Along the Way: "Families Are for Love & Stuff" and Other Stories from an Ordinary Life

For as long as I can remember I have been writing. Letters, essays, editorials, newspaper articles, magazine articles, journal and research articles, blogs, short stories, novels, even a few speeches.

My first newspaper project was in the sixth grade when a friend and I founded the Central Elementary School newspaper as a way to meet a new girl in our class. We interviewed her, wrote a seminal piece on her early days at our little Clinton, Ky., school, and she instantly fell in love with the kid who took her photo for the paper. It wasn't to be.

My first novel was around the same time. It was a basketball story about a kid who was the school standout. No, it wasn't about me. I had no talent when it came to sports. But that didn't stop me from playing out the plot around the dirt court in our backyard: Ten seconds on the clock . . . the Central Red Devils trailing by one . . . Padgett dribbles down the court . . . nine, eight . . . he pauses at the circle, fakes left, turns right . . . seven, six, five . . . he's clear . . . four, three . . . takes two steps, sets, puts it up . . . two, one . . . it's in. Red Devils win by one. The crowd goes wild.

High school would not see my writing talents bloom as it was pretty much all I could do to confront the daily challenges of life as a teenager whose body was growing at a rate of two inches every six months or so. Eventually, the high school experience morphed into college and I became a double major in English and Journalism at Murray State University. I'll admit it was better than high school, but the plague of algebra and the draft required most of my attention. I survived algebra and avoided the draft by becoming a graduate student and proud member of the Reserve Officers Training Corps (ROTC).

Following graduation and a brief Army-training stint at Indiantown Gap, Pennsylvania, I landed in South Carolina as a reporter for the twice-weekly Seneca Journal & Tugaloo Tribune and a weekend warrior with the Clemson, S.C., Reserves.

A couple years later, I moved over to Clemson as managing editor of the Clemson Messenger and never really looked back. I had found my calling and I loved every minute of it. For the next ten years or so, I was an itinerant reporter and editor of a progression of community newspapers and eventually an Indiana antiques-collectibles magazine.

It was near the end of this period that I met Val, the love of my life and wife-to-be. She was on track to become a Ph.D. psychologist heading to a career in teaching and private practice. Sounded good to me, so I proposed marriage and returned to graduate school to get a doctorate in journalism, my ticket to a life in academia.

Some forty years, nine residences, two wonderful children, six dogs, two cats, and two horses later Val is still a working psychologist and I still teach college kids about media law. Unlike Frost, I didn't take the road less travelled by, but I did manage to keep writing as time permitted.

I still haven't written the great American novel, but writing is where I go when I need to get away. Sometimes I just need to blow off steam. I'll write something and end up deleting it a couple days later. Other times it's something that has meaning, something that I like, and I'll stick it in a file somewhere and come back to it. The best pieces occasionally end up in a newspaper or magazine or in one of my blogs.

The idea for this book results from a desire to do something with at least some of these odds 'n' ends. I've chosen some of my favorite pieces about family, about special places, and about issues that are important to me. Absent from this collection, of course, are all those newspaper and magazine pieces prior to digital storage. As well, I have spared you my collection of academic articles . . . including such riveting pieces as Communitarian Ethics and Achieving Diversity in Mediated Communications; How Failure of Media to Diversify Affected Coverage of Katrina; and Evaluating the Effectiveness of a Mass Media Ethics Course.

Even with those omissions, I still had over five hundred pages of material before beginning to whittle it down to its current size. You may not be drawn to all of what I've included and you may even disagree with some of what I have to say. But, I hope you find something here that brings a smile or a fond memory of days past.

None of this of course would be possible without the special people in my life: the best children in the world . . . Josh & Mandy Padgett . . . and the very best wife, friend and partner . . . Valerie Padgett. Thanks guys. I love you beyond anything comprehensible!! This is for you!

Part One

Families Are for Love and Stuff

To say that I have been richly blessed in many, many ways would not be an overstatement. I'm not talking about fame and fortune, but rather the more important things in life . . . a wonderful family, good friends, loving pets, a great growing up place, a rewarding career and loads of travel to many of the places in the world I've most wanted to visit.

This section offers a few of the reflections and observations I've made through the years about my parents, Ferne and Eli Padgett, and my and Val's two children, Joshua and Amanda Padgett. Most were written from the late 1980's through the early 2000's, a period of time that includes many of the happiest days of our lives as well as some of the saddest.

