Married, with Kids

 On February 22, 1985, I married Susan Shaw Franks and, upon vowing to love, honor, and cherish, became “Dad” to nine-year-old Michael and ten-year-old Tiffiny. Without question, that day stands among the greatest of my life.

Before Susan, I had never pictured myself raising children. A year earlier I had been widowed, and what followed was a season of reckless survival.

Nights blurred together in seedy Miami bars, with too much liquor, too many drugs, and an aching emptiness that no amount of noise could cover. My routine was grim: get off work, collapse for a few hours, then hit the streets until dawn. Coffee, shower, work, repeat. I was on a downward spiral, certain that my life had lost its purpose.

But God had other plans. He nudged me out of Miami and into Dothan, Alabama, where I went to work with some former colleagues. Life there moved slower, and within a couple of months I met Susan—a strong woman raising two children on a convenience-store wage. From the start, our conversations circled back to Michael and Tiffiny. She told me about the years of moving between Leesburg, Florida, and Joiner, Arkansas and how determined she was to give her kids stability. I doubt Dothan was meant to be her permanent stop, but once we crossed paths, everything shifted.

The more time I spent with Susan and the kids, the more normal life felt again. I had convinced myself that God had sent me to take care of them, but I soon realized the opposite was true—they were sent to rescue me. They pulled me back into the real world, the world of ordinary, decent people.

Marriage didn’t erase our struggles. I carried debts from my Miami days, and Susan had been scraping to make ends meet. But we made do. Instead of bar-hopping, I poured myself into fatherhood. We took camping trips, bowled on Friday nights, and sometimes piled into the car for spontaneous Saturday drives that often carried us across state lines. No destination, no agenda—just the joy of discovering the world together.

I even built a treehouse in the woods behind our house, a project that grew bigger every weekend. It sprouted add-ons and even a ramp that stretched from the yard up to its deck. Before long, it became the neighborhood hangout. To the kids, I wasn’t just Michael and Tiffiny’s dad—I was the *cool* dad. Truth be told, I relished that role more than they ever knew.

Michael especially had been yearning for a father. He wanted someone to fish, camp, and explore with—someone to call “Daddy.” Suddenly, my life had meaning again. We fished every creek and river around Dothan, sometimes renting a boat for the day. One favorite spot was Cypress Creek, a little stretch of water just off Highway 231.

One evening, Michael and I stumbled across a car hidden on the trail near our fishing hole. It sat abandoned, but I kept us focused on fishing. Days later, the car was still there, unsettling us both. Michael wanted to "check it out", but I feared that the owner might be lurking nearby.  Weeks passed before the mystery unraveled on the evening news: that car held over two hundred thousand in cash, a .357 magnum under the seat, and drugs in the trunk. Michael shouted, “See, Daddy? I told you we should’ve looked inside!” I had to laugh, reminding him that the police would’ve taken the money anyway. 

Fishing became our ritual. I passed down my favorite lures—ones I had inherited from my father. Michael lost more than a few of them to tree branches or snags under the water, and I fussed, though I secretly lost just as many myself.

Together we fished across Alabama, Georgia, