Tear Brusher

Best 5 Bucks Ever Spent

Warren Buffett has nothin’ on my young son Tyler. He’s a highly focused and relentless negotiator who won’t quit till he closes the deal and gets what he wants. He won’t hesitate to utilize every weapon, including noise, tears and guilt. That was the case on a recent trek to town.

We were headed for Walmart to buy cut-rate Goldfish Crackers and a few essential items for the house and then planned to hit a movie before dinner. All good, right?

Well, seems Tyler had a different strategy for the trip. There was $15 in leftover birthday money packed in his blue and red Spiderman wallet. Lots of dough for a little guy, but apparently five bucks short of his desired treasure—Playstation’s video game, “Bolt.”

“Dad, I need five more dollars to buy Bolt,” he said.

“Keep up your chores, save your money and you might have enough soon.”

“Can I give you my allowance next week?”

I smiled at Tyler’s savvy attempt to leverage my money to help purchase his investment. “Sorry Bud,” I replied. You need to have all the dough first. Save up for a few weeks.”

“Come on Dad, it’s only five bucks. I promise to pay it back.”

Okay, I was about to spend money on crackers shaped like cartoon fish, and five dollars is not so much these days, but there was a chance to teach my son a lesson on money management.

“Sorry Tyler, no.”

“That’s not fair! You always give Sis what she wants.”

“No, I don’t, and the answer is still no. You’ll have to save up, or you can buy something different.”

“I don’t really want to see a movie. Can we use that money?”

“No, we cannot. Stop bugging me about it, okay?”

Tyler entered that 10-year-old world of self-pity and eagle-eye stares toward his ever so cruel father. The hum of the engine was quickly overwhelmed by the growing silence of my wronged boy. On I drove.

Soon we reached the intersection which led to the snarled entryway of Walmart. I love that, no matter who you are—once inside, all class distinction evaporates. Whether you come from a castle on the hill, home in the ‘burbs or under the bridge, you have reached a level field. We all push through the same narrow aisles with dueling carts and then have to wait in line with everyone else. No one is spared the pain.

I navigated the right turn and began the slow troll to parking hell. As often is the case, a destitute man was standing at the corner, holding a sign, which read, “PLEASE HELP. NEED FOOD.”

I’ve become somewhat accustomed to that scene and usually avoid eye contact. You never know if they are starving or just looking for easy money. Right?

This time was different.

Here was a man in his early 20s with the saddest and hungriest look I’d ever seen. His brown eyes were swollen, as if he’d been crying, yet through that lonely and sallow face, he emitted a faraway smile–as if to suggest a pride of sorts. He wore dirty jeans, blue canvas boat shoes and a designer dress shirt that had seen better days. His blonde hair was relatively short, though unkempt and he sported a shell necklace around a spindly neck. Nothing extraordinary, typical street corner homeless guy.

Except for a few things.

He would not look up. This young man was clearly uncomfortable asking for money. He just held up the sign and kept his head down, as car after car passed by. He made it easy for them–no eye contact–no obligation. He was also on the wrong side of the road, which would require a driver to stop and then lean over and out the passenger window to give him money. This was not your seasoned down and outer.

As I braked to a stop, I thought of my oldest son, Ric, who is 22. He and I also spent a store trip or two debating whether he could buy the newest toy with money he did not have. He would often use his brother Nathan, three years younger, to be his wingman.

Ultimately though, Ric drifted away. He was a rebellious sort who tended to navigate toward the wrong friends. He also split his time between two homes, and it was easy to ignore the calls for help.

A few years ago, he started to get in trouble with the law. He joined a gang and became addicted to street drugs. Now, he only calls when he wants money for more of those drugs. I’ve always been counseled to say no, as it will just enable him to continue the lifestyle. He has since learned to say that he’s hungry, which gets me every time. Often times I let the phone ring–my new learned technique of avoidance, which makes it a little easier. So many nights I’ve tossed and turned thinking about him going to sleep cold and hungry, though he now has a bed and three squares a day with his current six-month jail sentence. My stress now lies on what will occur when he’s released.

“Tyler, I want you to hand this guy something,” I said, while I rolled down the window and pulled out my wallet.

Tyler straightened up and looked out nervously. “Uh, okay Dad.”

I passed him five one-dollar bills. Tyler and I made eye contact, and then I motioned my head towards the slowly approaching fellow. Tyler looked over at him and then again at me. My wink signaled it was okay to hand the money over. He tentatively put his hand through the open window, as if feeding a wild tiger.

“Thank you,” said the young man rather awkwardly, as he grabbed the bills. I waved and then started to pull forward, when he put his hands up, still clutching the flapping money. The impatient drivers behind me scowled, but I stopped anyway. He moved in closer to the car until his chin touched the partly rolled up window, forming a dramatic frame that again exposed a lost and scared man-child. He stared into Tyler’s eyes, and my son was transfixed. He extended his right hand to Tyler, who looked over to me for approval. I nodded, and he turned back, put his own hand out there and then exchanged one of those nouveau-sic handshake/fist bumps that I can never figure out.

“I’m Phil,” said the man, as he awkwardly grabbed the bills. He then pursued his lips until a boyish grin took over. “My kid can eat tonight. Thanks, Bud.”

Tyler was wide-eyed as Phil turned to walk back to his spot on the sidewalk. To the relief of the line of cars now behind us, we drove forward. I yelled out, “Maybe you should go to the other side of the road. More people would stop!”

I don’t know if he heard, but I suspect this would not be his primary means to make a living in the future. A glance in the rear-view mirror showed a young woman, bundled in a raggedy serape, walking towards him. She was holding a small child, who seemed to be asleep.

We drove on.

I found a parking space fairly close to the entry and pulled in. For a moment we sat in silence.

“What did you think about that Tyler?”

“Good. He was hungry.”

“What do you think of me giving him the five dollars that would help you buy Bolt?”

“Oh yeah. Um…well he needed it worse. I think it’s good.”

We climbed out of the car and walked toward the store.


“Yeah Tyler?”

“Are you sure I can’t buy Bolt today?”

“Yes Tyler, I’m sure.”

I waited for the expected, “But Dad, you gave money to that guy. Why can’t I have some?”

It never happened. Instead, we finished shopping, watched our movie and had a great evening. Tyler decided to save his money for another day.

That was three weeks ago. Since then, Tyler is back to inventing new ways to separate me from my cash. Yesterday though, I overheard him brag to his sister, “We gave a man some money, and he fed his baby with it.

“That’s cool,” replied 11-year-old Taylor, while she continued to read her e-mail.

I gazed at my two youngest for a moment and smiled. I felt so lucky to have these next years to teach, protect and fight for them. I became lost in the moment until the ring of the phone jarred me out of it.

“You have a collect call from an inmate at West County Detention Center.”

“Ric,” spoke my boy, as he followed the operator’s instructions to say his name.

“If you wish to accept, dial one.”

“Hello son, how are you,” I said quietly. “I miss you so much.”

I wiped my eyes and waited to hear the sounds of a young boy asking for a few bucks to buy a Nintendo-64 game. Instead, amidst the roaring background of fellow inmates and loud TV noise, my son simply said, “I miss you too Dad. Wish we were together right now.”

I wiped my eyes again and sniffled. “I’ve never left you, Ric.”

To myself, I thought he has never really left me either.

“Dad?” he asked in a familiar tone.

“Yeah Ric?”

“Do you think you could put a few bucks in my account. I need shoes, and they never give me enough to eat.”

“I’ll put it in tonight. You sleep good now. I love you.”

You never know–err on the side of humanity…

“Love you too Dad. Goodnight.”

And so, the lessons go.

Note: Names have been changed, but yes, this happened…

One Night in Paradise

Flames, smoke and mass destruction don’t hold a candle to the life that passed by here…

There is only a sliver of moon this Friday night. Though stars twinkle wildly overhead, it’s quite dark. The rhythm of chirping crickets competes with an occasional owl and the lonely bark of a far off dog. Just now a plane has flown past and I wonder where it’s headed. I sit alone on the back deck–and gaze at the brightest, warmest sunshine I’ve ever laid eyes on.

What? Sunshine on a dark night?

Skip back to Father’s Day and the big secret my kids tried to keep from me. I’m a single dad and my deck and yard are, let’s say–a little plain and bare. 12-year-old Mikala has lamented more than once about the lack of luster in my outdoor space. Always, I respond with, “I’ll get to it soon Hon.” …not yet have I done so.

