Where The Red Fern Grows

We lost a family member over the weekend.

Biscuit, the Meissner's little dog, passed away. I got the news after coming home from church, and it was like a kick in the stomach. Biscuit was about as long as my arm from the elbow to the tip of my fingers, and I couldn't tell you what his eyes looked like because he was covered in mostly beautiful black hair all the time -- except the times he got caught out the briars, or in the sticky mouse traps. Wasn't quite as beautiful then.

Nona, Monty and the kids are taking it pretty hard. Even Coby and Melody were moping around the house a little bit Sunday. We don't have a dog, of course, but it almost felt like Biscuit was one of ours -- we'd take care of him when Nona and Monty would go out of town, feeding him and letting him out to do whatever it is dogs do in their spare time. When you spend that time of quality time with someone -- even a dog -- well, doggone it, you do get very attached.

That's part of the reason why I really don't mind not having a pet around the house. I've got three kids -- that's enough to worry about. A dog or cat is like another child in the house, really. It's times like these that you really understand just how important a pet can be in your family, because it really does feel like a family member has died here in the 'Ville.

I don't watch pet movies anymore, or I try not to. The majority of them end up the same way, meaning the dog dies. As a little kid I remember bawling my eyes out on the couch watching a movie called "Where The Red Fern Grows," which basically ends with these two dogs -- I think they were brothers -- end up dying and a red fern grows up at the gravesite. I can't remember much about the story, actually, because like I said I'll never watch it again. Way too sad.

I'm also reminded of a time when I was probably 15 or so, when we had a little mutt around the house named Rocky. Rocky was some sort of terrier I think, but he had a severe wild streak in him. That means he never missed a chance to scoot past you and outside when the slightest crack appeared in the doorway. When that happened, naturally, I was the one who got yelled at and told to go get the dog, who was by then running roughshod all over the neighborhood.

I will never forget the day I was down the street playing wiffleball and I heard the yelling come from the house -- "David, Rocky's out!" I, of course being locked into the ballgame and needing a couple of runs at a key moment, blared out loud -- "I don't care! I hope the stupid dog is run over!"

You guessed it. Five minutes later I hear the screech of tires on the street. Rocky had run in front of a car and that was it.

My whole family mourned. Not just hours or days, but it seemed like weeks. I, of course, had to carry the guilt of my last words about my dog. For me it was much longer -- to this day I get choked up about it sometimes. It was grief, real, heartbreaking grief.

Pets do become a part of our lives. Dogs, for some reason, always seem to be very special. We've had cats leave us before and it never quite had the same effect. But there's just something about losing our "best friend..."

Maybe that's it. Maybe because a dog will actually love you and spend time with you, and not really ask for anything in return no matter how badly you might treat him sometimes. For whatever reason, we get close to them and before you know it -- almost subconsciously -- they are as much a part of our lives as, well, another child.

We will miss Biscuit. I'm sure there will be other dogs around the Meissner house someday, and we'll all grow to love that dog too. But there won't ever be another Biscuit.

RIP little fella.

Easter

Just got these photos from Lauren, taken at IBC's Easter Egg Hunt last month. We've got a great looking bunch of kids!

Great Day for Baseball, Let's Play FOUR!

THA Stix, front row L-R: Colin Waddington, Jackson Gore, Ty "Bone" Meissner, Landry Sheridan, Colton Oberthier. Middle row, L-R: Ty Wall, Coby Weaver, Curt Wells, Bryton Thomas and Justin Slaten. Back row, coaches: Monty Meissner, Chris Oberthier, David Weaver and Phillip Thomas.

Spent the entire day Sunday in Grand Prairie, Texas, watching baseball. A lot of it.

Coby's select baseball team, the THA Stix, returned to the diamond this weekend after not having really played much at all since spring break over a month ago. The rust showed on Saturday, as we lost both games in pool play on all of six hits -- for the day.

Coby did show out, though. He pulled out a new Demarini bat over the weekend and broke the stick in pretty good, with three of the team's six hits Saturday including one that left the yard. I, of course, was still 150 miles away working, but Aunt Nona and Uncle "Coach" Monty did a great job of keeping us informed as usual as well as letting Coby bunk with them Saturday night.

But losing both games in pool play of a national-qualifying tournament is not exactly how you want to start out in Sunday's single-elimination bracket. Out of nine teams this weekend we were seeded eighth because of Saturday's losses. That meant we had to play the No. 9 team, the Dallas Mustangs, bright and early on a cold, windy morning.

