" TAH !!!! "

My Grandsons name is Christopher Riley Fisher--I haven't seen anyone call him that yet. His Mom called me on day two of his arrival (almost two years ago) and said she was going to call him "Poot" because that's what he had been doing since his arrival. Of course that as all I needed to hear, and he has been Poot or some variation thereof ever since.

It was Poot, then Pootie, then his Pootiness, then Pootie Bunk, then Bunk (pronounced Buuuunnnnnkkk), followed by Pootipottamus, and as of now, POOTIPOTTAMUS BUNKUS REX--(This name is not only his scientific Latin name, but his Indian name not to mention his AKO registered name) --In true southern fashion this could be reduced to "PBR"--but for now I will stop just short of that since he is not legally old enough to drink (he does know what "Yuengling" is and it may very well be his first words ever read)--seriously.

Himself is my buddy. He is the only living creature that runs to the door when I come home from work, actually glad to see me. My own three used to do that, and they eventually stopped. For a while the three dogs did that, but since they love to go to the bathroom indoors they couldn't care less who comes in the front door.

But the Pootster comes running and I always pick him up and get that wonderful hug that only a little one can give.

He has a name for me, too, and HE gave it to me. At first, there was a serious dilemma about what I, the "middle aged not old enough to be a grandfather yet but here it comes so grab your ass and hold on" was to be called--No way was I a Grandpa, Grandaddy, Daddy George, a Paw Paw, a Poo Paw, a Me Maw, or anything like that--it just ain't my style, and after all, I do have a little vanity. So what we kind of worked out was "Pops"--I wasn't too crazy about it but in the scheme of things and the other names I just mentioned, it was the lesser of evils. I had thought he may address me as "LT. Colonel Fisher" but that's a bit formal, and like I said, the little booger has got me by the short hairs now. What has happened, over the course of almost two years, hundreds of episodes of Sponge Bob, baseball games, wrestling with dogs, throwing food across the room, and running buck naked thru the house, is that HE HIMSELF now calls me "TAH"--The POPS came out only like "Puhhh", but TAH comes out just like it is spelled--"TAH".

TAH is my Indian name as well as the Pootipottamus' battle cry. Tah is Cherokee Indian which roughly translates into "Him big chief what is in charge if Grandsquaw Sue say so"--(see photo of Pootipottamus in native garb and ceremonial headdress above).

I have a name now. I didn't have to get it from any other person except who by birthright should give it to me.

The Pootipottamus Bunkus rex.

MANS BEST FRIEND- The Teenage Years, Part II

It was bound to happen sooner or later.

True, things had tapered off, but that was natural.

The last time we spent any quality time was back last October at the Allman Brothers Concert, and a few days prior when he got his driver's license.

We had a blast.

Fast Forward almost a year-- nature continues to take its course-- Joe Fisher, aka Man's best friend, and his Dad have seen less and even less of each other. School was in, out, and back in again, with a great amount of Father and Son time spent with Father watching son play High School Baseball.

Yep, Joe STILL loves Baseball. And Golf. And Fishing. Thank goodness.

Right now though he doesn't recall just who it was pumping all the baseball data into him while he was still in the womb....but that's ok. ('twas I)

The Fishing poles and Golf clubs sit idly by and gather a fair amount of dust.

Alas, every Father has to deal with this---I would have hoped for advanced warning.

I never saw it coming. In hindsight Ray Charles could have seen it coming.

It began with all those showers he was taking.

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For the record, they have been "going together" since about the time it snowed this past winter.

For more of the record, she is a very nice and pretty girl not to mention well mannered.

At any rate, the young lady and Joe are an "item" now, I guess, if that's how we are supposed to say it--or so says my sons facebook page.

I will get over it.

The prodigal son will return. We may even go fishing and golfing again, or even take in a Braves game. He even told me not long ago that one day if he has a son he is going to name him "George".

Hopefully there's time to sort thru all that. At the moment I have more than I can say grace over with his highness, Pootipottamus Bunkus Rex (his AKO registered name). I am his "Tah"--which is my Indian name, roughly translated into "Big Chief what thinks him in charge but Sue Squaw really is..."

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But this isn't about me. It's about Joes poor unsuspecting Mamma.

A few months back as Joe was making his lunch to take to school, Sues face turned as white as a sheet and fairly shrieked---- "WHAT IS THAT ON YOUR NECK?!?!?"

There was an uncomfortable pause.

In the moment of that pause the dogs scurried away and hid under the couch. I twisted the top on to my traveling coffee mug and winced simultaneously. It was pure reflex. I could smell the impending doom.

The room, in fact the entire house, grew deathly quiet.

I felt the house shift slightly on its foundation as the last word emitted from Sues mouth.

Everything was in slow motion by this time.

Yes.

It was.

Oh no you just didn't.

And your Mamma just saw it.

A hickey.

Defined in the dictionary as follows:a temporary red mark or bruise on the skin (as one produced by biting and sucking)

It's the "biting and sucking" part that made Sue faint.

Joe didn't say a word.

He looked over at me and gave me a grin that only a mortician could remove.

Did he not know he was about to meet his maker?

It was at this moment that I did what any sane Father and Husband would do under the same circumstances.I grabbed my coffee and headed for the door as if shot from a cannon.

In the adrenalin rush, which must be the same in heated combat, It all happened so fast. I am pretty sure I heard a "thud" and perhaps out of the corner of my eye thought I saw Susan's' lifeless form hitting the floor. I kept moving as fast as I could, yelling out loud and to nobody in particular that -

"IGOTTAGOI'MLATEANDIGOTTTAMEETINGGOTTAGETGASSEEYALLTONIGHT"--

I may be crazy, but I'm not necessarily stupid, and I wasn't about to watch the impending train wreck. There are times in our (my) life (lives) that it's "Every Man (Woman) for himself (herself) and brother (sister) this was it! As I burned rubber out of the driveway, I had a mental picture of Sue as she regained consciousness on the kitchen floor to the feel of our three dogs licking her in the face.

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Long Story a bit longer

Joe, of course, now 17 as well as being ten feet tall and bulletproof, took the ensuing days as good as any man I've ever known. He avoided his Mom at each opportunity. For a good two weeks he washed his own clothes and no one had to remind him to park the trash at the curb. A quick study, I thought to myself as I watched him one evening take his dinner plate to the sink, rinse it off and promptly place in the dishwasher, prior to going back to his room and playing the guitar with the amp turned down to an acceptable level so as not to disturb anyone. I am somewhat amused as my son spreads his wings a little more. We played golf recently and have spoke of Fishing. Both dwell somewhere out there on the horizon. Closer to light is the Friday night date and gas money scenario. My wallet has been opened 575,874 times since April.

Back to Sue.

She has recovered nicely, and remains the Plymouth Rock of the United State of Fisher. I told her she has to take it one day at the time, just like the drunks. We have turned the corner....

She gives Joe that look and Joe knows he is toast. He now knows the secret to a long life is making sure the trash makes the curb on Tuesday night in addition to keeping those collared shirts handy.

Like MacArthur, the prodigal son shall return.

In the meantime, Pootipottamus Bunkus Rex and his "TAH" will be whiling away our hours in the Man Cave. He likes baseball and all my stuff on the wall. He shows promise at almost two. I need to get to work on him now, as there is much to learn if he is to be a FISHER. It's my job to ensure he soaks it up like a sponge. So far, so good. Joe is welcome down there anytime.

But like I said earlier, It ain't me. It's Joes Mom I'm worried about. I'm sure somehow I can help her through this.