually comes up roses, there’s this nagging voice saying that I’m winning only because someone else is losing. There is seemingly no guilt-free awesomeness to be had.  

In a first for us Chapmans, there are two shower heads in our master bath. When we initially moved in, it didn’t even dawn on me that the two could be pointed toward one person standing between them. I tried double blasting, and had a lovely time, but really felt it was too indulgent for daily use. So, only on Saturdays, I’ll treat myself to an awesome double shower. Then I’ll spend a few solemn moments thinking about all the folks in the world who have no access to clean, running water.

It should come as no surprise then that my lifelong infatuation with food has seen regular periods of introspection. My intake will start to feel overly indulgent and I’ll naturally want a  sweeping change in response. People around me will kindly play along as I attempt to appease my soul with yet another more thoughtful approach to eating. Fueled by the rallying cry of yet another documentary on our challenged foodways, I’ll make a declaration that things are changing henceforth. How can I ever go back knowing what I know now?

Prior to sharing meals with our children, Allison enthusiastically joined me in juicing after watching Fat, Sick & Nearly Dead. We gave middle fingers to processed foods for one or two meals a day. I would zoom my Mini Cooper down to Costco every week and spend four hundred dollars on crates of produce we could hopefully squeeze a few quarts from. Our kitchen was sticky all over. Flies abounded. Our growling tummies would interrupt the quiet tranquility of our pre-parental bliss while friends enjoyed their fun brunches. That $300 juicer was quickly offloaded. 

My attempts at plain old vegetarianism were much more sustainable. The first stint was motivated by a Netflix documentary showing all of us dum-dums how we’ve been poisoning ourselves this whole time with meat-based diets. The scene that still stays with me is a visual of how much better the blood flow is (allegedly) to one’s genitals at night without the added viscosity from all that animal fat.

Anyway, that’s all I needed. Sign me and little Chappy up. Every time I watched some poor soul engrossed in a greasy burger, my arteries just felt so flippin’ clean. I’d smugly ruminate on bland mouthfuls of vegetables knowing I was beautiful on the inside. Eyes of passing animals sparkled with gratitude as I enjoyed Chipotle burritos full of whatever a sofrita is. 

Next, it came to me that there is no better way to save the planet than by simply not eating meals. Call it intermittent fasting if you will, but it was really just a fancy way to say I skipped breakfast entirely. Unsure if it was really meant to be done every day, I persisted. I was too busy enjoying how pointy my cheeks looked on zoom calls. There was, however, the nagging problem of not getting enough calories to maintain an active lifestyle. What little butt I possessed nearly disappeared. I was tired and generally sad. My workouts lacked ambition.

In my most recent diet makeover, I decided to go pescatarian. I had to explain this to quite a few people from my high horse, so in case you don’t know that’s eating only fish as far as animals go. My reasoning being that I have indeed milked a cow, collected eggs, and caught seafood that I have then consumed. At no time have I personally slaughtered a cow, pig, goat, or chicken. Yet I have eaten thousands. That’s an out of balance equation in this head of mine. Instead of going on a barnyard killing spree, I decided to cook myself a healthy plate of fish instead of whatever the girls were getting each night. 

On the plus side, I did get much better at serving up tasty sea creatures. We usually only eat seafood in view of where it came from, at least since I ruined every type of fish you can think of in my early kitchen days. Don’t ever ask Allison about the time I tried slow smoking scallops. 

I had a decent run and made it three months as a pescatarian. But once again my will power faltered. For starters, we were spending an obscene pile of cash on something that invites rapid decay. 

Regardless of where I bought our seafood from (and how much I spent), there was always a persistent gamble on the fishy element crashing our dinner party. I tried all kinds of marinades, milk baths, defrosting protocols and preparations. But if there were two fillets, the one with a surprise bite of nasty was inevitably gonna end up on Allison’s plate. These moments did not serve to enhance my marriage. Before you could say microplastics, I saw where this was headed.

Some would say all of these were doomed operations from the start. After all, there’s a prominent sign hanging in my basement (Chappy’s Pub) featuring a flying pig and an inscription that reads “The Meat Waits for Nobody.” But rather than treat each experiment as a failure, I appreciate the perspectives they brought. The meat, and all of your food, should be savored and treated with dignity. The times of going without will help you relish those moments of plenty.