All week before the big day, a shroud of secrecy fills the house. Mikala calls her mother from closed doors–whispering pleas to borrow money and work it off in chores. 11-year-old Nick was the decoy–kept me busy with video games, checkers and tossing the football around.

The Saturday before Father’s Day, I was scheduled out of town, so the kids stayed with Mom. Of course Mikala has a key, so she can come and go anytime she pleases, so long as Mom drives her.

I arrive home at 9:00 Saturday night and there are specific instructions handwritten on a piece of lined notebook paper, taped to the front door. It says, “Do not go out back till you call us and we come over.”

“Hmmm…” I wonder. “What are they up to?”

Not one to be the spoiler, I call Mikala and ask what is up. “We’re coming over right now,” she says. “Don’t go outside, okay Dad?”

“All right Sis,” I reply.

Yes, I am curious now.

20 minutes later, I hear the car pull up and they pile out–each with an overnight bag. Though it was not my scheduled weekend, I planned to spend Sunday with them, so didn’t think much of it. Mom waved goodbye and drove off.

“Cover your eyes Dad,” Nick and Mikala said at the same time, as they rushed through the front door.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Just cover your eyes and come outside with us,” said Mikala.

I let them take my arms as I was blindly led toward the back slider door.

“Keep your eyes closed Dad.”

They let go of my arms amidst the sound of opening drapes –much rougher than I’m comfortable with, but what could I do? Next the latch clicked and the slider made it’s familiar sound, while gliding open on its track. Each of them grabbed a hand and I was led outside to the crisp night air.

“You can open your eyes now Dad!”

Wow! In its own way, I found the sight akin to “Wizard of Oz,” when Dorothy walked outside her fallen Kansas house and the world turned from black and white to color. I was in parental awe.

Above me hung a neat row of large green, red and yellow paper lanterns, while strung over the railing were more of the same in miniature, which also contained tiny bright lights for illumination. The end of the rope led to a bright orange outdoor extension cord, which in this context, seemed absolutely perfect and charming. Hanging from the branches of the fir tree closest to the deck was a hummingbird feeder and also a seed block. Strung to some of the other branches hung a dressing of red, blue and green banners. Three small battery-operated stand-up lanterns sat along the top of my old wood deck. In the midst of it all was a handmade birdhouse that Nick and I had built several years ago on a rainy day. Last time I recall, it was at the bottom of a stack of old and unused toys.

One item stood out though. Attached to the side of the railing, with a single bent nail, was a red, gold and white, smiling metal sunshine. I recognized it from the clearance rack at the hardware store. Both Nick and Mikala had eyeballed it previously and I told them at the time we didn’t need more junk at the house. And now, here it was, hammered up with all the love and pride of their young spirits.

I glanced at the two of them as they gauged my reaction. After a few moments spent examining and complimenting in sighs and wows, I finally spoke.

“I love it. But I can’t believe you did this for me. My back porch looks so cool. I want everyone in the world to see.”

Never had I seen such full and bright smiles. “Do you really like it Daddy?” asked Mikala. “You have such a boring back yard and we wanted to fix it up.”

“Of course, I love it sweetie,” I replied. “I’m just so amazed you did this for me.”

Nick spoke; “We want you to think of us when we’re not here.”

“That’s why we picked the sun,” piped in Mikala. “You used to sing ‘You Are My Sunshine’ when we were little and now it will always be there, even when it rains.”

Generally I’m a tough guy when it comes to sentimental stuff, but that hit me between the eyes. “Come here guys,” I said. “Give your old man a big hug.”

With that my 11 and 12-year-old kids came to me and buried themselves in my outstretched embrace. I didn’t want to let go, and did not, till I was able to get my “tough Dad demeanor” back.

I know my youngest are getting to the edge of that ultimate break away, so these moments are rare and quite special. The older they get, the more I appreciate and savor the glimpses of innocence. I don’t know if they will remember the times and surely realize the emotion is within me, but perhaps one day, when their own kids work so hard to make a special place for them, it will come back and flood their hearts with a wave of this same bright sunshine.

I am a lucky man indeed.

Originally posted in 2009… and dedicated to Byron and beautiful Merrie Lynn –for whom the sun always shines…