As I was driving to Columbia's Stoney Creek Inn last Friday to meet up with my brother Blake and his family (who were in town to do some house-hunting) and also our father and our grandmother, I received a phone call from my wife Bethany. She said, "Question for you: You wouldn't be interested in doing a wedding tomorrow would you?"
I was a bit taken aback at first, but I recovered enough to ask for more information, which she then gave me. Her friend at work--a woman named Sharon--has a husband named John who is a pastor of a local church, and he was supposed to officiate a wedding Saturday afternoon, only he dislocated his hip this morning and is in the hospital and is heavily sedated on account of the pain. He had heard that I was an ordained minister myself (I had just conducted two wedding ceremonies the previous week) and so he asked his wife if she would see if I would be willing to fill in for him. Weighing the moral imperative to do what was right against my aversion to solemnizing a wedding of two complete strangers on just 24 hours notice, I agreed to help out. I was given the bride and groom's contact info and the script for the ceremony Friday afternoon and a heap of thank yous from a well-medicated Pastor John.
Immediately, I called the groom, a fellow named Mark to tell him that I would be on hand to make his big day go ahead as planned. I asked him how he was doing and he said, "I'm okay, but my fiance is sort of freaking out." Understandably so, I told him, but I assured him that they had nothing to worry about. This would be my third outdoor wedding in the past two weeks, and I was confident that things would be just fine. You could hear the weight slide off his shoulders right then and there.
The rehearsal was at four that afternoon, just a few hours after I first agreed to help the young couple out. By five o' clock, a well-planned ceremony had been rehearsed and the bride was feeling significantly better. I've never heard more "thank yous" in all my life. The next day, we met at the winery in Rocheport at 12:30. I went around and made sure everyone in the wedding party knew their role and at precisely 1:00pm, we began the ceremony. Although it was 102 degrees, no one passed out and everything went exactly as planned. The wedding was a huge success and afterward, I was treated like the second coming of the messiah. I told the parents of the happy couple, and the newlyweds themselves, that it was an honor to be able to help them out on their special day. Soon, about 130 people who I'd considered total strangers just one day earlier shook my hand one by one and thanked me for being there for Crystal and Mark. In a strange twist of fate, the wedding reception took place at the same Stoney Creek Inn that my brother was staying at--the same place, incidentally, where all of the out of town wedding guests were staying, too. It seemed like I knew every single person in that place, and I really almost did.
Pastor John tried to give me the money the Hoffman's gave him for his services but I flatly refused. I told him to use that money however he saw fit and to concentrate on his recovery. His hip had been severely displaced and required a medical procedure under general anesthesia to pop it back in. I can't imagine the pain he must have been in. Yet to his credit, the first thought that went through his head when he injured himself was, "I don't want to let that nice young couple down." Well, he didn't let anybody down. And he gave me an opportunity to step outside my comfort zone and do something good for some folks in need. That's quite a gift. You can't put a price on that.
Thanks Pastor John, and congratulations Crystal and Mark!
Tuesday, July 03, 2012
Wednesday, May 02, 2012
First term stay-at-home dad
First term stay-at-home dad
Published: Wednesday, May 2, 2012 9:43 AM CDT
Have you ever seen the “before and after” photographs that show how dramatically four years on the job ages the President of the United States? Our president never really gets a day off. His vacations are working vacations. He can’t go anywhere to clear his head without an entourage in tow. From the moment he wakes up till the minute his head hits the pillow at night, people are constantly asking him questions, demanding his attention, and depending on him to solve their problems. Can you imagine what it must be like to live with that amount of stress 24/7? I’ll bet you can if you’re a stay-at-home parent. Later this month I will celebrate my fourth anniversary of becoming a full-time, stay-at-home dad. Now seems like an appropriate time to evaluate my first four years on the job, and to contemplate running for a second term.
When I quit my job in 2008, I announced to my friends and family that I was “retiring” from the rat race. Years of working in sales, both retail and wholesale, and in management had taken their toll on my soul. I needed to make a drastic change to rekindle my spirit. Adopting two-year-old Truman and staying home to raise him did just that. I quickly forgot all about the stress of the retail world. Then I realized what real stress is. Real stress is trying to teach a two-year old from China to understand and speak English. Real stress is trying to change a radioactive diaper in the restroom of the Olive Garden without contaminating your nice dinner clothes. Real stress is working on potty training, cooking three meals a day, trying to keep up with the laundry, vacuuming, dishes, mowing, and such while trying to save enough energy to maintain a healthy relationship with a spouse who is sympathetic to your situation, but has a separate set of work-related issues to deal with.
I should have known what to expect. I actually played Mr. Mom to Alex when he was a little guy. But I more or less just “played.” I did not fully immerse myself in the stay-at-home lifestyle back then and did a pretty woeful job of taking care of the house and my wife. Bethany not only brought home the bacon, but she also fried it up in a pan, washed the pan, mopped the kitchen floor, etc. I focused on Alex and neglected the rest of my duties as a husband/homemaker. My forgiving wife graciously allowed me to give it another go when we decided to adopt, and I think for the most part I redeemed myself. In fact, I did such a good job, Bethany and I decided to again add to our brood—and to my workload.
For some reason, I was under the misguided impression that adding a third child to the mix would only increase my workload and stress level by one-third. I was never any good at math. Someone should have stepped in and warned me that adding a third child actually means having 50% more children and 100% more work than when you only have two. Now I have one kid who is learning about a new culture, two who are learning English, and three who are producing more dirty dishes, laundry, and clogged toilets than an army platoon. Stress? You betcha.
Still, I can’t complain. Homemakers in previous generations didn’t have the luxuries of indoor plumbing, washer & dryer combos, and automatic dishwashers like I do. They didn’t have the internet and satellite television to entertain them during their precious few minutes of down-time. Is being a stay-at-home parent the most difficult job I’ve ever had? Yep. Has my hair started turning gray and have bags appeared under my eyes? Yep and yep. Will I be seeking a second four-year term as a full-time dad? With a 100% approval rating from my family, I think I have to. It sure beats “working” for a living.
Published: Wednesday, May 2, 2012 9:43 AM CDT
Have you ever seen the “before and after” photographs that show how dramatically four years on the job ages the President of the United States? Our president never really gets a day off. His vacations are working vacations. He can’t go anywhere to clear his head without an entourage in tow. From the moment he wakes up till the minute his head hits the pillow at night, people are constantly asking him questions, demanding his attention, and depending on him to solve their problems. Can you imagine what it must be like to live with that amount of stress 24/7? I’ll bet you can if you’re a stay-at-home parent. Later this month I will celebrate my fourth anniversary of becoming a full-time, stay-at-home dad. Now seems like an appropriate time to evaluate my first four years on the job, and to contemplate running for a second term.
When I quit my job in 2008, I announced to my friends and family that I was “retiring” from the rat race. Years of working in sales, both retail and wholesale, and in management had taken their toll on my soul. I needed to make a drastic change to rekindle my spirit. Adopting two-year-old Truman and staying home to raise him did just that. I quickly forgot all about the stress of the retail world. Then I realized what real stress is. Real stress is trying to teach a two-year old from China to understand and speak English. Real stress is trying to change a radioactive diaper in the restroom of the Olive Garden without contaminating your nice dinner clothes. Real stress is working on potty training, cooking three meals a day, trying to keep up with the laundry, vacuuming, dishes, mowing, and such while trying to save enough energy to maintain a healthy relationship with a spouse who is sympathetic to your situation, but has a separate set of work-related issues to deal with.
I should have known what to expect. I actually played Mr. Mom to Alex when he was a little guy. But I more or less just “played.” I did not fully immerse myself in the stay-at-home lifestyle back then and did a pretty woeful job of taking care of the house and my wife. Bethany not only brought home the bacon, but she also fried it up in a pan, washed the pan, mopped the kitchen floor, etc. I focused on Alex and neglected the rest of my duties as a husband/homemaker. My forgiving wife graciously allowed me to give it another go when we decided to adopt, and I think for the most part I redeemed myself. In fact, I did such a good job, Bethany and I decided to again add to our brood—and to my workload.
For some reason, I was under the misguided impression that adding a third child to the mix would only increase my workload and stress level by one-third. I was never any good at math. Someone should have stepped in and warned me that adding a third child actually means having 50% more children and 100% more work than when you only have two. Now I have one kid who is learning about a new culture, two who are learning English, and three who are producing more dirty dishes, laundry, and clogged toilets than an army platoon. Stress? You betcha.
Still, I can’t complain. Homemakers in previous generations didn’t have the luxuries of indoor plumbing, washer & dryer combos, and automatic dishwashers like I do. They didn’t have the internet and satellite television to entertain them during their precious few minutes of down-time. Is being a stay-at-home parent the most difficult job I’ve ever had? Yep. Has my hair started turning gray and have bags appeared under my eyes? Yep and yep. Will I be seeking a second four-year term as a full-time dad? With a 100% approval rating from my family, I think I have to. It sure beats “working” for a living.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Elephants never forget
Published: Wednesday, April 25, 2012 9:49 AM CDT
When my mother was a young girl, her father gave her a small elephant figurine that he had brought back with him following his deployment during World War II. A self-professed “Daddy’s girl,” my mother loved the gift almost as much as she loved her hero-father. Little did he know that one souvenir pachyderm would eventually become a herd of over two hundred elephant keepsakes amassed by my mom over the next sixty years. Tragically, he would not live to see his little girl or her collection grow because a few short years after giving his beloved daughter the gift, my grandfather took his own life.
I don’t think my mother ever fully recovered from the shock of suddenly and inexplicably losing her dad. Nevertheless, she always spoke fondly of him rather than with bitterness in her voice. As the years passed, Mom would pick up miniature elephants at garage sales and flea markets and display them throughout the house as a reminder of her father. They say elephants never forget. By collecting elephant figurines, Mom made sure she never forgot her daddy.
Being lazy shoppers, my brother and I gave our mom elephants for her birthday every single year. We also gave them to her for Mother’s Day and Christmas, too. It was automatic. But she seemed to love them all, mostly because she loved her boys. Little did I realize that her beloved herd would one day become mine.
When Mom was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer a few years ago, the disease had already spread to her brain before anyone knew there was a problem. She fought valiantly, undergoing brain surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation. As much as she suffered, she could have been forgiven for throwing in the towel. She could have refused to receive further treatments. She could have followed in her father’s footsteps and taken the easy way out. Instead, she maintained a brave face and her dignity throughout, never forgetting the impact it had on her when her own parent gave up.
Mom stubbornly held on long enough for Bethany and me to bring Truman home from China. A week later, I convinced her to move in with us so we could look after her and so she could get to know her new grandson. Three weeks later, she died in our home, surrounded by everyone she loved. When Blake and I later sorted through her possessions, the only items I cared about keeping were photographs and of course, her elephants.
Today, all but a couple dozen of her pint-sized pachyderms are packed away in my storage room. Nevertheless, you will still see elephants in virtually every room of our house. Some of my favorites are the Asian elephants Mom had. These hold a special significance to me for a couple reasons. For one, her collection started with an Asian elephant. Also, a few Asian elephants still live in the jungles of southern China, near the area where Truman is from. Plus, we have some pieces of Chinese art displayed in our house and the Asian elephants compliment them quite well.
Last week, for the first time in my life, I bought an elephant piece for myself. I had no intentions of ever adding to an already excessive collection, but in this case, the decision was practically made for me. My friend Monica Mauney painted a stunning work of abstract art that I knew I had to have as soon as I saw it. Though I did not commission the painting, Fate must have. Set against a gorgeous red sky at sunset is the silhouette of an elephant with its trunk raised to the heavens. High in the red sky there are three brightly shining stars. (The Chinese flag also features stars on a red background.) To me, the three stars represent my three kids, two of which are Chinese, and the elephant represents my mom, who seems to be calling out to her three grandkids, no doubt telling them how much she loves them.
We love you, too, Nonna. And we, like your elephants, will never forget.
Published: Wednesday, April 25, 2012 9:49 AM CDT
When my mother was a young girl, her father gave her a small elephant figurine that he had brought back with him following his deployment during World War II. A self-professed “Daddy’s girl,” my mother loved the gift almost as much as she loved her hero-father. Little did he know that one souvenir pachyderm would eventually become a herd of over two hundred elephant keepsakes amassed by my mom over the next sixty years. Tragically, he would not live to see his little girl or her collection grow because a few short years after giving his beloved daughter the gift, my grandfather took his own life.
I don’t think my mother ever fully recovered from the shock of suddenly and inexplicably losing her dad. Nevertheless, she always spoke fondly of him rather than with bitterness in her voice. As the years passed, Mom would pick up miniature elephants at garage sales and flea markets and display them throughout the house as a reminder of her father. They say elephants never forget. By collecting elephant figurines, Mom made sure she never forgot her daddy.
Being lazy shoppers, my brother and I gave our mom elephants for her birthday every single year. We also gave them to her for Mother’s Day and Christmas, too. It was automatic. But she seemed to love them all, mostly because she loved her boys. Little did I realize that her beloved herd would one day become mine.
When Mom was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer a few years ago, the disease had already spread to her brain before anyone knew there was a problem. She fought valiantly, undergoing brain surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation. As much as she suffered, she could have been forgiven for throwing in the towel. She could have refused to receive further treatments. She could have followed in her father’s footsteps and taken the easy way out. Instead, she maintained a brave face and her dignity throughout, never forgetting the impact it had on her when her own parent gave up.