Change is hard, and it has gotten so tough to know if you are even making the right choices for your fellow earth inhabitants when browsing the supermarket. But I do know this: Taking a second to honor where your food comes from and its journey to the plate would help every single person. The mindless distance of modern living has fooled us into thinking we can have exactly what we want when we want it without consequence. Maybe there should be a tinge of guilt when those grapes from Peru spoil untouched in your refrigerator. 

It’s warming up outside. Throw some seeds in the dirt and grow your own food instead of relying on planes, trains and automobiles to bring it to you. Find a local farmer or rancher who will familiarize you with the good, local and seasonal stuff. If you only eat the choices of steaks, check out a butcher’s cut sheet and see how much cow is leftover. A little guilt and perspective might help us all to truly enjoy what we are blessed to have on our plates.

And if you are coming over for dinner, best be on time. The meat waits for nobody.

Call Up Your Dudes

I love being a guy. Just ask my wife, because I proclaim it all the time. Quick showers, urinals, girthy sandwiches. It’s a great way to live. But the flock of ladies in my house don’t seem dissatisfied with their lot in life either. Quite the contrary. And they share many a giggle at my stinky, hairy, and oafish expense.

One difference I’m regularly singled out for is being wholly deficient when it comes to feelings. Not for lack of trying. I’ve read multiple Brené Brown books, enjoyed a pedicure, and tried every confusingly labeled bottle my wife keeps in the shower. Still, my only improvement seems to be in the area of realizing when to shut it. Instead of digging further holes, I save my sound logic and perspective for a debrief much, much later. 

As our lives together have changed with the seasons, one thing my ladies have been consistently better at is friends. They are way more adept at maintaining long-lasting relationships and finding new buddies. But I’ve been wondering a lot lately if, as usual, I’m the weird one, or if this is a widespread dude challenge. 

So I started talking to guys. Once we had thrown back a few craft brews, compared smoked meat recipes, and established who could do the most push-ups, I’d casually ask about their circle of homies. I’d share my view on how connecting with other dudes, for me, had been a moving target since having kids. Heads nodded. Suspicions were confirmed, over and over again.

Simply put, we’re missing our bro time in a meaningful way. It’s not that we no longer like these people. The problem is that our grunts, farts, and physical comedy simply do not translate via a digital world. We’ve struggled to do much more than send text messages or holler at a friend on WhatsApp. The asynchronous ping pong of interacting with each other’s social media posts is far afield from looking a man in the eye and hearing how that Disney trip really went.

My buddy Fritz is the definition of an old soul. He wears analog watches, takes long walks with his dog, and slips casually into any setting. You will not find him staring into his phone. For years, Fritz has regularly called myself and others on the phone. It didn’t matter if you had another preferred medium. He wanted to hear your actual voice and catch up. If you attempted to move the conversation to text, he once again called you in response. Genius move now that I think about it.

I remember gatherings where all of us tech-enlightened bros would corner him and try to talk some sense into the guy. Embrace the future, for crying out loud! This would only spur him on with more calls, along with occasional voicemails to lovingly poke the bear. After being on the other side for many years, my idiot self finally connected the dots between having regular, meaningful conversations and having a better outlook on life.

Because of Fritz, I’ve started prioritizing longer catch-ups. I’m also getting those lunches on the calendar that were never followed through with. Whatever we want to call this trend of asynchronous chatter, I pledge to put it in its place. If a bot could do it, then what’s the point?

There’s also room for more dudes. Oh, I’ve definitely joked that I don’t need any more friends, but that’s frankly asinine. Macho fabrication. If the Chapman girls have taught me anything, it’s that having a myriad of acquaintances you can share hobbies, and interests, or just an occasional back porch with can be cathartic. 

I’m not ashamed to admit that I can do better. You probably can too. Call your dudes and your lady dudes. Quit settling for emoji responses and holler at your peeps.

A Sense of Purpose

Unless we are out of town, you’ll probably find me teaching class on Sunday morning. I volunteered to fill in five years ago and got hooked on having a regular audience. At first I was positively terrified. Getting a room of adults to find interest in and discuss the same old book they’ve been reading since childhood is not always the easiest. I’m no stranger to thousand-yard stares that may or may not be battling the after-effects of a late Saturday night. We are Methodists after all.

After literally sweating through many awkward moments of silence in the early days, I realized that the necessary skill inherently was not in communicating new information. Talk at people long enough and you lose them. The key to success was asking the right questions so folks would open up and explore the topic. People love to talk about themselves. Sharing is therapeutic. I love talking about myself so much that I’ve typed it all out for you to read.