Coby ripped a double in his first at-bat, off the fence in right-center. He reached base every at-bat and the Stix won 9-1. That put us in the second round against the No. 1 seed, a team from Texarkana, the "Outlaws," who'd beaten us 8-6 Saturday.

Our team's name is "Stix" for a reason. When our kids are on we can absolutely punish a baseball. Getting them on is sometimes the hardest part, however, and that's when we struggle.

Starting at noon Sunday against the Outlaws, we were on.

We scored eight runs in the top of the first before making an out. By that time an Outlaws coach had been tossed and every ounce of available momentum was in our dugout. Whatever might have been left was gone when our big lefty took the mound in the bottom of the first.

That's Coby, by the way. I of course will forever be the most biased person in the world when it comes to him, but by all accounts he is as special as a 10-year-old can be on the mound. We have put the radar gun on him and he's pumped it up into the mid-60s, and whe we do call a changeup occasionally, he can drop that down to the low-40 range. In baseball terms, that's what you call "filthy."

I started taking Coby to a private pitching coach, Mark Bayliss, when Coby was seven years old. At that time he was starting to grow a little bit, and you could see signs that he was going to be a fairly good athlete overall. He was also left-handed athletically, although he does everything else with his right hand. Don't know what that means other than that's just the way he's always been.

Mark does a great job working with kids, especially pitchers. From day one he and Coby have worked tirelessly at getting better every session they have. No pressure, just get better every day and don't make the same mistake twice.

If there is a key moment in a game, or we are playing a top team in a tournament, Coby most likely will get the baseball. The Stix qualified for the Super Series World Series in Memphis last year and Coby was named All-Tournament, along with a handful of his teammates. Facing elimination against a team that had already beaten us earlier in the week, we scratched out a slim lead in the last inning and sent him to the mound. Tired, worn out and not wanting to go home yet, he buzzed nine fastballs by three overmatched hitters and we won the game to send us in to the Final Four. I will never forget that night. I am proud of him every day for the little things, but stuff like that night in Memphis a dad never, ever forgets.

The next day we tried to get another inning out of him. He gave us two outs and then I noticed a weird look on his face. His Uncle Monty is also very keenly aware of what to watch for when Coby is on the mound, and he didn't like the look either. Monty went out and talked with him and that was it -- Coby came off the field because his left arm just couldn't take any more that week. No injury, just plain worn out. His dad had tears in his eyes that day, too, because I could see the pain he was feeling. But I was also proud of him in another respect, because I saw in him that day what makes all great players of any age great -- the drive to compete.

Because of what I've seen over the last couple of years I do not question Coby's heart, competitiveness or toughness. He may have a bad outing, and that's okay, but I as his dad and coach will never question his will to compete and win. If he never throws another pitch again, I know that he's growing up and that's the most important thing.

Now, back to Sunday -- leading 8-0 in a game we really wanted to win for a lot of reasons, we gave the ball to our ace and let him take the mound. Minutes later we were back in the dugout, ready to hit again because Coby struck out the side on nothing but fastballs. I reminded him in the dugout before the inning started that his job was to go out there and shut the door, not give the other team life. He glared at me with those competitive eyes he gets on game day and nodded his head silently. No more words were necessary.

The Outlaws scratched a couple of runs in the middle innings but by then we were up 17-2. We pulled Coby after four innings and of the 12 outs he'd recorded, 10 were via strikeout. His pitch count was down, and we had a couple of more innings we could use him in the tournament, so we went ahead and got him out of there with the big lead.

That win put us in the semifinals, against the Texas Reds. Our bats were smoking again and we scored 10 in the first inning on the way to a 19-3 win. That put us in the championship game againt the Dallas Colts.

We scored four first-inning runs against a very solid, scrappy Colts team. But as bad as Saturday had been, Sunday was just our day. Curt Wells gave us four shutdown innings to start the game, and we had Coby to close out the final two. He had a blister come up on his finger in warmups and his location wasn't exactly what it needed to be, and the Colts put enough balls in play to get within 9-6. But when push came to shove, Coby shut the door and struck out the final hitter to give the Stix our first championship of the spring.

That qualifies us for the national tournament in Southhaven, Miss., in July. We had a blast last year at the one in Memphis and it'll be a nice family vacation.