Chapter One

Josh

December 1995

In many ways, life began again in December 1985. The year I became a father. I was 38 years old. Life had always been good to me and it was about to treat me to the best it has to offer.

Josh, my son, was born on the streets of Seoul, Korea on April 21, 1985, and was left at the door of Holt International Adoptions at 7 weeks--a pacifier and note with his birthdate attached to his wrap.

Six months later, our dream became a reality as we stood in Chicago's O'Hare Airport and watched as Korean escorts carried four small bundles down the ramp of United Flight 108 into Terminal Two.

Padgett. George and Valerie Padgett, one escort announced. We had already spotted the 16-pound infant he cuddled in an airline blanket. A tiny wrist bracelet bore his Korean name, Yang In Sub, and his new American address, One Toby Lane, Bloomington, Illinois. He was our son. His reaction was simple and immediate as we held him for the first time--a series of playful raspberries and a grin as wide as the ocean he'd crossed just hours before.

We remembered our social worker's words of caution: Bonding is natural with birth parents, but can be more difficult for those adopting. We hadn't known how to respond then, but there in the middle of one of the world's largest and busiest airports the answer was obvious and simple. Bonding would not be difficult at all. That special personal relationship developed instantly and naturally. This was our son and we love him as deeply as any parent could love any child. Whether biological or adopted, newborn or eight months old, Korean or American had no bearing on our emotions. He was instantly melded into our lives and hearts.

Today (1995), Josh is a wonderfully happy and loving ten year old. His eight-year-old sister, Mandy, also adopted from Korea, spent her early years here following him everywhere--blanket in tow--calling out her familiar name for him: Dosh, wait. Dosh.

When we sit down for dinner each evening, Mandy is usually the first to say, Let's do I love you. We hold hands around the table and take turns sharing our day and our love. And when Mandy smiles bigger than life and says, I love you Mommy. I love you Daddy. I love you Joshie, all the problems of the day are forgotten--replaced with that happiness that comes from being a family.

As a writer I wish I could claim the line. But I can't. It was Josh who said it. He was three then and responding to a question about families. Families are for love and stuff, he said with a grin. And for everybody being proud of each other.

Time passes, of course, and Josh is now a successful architect living in Charlotte, NC, where he designs high-end residential projects in and out of the city. We see him and his sister, Mandy, often. They have their own lives, but still know they can count on family for always being there for love and stuff and for being proud.

Chapter Two

Favorite Sayings

January 1988

Cold. Very Cold

Snowing. Looks like a blizzard.

Josh: I still like God, but I don't like the weather.

Chapter Three

Mandy

August 1990

It was a routine morning for us. She slept not more than three feet from where I sat typing. Earlier that morning she had sat near me on the couch as I scanned the local newspaper, accompanied me through bathroom rituals and finally followed me to the study where in frustration and boredom she fell asleep.

Devoted, loving daughter?? Loving, yes, but . . .

Brother Josh, then 5, had begun kindergarten leaving little sister, then 3, at a loss. She had always been with Josh or with other toddlers at day care. Now alone with Daddy or Mommy while Josh was in school, she had become pathetic at best. One day the previous week I had found her lying on the floor chin resting on both palms watching Windy (our 13-year-old Pomeranian) eat morning snack.

At my urging she would float from activity to activity--first a book, then a puzzle, or coloring book--but soon she would be back asking When will Josh be home? or simply declaring, I miss Josh.

Soon the bus would turn the corner of our road and we would walk out the driveway to meet Josh. He would have a dozen stories to tell of the morning's activities and Mandy's eyes would sparkle with pleasure at the attention he was giving her.

As the weeks passed so did, as I had suspected, Mandy's inertia and loss over Josh's continual absence in her life. But, for me, it was a sad passing as one of childhood's phases became but a memory.

And with Mandy, even at five, there are already so many memories. She, like Josh, was born in Seoul, Korea, and immediately given up for adoption. She came to us at three months old--a chubby-cheeked, eczema-dotted, sad-faced soul. Early photos attest to a sadness that stretched into her third month with us. We loved and entertained her until suddenly she smiled, giggled, laughed and warmed our hearts. She's been smiling ever since.

There is tremendous beauty in her sensitivity, even in her missing Josh. Her favorite movies always bring tears. She cries when the bullies tease the baby elephant in Dumbo and again when the mother is taken away. And no matter how many times she sees the tapes, she sobs when the mother dies in Land Before Time or in Bambi.

Not long ago, I was working in the room where Mandy and Josh were building great Duplo castles. Josh accidentally toppled one of Mandy's creations and immediately apologized. No problem, Mandy said. I stopped to listen and a moment later Mandy reached over and patted Josh on the cheek and said, I just love you.

Mandy is now 29 and working as a video content producer for one of the world's largest online soccer and rugby clothing/equipment suppliers. She lives and works in North Carolina, but travels the world documenting professional soccer through the lens of a camera, while still managing to see us and her brother on a regular basis.

Chapter Four

Happy Birthday Mandy!!

July 1994

My favorite little girl in all the world turned seven Monday, and for a little while Sunday night as I sat thinking about the happiness she’s brought into our lives I wished I could keep her six for at least a little while longer.

It seems like only yesterday that three-month-old chubby cheeked Amanda Leigh Padgett arrived from Seoul, Korea, to change our family forever.

There has been no greater thrill in my life than the two occasions when while standing in Chicago’s O’Hare Airport an escort handed first our son, Josh, and then two years later our daughter, Mandy, into our care.

Mandy was a somber baby for the first few weeks as the various rashes and culture shock wore off. Then one day a combination of strained sweet potatoes and a pretend jet-like spoon dive-bombing her tightly closed mouth brought a smile as broad as her face.

She’s hardly stopped smiling since. Cotton candy (any candy), the color pink, dolphins, television, roller-skating and her brother Josh all bring instant smiles.

Only seven years have passed, but what memories already. I can still see her trailing through the den, blanket in tow, calling after her brother, Dosh, wait Dosh.

I remember hiding outside her nursery watching as brother Josh piled pillows in her crib to help her escape over the side, and arriving just in time to catch her as she came tumbling over.

And I can see her sad face those mornings after Josh started kindergarten. She was lost for weeks. She would wander the house and finally settle near me in the study to await the sound of the bus coming around the corner. Then she’d run the length of the driveway to hear his excited stories from a day at school.

I remember the night Josh cut off her waist-long hair and the Easter Sunday when she had chicken pox so bad we had Kentucky Fried Chicken at a deserted park in Illinois.

I remember when her favorite cartoon characters were Winnie the Pooh, Rabbit and Owl. I remember how she cried when the mother died in Land Before Time. And I remember her first day of kindergarten.

She’s still afraid of haunted houses and roller coasters. She’ll still give her parents hugs in front of kids she knows, though more reluctantly recently. And her brother is still her best friend.

As much as I might like to keep her six forever, I wouldn’t miss the growing up years for anything in the world. It is, after all, inevitable. The years will pass, as will all that makes childhood so special.

What we as parents can hope, though, is that our children carry with them some of the magic of childhood — that a little piece of the child becomes a big part of the grown-up. The excitement, curiosity, creativity, resilience and empathy -- all characteristics that children seem to have in such abundance.

In the meantime, I’m going to enjoy every minute of seven. Swimming, gymnastics, skating parties, and the second grade.

Happy Birthday Mandy!!

Chapter Five

Favorite Conversations

January 1990

Josh notices that Mandy's getting bigger and can do a lot of different things.

Mommy (to Josh): That's a little sad, no more babies.

Josh: We could buy another baby.

Mommy: Laughter

Josh: Or maybe another dog.

Chapter Six

Favorite Sayings

1989

On stopping to look at an oil-slickened water puddle--the sunlight giving color to the swirling mixture.

Josh: Look Daddy, a rainbow died.

Chapter Seven

Dining Out

November 1993

Josh who is now 8 years old and a wonderful child, whom I love very much, is a messy child. I tease him about losing his younger sister under the clutter in his bedroom. And at times there is legitimate reason for concern.

Daughter Mandy is generally more orderly though she has her messy days as well. Most of the potential mess in Mandy’s room is pushed under the bed.

All of which brings me around to the topic of children and restaurants. Ours have eaten out since their early months in baby carriers. My most vivid memories though are of the days in restaurant highchairs. One of our favorite eateries during that period was a Chinese restaurant in Bloomington, Ill. Josh’s presence usually was identifiable by the circle of fried rice on the floor around his chair.

It was also during that period (several years as a matter of fact), that our tips escalated simply out of guilt. Any waitress who cleans up more than one spill, makes numerous trips for refills, extra balloons, and changed minds deserves a bigger tip.