Through our time together, I’ve grown more comfortable asking the tougher questions to my class. They have stuck with me through surprise meditation sessions, optimistic reading assignments, and even a four-part series involving Kathy Lee Gifford. Admittedly, a few visitors have not returned. 

On a recent Sunday, I challenged our group with a question that my 7-year-old had laid on me just days before while walking into a Milo’s. While my mind had been doing the math on how many extra sauces would be required, Libby so casually inquired “Daddy, what is our purpose in life?

Needless to say, I was not ready for this. A mere twenty steps from ordering cheeseburgers and my kid turns into Aristotle. It felt like one of those moments I didn’t want to sear improperly into their beautiful heads, so I sputtered for a second then asked to reconvene later at a less beefy establishment. 

Then naturally, I forgot until Sunday when I realized I could once again saddle the class with my personal challenges. What did they think was their purpose for being on this planet?

With little hesitation, my buddy Steve broke the silence and piped up. “You know, it’s funny you ask, because I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately too. Here it goes.” 

…

My paternal grandfather died at the age of 48. It’s an unspoken rule in our family that you don’t get too certain about one's future. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. This hits harder each day, as my forties seemingly pick up speed. I recall my father and uncle being this age - having a crazy look in their eyes while chasing tornadoes and playing chicken on jet skis. 

Since I was only four when my grandfather passed, my mental image of him has been slowly reconstructed through the relics and stories that live on. Judging by these alone, one can only picture a full and amazing life. In storage behind the underground home he built, I would stumble across the wildest stuff. It was par for the course to find a parachute, an antique crossbow, race car parts, a suitcase full of knives or something equally awesome. The stories that inevitably followed would be told through a smile, and always included a chuckle. 

With a keen eye, you begin to see his sense of humor woven through everything. There’s a  treasured photo of my grandparents as young sweethearts. It’s the quintessential fifties scene, two young lovers holding hands on a swing set, keeping their chastely distance. But when viewed at close range, you’ll see that there is a pair of painties hanging in the foreground of the picture. The story goes that Ed found them in the woods, but in either case, I’ve spent hours upon hours laughing at his artful execution.

And that brings me to the point.

Steve told us that, in this phase of life, his purpose is to do everything he can to facilitate a happy and safe family. Simple as that. He has career ambitions, hobbies and cooks excellent desserts, but the thing that matters most above all else is delivering the next generation to adulthood with good heads on their shoulders. 

I enjoyed hearing this perspective. It was refreshing and frankly pretty badass for a dude to say that out loud. We go through seasons that ask different things of us, but the foundational requirements are generally the same. You can’t fake being a good father just like you can’t fake happiness. Working for the benefit of something larger than yourself, and doing so in the right spirit, inherently helps you understand your own why.

Being honest, I totally punted that day at Milo’s. I promised my little ladies that we would discuss Libby’s question in an environment less beefy. It felt like one of those moments I didn’t want seared improperly into their beautiful heads. I started by admitting to them that I can’t tell them their exact purpose, but that I’d be happy to share mine and maybe that would help.

The last eight months have been a rollercoaster of freedom and fulfillment, but hanging over all of it has been a heaping pile of guilt. I’ve been so fortunate to have this opportunity to figure myself out a bit. Until recently, it was hard to shake the thought that this whole thing is entirely selfish. Each day not spent toiling away at a profitable or hugely impactful enterprise was seemingly wasted. But Steve’s insight helped put things in perspective. What if instead of trying to wrangle some complicated existential meaning from life, I simply live it the best way I know how?

It surely isn’t a coincidence that everything that puts a smile on my face also tends to involve trying to put one on others. Teaching, cooking, throwing parties, playing music, writing stories about how dumb I am - it doesn’t take a thorough psychoanalysis to see what gets me going. For better or worse, I feel like I was put here to show people how fun and funny life can be. Taking things too seriously makes Chappy a dull boy. Besides, I genuinely love being in a place where the bad days at least make for great stories.

So much worry over the last ten years has been devoted to doing all the right things for my kids, as if there are boxes to check. That all felt pretty hollow in moments when their concerned faces wanted to know why I rarely smiled for a long time. What my children (and I would argue all humans) really want is to be around people who are enjoying life. I’d rather be the one dancing like an idiot, hosting tricycle races and pushing the boundaries of sandwich innovation. I’m here to show y’all a good time. That’s my purpose.

“If you are happy, all of us will profit from it. All living beings will profit from it.” -Thich Nhat Hanh