Coby and I got back Sunday night around 11 or so, and he slept the final hour in the car. Completely worn out. Can't say I blame him, but the trophy always makes things a little easier.

Pum Bah

Our near-16-month-old daughter Abigail has begun to develop her own little communication skills.

She's been pumping out the easy stuff like "bawwl" or "mom-ma" or "mel-mel" or even a few "dah-dy"s for a few months now. Everything else is either a cry, a grunt or a point, usually. But she's getting her message across.

Abby's been visiting Regina's (our sister-in-law) sister Sandra since the fall, usually on Tuesdays and Thursdays while Jeannie works during the day. "San-san" swears Abby's been talking to her since day one, and we are now beginning to see the results of those conversations around our house.

I think it was last week at Aunt Donnis' that we got a huge revelation in terms of our youngest child's communication skills. Namely, the skills that tell you she's paying attention to a lot more than you give credit for a one-year-old toddler.

She has picked up the word "Pum Bah."

Actually not even sure that's a word, really. But we all know what it means.

Spongebob.

Abby saw a picture of Spongebob Squarepants and immediately recognized it. Donnis was all excited and happy, enough to pass the info on to Jeannie. "Really? Yeah, right," was my reaction when I received the news myself.

So we tested. Coby retrieved his Spongebob video game and we threw it in front of Abby's face one day, pointing and asking what really sounds like a dumb question: "Abby, who is this?"

She gave us the blank stare. Not even so much as a grunt. Maybe a little grin, but nothing more than she gave when she had gas bubbles in her tummy.

The Spongebob discovery was very unbelievable at that point.

But then it happened, out of the blue the other night. We were having a hard time getting her to go to sleep, which creates a lot of tension around the house. Jeannie was in the shower, trying to shake off said tension, while mine was building as I was left to care for the one-year-old with sudden insomnia.

After a few minutes of tickling and playing, Abby was getting cranky. I was running out of options. So I turned to the only card I had left to play -- the television. I searched the guide and none of Abby's favorites was available, so I found the only cartoon I could find that was on at 10 o'clock.

Spongebob Squarepants, on Nickelodeon.

And I kid you not, I finally heard it. First a baby chuckle, then "Pum Bah." I even got the point toward the TV set. And there it was, her first non-family-member recognition. Pum Bah.

All our kids have grown up with Pum Bah, apparently. Abby makes it three for three. I can't complain, I guess. I grew up with Scooby Doo and the Justice League. Now it's a little sponge guy living underwater in a place they call Bikini Bottom with a best friend who's a starfish and a pet snail named Gary.

Zoiks.

No Pain No Gain

Since Jan. 2 Jeannie and I have been involved with a group of people from church committed to losing weight and becoming healthier. Our inspiration comes from the hit TV show on NBC, "Biggest Loser," which is what we have affectionately dubbed our group.

Originally the competition was to be a three-month marathon of dieting, exercise, and waking up every Monday morning knowing the scale wouldn't lie. We had 11 couples join the group and Jeannie and I ended up third overall in total percent of pounds lost since Jan. 2. Overall she and I combined to lose 44 pounds -- 24ish by me and another 20ish for her. Not bad... not bad at all.

Considering I pretty much stopped trying to shed pounds about halfway through, that's REALLY good, actually. By the grace of God alone I lost a quarter of a hundred pounds.

March 31 was the deadline day to end the contest, but the idea began to pick up steam over the last couple of months and some of us have decided to continue on through June. I reluctantly agreed at the last minute -- partly because there's going to be a prize at the end, and mostly because my wife threatened me. The bottom line is I am still in the business of losing the excess body baggage I've accumulated since I pretty much shut down my physical activity about a decade ago.

Last week, of course, was the first week of the new competition and again the mood didn't really strike me at the beginning to the week. Jeannie has become an exercise junkie -- she's doing some weightlifting, aerobic-type workouts consistently... she even participated in a 5K run last weekend. I never thought I would live to see the day my wife ran a 5K -- not because of anything else other than she's just not that type of gal. But she for sure ran it, proudly.

Maybe that was the inspiration I needed. I finally got in a groove driving home from work on Friday and within 15 minutes of getting home I was in shorts and a jacket with IPod in tow. Our neighborhood, luckily, is almost perfectly in the shape of a walking track, so it provides a nice exercise opportunity when you get the urge to do so.

I had that urge. About 2 1/4 laps around the neighborhood is a mile. I know, I've driven it to check. I pushed it to about six laps (counting one lap as a warmup), and felt better than I have in weeks.

Saturday, before going to work in the early afternoon, I felt the urge again and walked. I added another lap. Everything seemed fine until about halfway through the sixth lap.

I like to make the joke that I've never cramped in my life because fat doesn't cramp. Other than an occasional visit from Mr. Charlie Horse in the middle of the night, I haven't been able to feel an actual muscle in my body in 20 years. But toward the end of that sixth lap Saturday, I felt tightness behind my right knee that quickly extended upward to behind the thigh.

I've been around athletes enough to know what that means. Very briefly, I felt a surge of accomplishment -- I had finally proven that I indeed did have a hamstring!!! But just as quickly, that newly-discovered hammy began to tighten like a rope around the bull at the rodeo.

It began to buck like the bull, too. And it hurt. Not wanting to miss out on my goal of seven laps, I pushed through as best as I could and eventually made it around. But the seventh lap was an exercise in nothing but pain.

The leg continued to cramp the rest of the day off and on. It finally settled down Saturday night when I was able to really sit down and just rest for a little while... and after I'd taken about 20 Tylenol. Tylenol is such a great thing, you know. I've grown to love it even more as the years have crept by.

I am proud to say that I got back on the horse Sunday and managed another four laps. I felt twinges of tightness in the hammy, but made it through without incident. Showered, changed, made it to church on time -- I made the comment to Jeannie on the way to church that I loved that feeling that comes at the end of the workout, when you know you've accomplished something physically, and you hit the shower and feel like a brand new man afterwards.

That's the gain part of the pain. I was somewhat rewarded this morning when I stepped on the scale for the weekly weigh-in and discovered I'd lost three pounds. Considering that most of that probably came in the last couple of days when I recommitted myself to working out, I'll take it.

But my goal is, I want to double the 24 I lost the first time around. That's 48. Now I got 45 left. And at least one functioning hamstring. I like them odds!!

The Sweet Taste Of Victory

Melody made her softball debut tonight and by all accounts, she's now a superstar.

Two at-bats, two ropes to the outfield, three runs batted in, two runs scored -- and a flawless defensive performance at first base. By my count she was the only player on either team to hit the ball into the outfield grass all night, and she did it TWICE.

As always, of course, the most important thing was that her TEAM won the game. 11-10, on a bases loaded walk in the final inning. A walk-off walk, and hello win column.

She also was very proud of her attire, as most girls have to be. I mentioned the new batting helmet earlier, and she was fully decked out in pink shirt with black shorts and a pink visor with "#8 Melody" along the side. She was also sporting a brand-spanking new pink and black bat bag courtesy of Aunt Donnis. It's a magical bag, apparently, because she's never made an out with it in the dugout.

I think she feels good about her softball career now. Nine more games to go and she's already fired up and saying she wants to play forever. Or at least until her birthday in November -- those are her words, not mine.

I thought, wow, that's like a whole major league season. Where's the contract??

Cast of Characters

For the most part, here are the main characters of this blog. There are certainly some Oscar candidates involved.

Me: I hope to never make achieve the status of lead actor in this group, more of actor in a supporting role. Even though I am the patriarch of the clan, make no mistake, I have zero pull in the group. I've learned a lot of things as a husband the last 14 years, eight months and 26ish days -- if the lady ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

I fancy myself a writer by trade. I just get paid by ETBU. I drive the oldest surviving pickup truck known to man; it's a daily prayer just making it back and forth to work. But it's paid for. That discussion stops there.

I love spending time with my kids. Don't get to do much of that this time of year, but it's a joy nonetheless. I believe the only way kids in general know they have a father is if that father is actually around. Sometimes I hit, sometimes I miss. But I think they realize I'm swinging for the fence every time.

Jeannie (wife, mother, musician, personal trainer): Jeannie is, well, I'll save all the really gooey stuff for a Valentine's Day post. I think I can say it best by saying she's my best friend, and fortunately I have lots of friends. I've made a lot of dumb decisions in my life, but marrying her is nowhere on the list. She's had to put up with a lot of the results of those decisions sometimes, but she does. That's love right there. She's the rock of the household. I'm more of the mud.