Mom stubbornly held on long enough for Bethany and me to bring Truman home from China. A week later, I convinced her to move in with us so we could look after her and so she could get to know her new grandson. Three weeks later, she died in our home, surrounded by everyone she loved. When Blake and I later sorted through her possessions, the only items I cared about keeping were photographs and of course, her elephants.
Today, all but a couple dozen of her pint-sized pachyderms are packed away in my storage room. Nevertheless, you will still see elephants in virtually every room of our house. Some of my favorites are the Asian elephants Mom had. These hold a special significance to me for a couple reasons. For one, her collection started with an Asian elephant. Also, a few Asian elephants still live in the jungles of southern China, near the area where Truman is from. Plus, we have some pieces of Chinese art displayed in our house and the Asian elephants compliment them quite well.
Last week, for the first time in my life, I bought an elephant piece for myself. I had no intentions of ever adding to an already excessive collection, but in this case, the decision was practically made for me. My friend Monica Mauney painted a stunning work of abstract art that I knew I had to have as soon as I saw it. Though I did not commission the painting, Fate must have. Set against a gorgeous red sky at sunset is the silhouette of an elephant with its trunk raised to the heavens. High in the red sky there are three brightly shining stars. (The Chinese flag also features stars on a red background.) To me, the three stars represent my three kids, two of which are Chinese, and the elephant represents my mom, who seems to be calling out to her three grandkids, no doubt telling them how much she loves them.
We love you, too, Nonna. And we, like your elephants, will never forget.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
April 18th Column
Categorically Lazy
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Last week, I received a “kick in the pants” email from my book editor (my cousin Larry) that warned that due to my slacking-off on the book-writing front, I was running the danger of becoming known only as a writer of a weekly small town newspaper column rather than as the world-famous author of several best-sellers that I planned on writing someday. I have to hand it to Larry; appealing to my delusions of grandeur while preying on my insecurities is a very effective way to get my attention.
The tough-love from my cousin is both deserved and appreciated. Not only have I failed to start writing the follow-up to my runaway hit “Naked Snow Angels”, (a book that sold literally tens of copies worldwide), but I have also neglected to update my blog and my website (www.travisnaughton.com) for months. I could excuse my lack of output by claiming that I am too busy being a stay-at-home dad/husband/housekeeper/cook/dishwasher/taxi driver/groundskeeper/grocery-getter/clothes-washer/sorter/folder to write more, but the truth is that I am just plain lazy.
I could do more with the three hours of free time I have each morning while Truman is at preschool, but if you could kick your kids out the door at 7:45 a.m. and have the house to yourself for a precious few hours afterwards, wouldn’t you crawl under the covers and go back to sleep, too?
I don’t do mornings because I am a night owl, and by 10:00 p.m. I’m usually the last one up at the Naughton house. I suppose I should use that time to write, but more often than not, the lethal combination of a comfy recliner and a high definition television set kill my desire to work. This is especially true after a long day of doing chores and/or watching sports.
The philosopher Immanuel Kant wrote, “Act only according to that maxim whereby you can, at the same time, will that it should become a universal law.” In other words, only do those things which you would want everyone to do under the same circumstances. Kant called this moral law his Categorical Imperative. If I live by the Categorical Imperative and I choose to be lazy and neglect to live up to my creative potential, then I am implicitly willing that everyone be lazy and neglect their creative potential. This of course would be unsustainable because eventually there would be no new programming on my HDTV worth watching.
Therefore, in order to please Kant and my dozens of faithful readers, (and guarantee the future productivity and continuation of the human race), I need to begin my next writing project ASAP. Larry was absolutely right saying that by not writing more I am running the risk of only being known for writing a column in a small town newspaper. But I don’t think that’s a bad thing necessarily. I thoroughly enjoy writing this column for the Journal, and judging by the feedback I’ve received, there are a few folks in Southern Boone County who enjoy reading it each week. One afternoon not long ago, a woman introduced herself to me and said that one of my columns actually changed her life. She said that she had reached a point in her life where she needed a push in a new direction, an impetus to make a better life for herself. At that same moment in time, New Year’s Day, I had written an article about hitting life’s reset button on January 1st thereby giving us all an opportunity to reinvent ourselves and live up to our full potential. The woman said that when she read my column, she instantly realized what she needed to do in order to improve her life. She said she cut out my column and posted it to her bulletin board so she could see it every day and remain motivated. Soon thereafter, she enrolled in college and began to change her life for the better. Then she said to me, “I just wanted to say ‘thank you’ and tell you how much your column meant to me.”
I was humbled by the woman’s kind words and moved to tears listening to her story. I realized right then and there that being known only as a writer of a weekly small town newspaper was good enough for me.
The tough-love from my cousin is both deserved and appreciated. Not only have I failed to start writing the follow-up to my runaway hit “Naked Snow Angels”, (a book that sold literally tens of copies worldwide), but I have also neglected to update my blog and my website (www.travisnaughton.com) for months. I could excuse my lack of output by claiming that I am too busy being a stay-at-home dad/husband/housekeeper/cook/dishwasher/taxi driver/groundskeeper/grocery-getter/clothes-washer/sorter/folder to write more, but the truth is that I am just plain lazy.
I could do more with the three hours of free time I have each morning while Truman is at preschool, but if you could kick your kids out the door at 7:45 a.m. and have the house to yourself for a precious few hours afterwards, wouldn’t you crawl under the covers and go back to sleep, too?
I don’t do mornings because I am a night owl, and by 10:00 p.m. I’m usually the last one up at the Naughton house. I suppose I should use that time to write, but more often than not, the lethal combination of a comfy recliner and a high definition television set kill my desire to work. This is especially true after a long day of doing chores and/or watching sports.
Therefore, in order to please Kant and my dozens of faithful readers, (and guarantee the future productivity and continuation of the human race), I need to begin my next writing project ASAP. Larry was absolutely right saying that by not writing more I am running the risk of only being known for writing a column in a small town newspaper. But I don’t think that’s a bad thing necessarily. I thoroughly enjoy writing this column for the Journal, and judging by the feedback I’ve received, there are a few folks in Southern Boone County who enjoy reading it each week. One afternoon not long ago, a woman introduced herself to me and said that one of my columns actually changed her life. She said that she had reached a point in her life where she needed a push in a new direction, an impetus to make a better life for herself. At that same moment in time, New Year’s Day, I had written an article about hitting life’s reset button on January 1st thereby giving us all an opportunity to reinvent ourselves and live up to our full potential. The woman said that when she read my column, she instantly realized what she needed to do in order to improve her life. She said she cut out my column and posted it to her bulletin board so she could see it every day and remain motivated. Soon thereafter, she enrolled in college and began to change her life for the better. Then she said to me, “I just wanted to say ‘thank you’ and tell you how much your column meant to me.”
I was humbled by the woman’s kind words and moved to tears listening to her story. I realized right then and there that being known only as a writer of a weekly small town newspaper was good enough for me.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Making Memories
Memory Maker
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By Travis Naughton
One day when I was a teenager growing up in Hannibal, Missouri, I suddenly became aware that my days of worry-free childhood were numbered. Most of my friends had part-time jobs by then, which I thought was pretty much the worst thing that could ever happen to a person. I remember telling my dad, who had been strongly encouraging me to get a job, that I wasn’t ready to be a grown up just yet. Shortly thereafter, I was flipping burgers at a fast foot joint for $3.35 an hour and hating every single second of it. I came home each night smelling like 100% pure beef lard, French fries, and unfulfilled childhood dreams. It was horrible.On a day off from work a few weeks later, I was playing football with some friends in Riverview Park when my father drove up and interrupted our game to tell me that my boss had called and needed me to come in to work for someone who had called in sick. I got in the car with my dad, changed into my polyester, grease-stained uniform, and begrudgingly reported for work. At that precise moment I realized the impending death of my care-free boyhood could not be avoided. I was miserable.
I quit that job a few days later and resolved to make the most of the time I had left before I was forced to become a responsible adult. Knowing that once I finally became a permanent member of the rat race I would have precious few opportunities to recreate and enjoy the simple pleasures of obligation-free life, I vowed to experience as many fun and memorable things as I could. I planned to take those memories with me wherever life’s journey took me, to sustain me through the dark ages of growing older and being weighted down by the pressures of the real world.
It was a fine plan, and I do have lots of unforgettable memories of my time in high school, many of which are documented in my book Naked Snow Angels. I continued this mission in college, which may explain why it took seven years to earn a four-year degree. From taking a roadtrip with friends from my dormitory to New Madrid to be present for the predicted apocalyptic earthquake that never happened in 1990 to going on an epic roadtrip to Las Vegas with my roommate Bill (who is still working on his four-year degree twenty-two years later,) I did it all and made lots of blurry memories.
Every now and then, I fall into a rut and catch myself just going through the motions in life. Such has been the case recently. The kid in me hates that. Therefore in 2012, I am rededicating myself to making memories (for me and my family). I’ll write about those experiences in this column. I hope you will be inspired to make some of your own unforgettable memories, too.
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