There even were occasions when I felt, on completing a particularly exciting dining experience, as though we should offer tips of some sort to those dining around us.

There was a time when I offered to have a coat cleaned for a lady in a booth behind us at a Shakey’s Pizza. I still cringe thinking about it. We were chatting with friends who had stopped by our table on their way out. Josh, about three at the time, was standing on the seat--dish of ice cream in hand--conversing with another toddler several tables away.

I’m not sure what happened, but the first inkling I got that something was wrong was the look on Josh’s face--one of those please don’t yell at me Daddy looks. I turned to the rear just in time to see a whole bowl of strawberry soft serve running down the back of the lady in the booth behind us.

She hadn’t noticed yet. Believe me that was the hardest thing I ever had to tell anyone: Excuse me, Miss, but my son spilled ice-cream on you. It’s running down the back of your beautiful jacket at this very moment.

I should note here that while the above assessment of our two children's inclinations toward orderliness may have been accurate when this was written 22-plus years ago, it is no longer the case. Josh, our minimalist architect, who would straighten wall hangings in a stranger's home, is anything but messy. On the other hand, daughter Mandy, whom I love dearly, has mastered the technique of order through chaos.

Chapter Eight

One More Food Story

January 1986

Memories of dining out with kids brought back lots of other food memories most associated with children in one way or another.

One of Mandy’s favorites stories involves son Josh and green peas. He won’t appreciate my telling this story again, but it’s too good to hide.

Josh was just leaving the strained/mushed food stage and beginning to sample real foods. He had not been a major fan of the baby version of carrots, squash and peas and was having a similar reaction to the solid versions of most vegetables.

Thus, it was a considerable surprise when he reacted with interest to baby green peas on the first try. I was dive-bombing mashed potatoes into his mouth when I decided to try a tiny spoonful of green peas. Similar tries with carrots, broccoli etc. had resulted in lips pursed in absolute defiance.

The peas went right in!

I tried again. Right through. No resistance. And again. I was so thrilled I called Mom into the kitchen. Look, he loves green peas, I said with fatherly pride. We were about ready to call the grandparents when we noticed that his cheeks were puffing out more and more with each tiny spoonful. He had been storing the baby green peas in his mouth and had not swallowed a single pea.

Then to our dismay but to his obvious pleasure, green peas began to dribble from his mouth, one by one, slowly at first but faster as the diminishing cheeks reached momentum.

Finally, cheeks empty, he grinned from side to side and said More peas please, Josh like green peas.

Chapter Nine

A -D-O-P-T-E-D

1990

We were walking through the parking lot at a local grocery store when approached by a sweet and dear elderly lady I'd seen on other occasions but had never engaged in conversation.

Noticing our two Korean children (then 4 and 2), she asked Are they a-d-o-p-t-e-d (spelling the adopted as though they might be offended)? Accustomed to similar questions and smiling, I responded Y-e-s, o-f c-o-u-r-s-e.

What seems natural to us must be quite a spectacle to others. Two obvious caucasians (brown hair and light skin), both discovering fortysomething, toting around two adorable Asian children as though the stereotypical family.

It can lead to various speculations. Are you married to a Japanese? one disapproving woman asked as Josh and I waited while Mom and Mandy tried on dresses in a clothing store.

Where did they get that black hair? a store clerk asked not mentioning their Asian eyes or flat noses. Their father, Val responded, smiling up at me.

While waiting in line at a cafeteria in a nearby town, the lady ahead of us kept looking and smiling. She obviously wanted to say something but didn't know what to say. Finally, when she worked up the nerve she commented, You're a big boy. I bet you'll grow up to be a Judo-man. Sure. And all Italian babies grow up to pinch women on their butts.

Many assume we're babysitting. Some have assumed and even commented that we must be the grandparents, noting for example, My daughter/son married a wonderful Korean/Vietnamese/Chinese man/woman too. Others assume that one of us has fooled around. You (to me) or your husband (to Val) spent time in 'Nam huh? Chuckle. Chuckle.

The tensest moments, however, have little to do with what others say, but rather my perception of what others might think at awkward times.

Imagine this scenario, for example (particularly when they were toddlers). Our children, like any children, have had their temper tantrums. That's fine, except when they happen in public. One of Josh's, I remembered, occurred at about age two at a local mall. Mandy's at about the same age in a Dairy Queen. In both cases, the child in question, screamed, kicked, screamed, and screamed. You get the picture. And, in both