Coby (son, brother, ace pitcher, .290 hitter, piano player, spelling bee champ, heir to the empire): A million men might deny it, but they would be a million liars. We all want a son to call our own. And forgive me for the bias, but God blessed me with the best outside of His Own. We don't go out of our way to mention it to anyone, but Jeannie and I know Coby is the perfect kid. Firstborn, so that makes him special always. Only son, that's his own little niche there. But for the first 10 years of his life, he's developed this amazing habit/ability/penchant for succeeding at every thing he does. That's a pretty good track record for 10 years.

Example: we've been playing baseball for 10 years around our house. When the first word out of your child's mouth is "ball," well, you pretty much steer him that way. Coby plays on a traveling team out of East Texas, the THA Stix (THA stands for Thomas Hitting Academy). I'm not going to say he's a natural, but we work extremely hard and most of the time it pays off on the field. More about all that in coming posts.

This past year we switched gears and played a little basketball. Coby had never played organized basketball in his life, and I wasn't quite sure he even knew how to dribble. At first it was very awkward and humbling, nothing like baseball. But two months later, my son led his team to an upset in the league championship game -- scoring buckets, draining jumpers, dishing dimes and being lights out at the free throw line. And another proud papa in the stands.

Melody (oldest daughter, piano playa, violinist, voice like an angel, attitude to match, first-year softballer): Mel-mel. For those who don't know, that's not her real name. It stands for Melody, a name Jeannie and I fell in love with and just kind of seemed a natural fit on Nov. 10, 1998.

The Lord was working through us back then, because Mel-mel is a talented little girl with music. Just like her mama. Only one problem exists -- she doesn't always like to show it. Part of that is just shyness, believe it or not, and part of it is just being stubborn (see above "attitude to match" description).

We are working on entering the athletic field with her this year, and I have to say I'm quite impressed with her athletic ability. Very raw, and the stubborn part is still very much evident, but I think she'll find a way to get it done. She came home from school yesterday wearing a brand-new batting helmet -- pink with black stripes -- that Jeannie had bought earlier in the day. Season opener is tonight for SWAT (Softball With Attitude).

Abigail (baby, youngest and last child, Mickey Mouse fan, babysitter's dream): Our youngest child, born Dec. 28, 2006, is very lucky. She is the baby in a family full of mid-size children and aging adults who simply love her. There are a couple of cousins in faraway places who share her infant/toddler status, but she's the only one within an eight-hour driving distance.

Yes, there's eight-plus years between Mel-mel and Abby. Imagine what that kind of layoff can do to a dad. Or mom, for that matter. Although I think moms are bred for that sort of thing, everything comes much more naturally for them. I was completely out of practice when it came to changing diapers, mixing formula, geez, just preparing a diaper bag.

But we made it through the first year, which is usually some sort of indicator that things will at least not be so complicated. She can actually mouth a few words now, although she pronounces none of them correctly. But she's trying. She's got a little bit of that big sister attitude, but the great thing for her is she's still the baby sister so no one holds it against her.

You will like Abby. She's growing right before our eyes.

That's it, my little clan. We are not the perfect American family, but we are a family. There are also a lot of other characters in this blog, but these will be the main ones. Time to roll out the red carpet.

Letters From Dad

Ten years ago when my first child was born, I had this crazy idea. It wasn't actually my idea, really, but one I'd heard through the grapevine somewhere.

Write a letter to your child. Put it away and then bring it out at some point in the future, maybe when they'd closed in on finishing high school and they'd see what kind of a great dad you were miraculously...

I never wrote the letter. Great idea, just never got around to it. I guess it got lost somewhere in the cries and the diapers and the birthdays and the Christmases and the ballgames over the last decade -- and next thing you know I've got three of the little suckers running around. The Letter From Dad was soon to be a Novel From Dad.

Thank God for creating the Internet, much to the dismay of Mr. Al Gore. This blog will hopefully serve as my Letters From Dad. I hope to be able to communicate with family members, friends and others just what it's like raising the three best kids in the whole world. Also, what it's like living with the greatest gal in the world (that's my wife if you're interested), and just what it's like being me -- or them living with me.

Played a nice little joke on a friend earlier this week, might even blog about that sometime soon. Her suggestion after days of not speaking to us anymore was to take my frustrations out on a blog. So here it is. All I can say is you get what you ask for...

Enjoy the blog everyone.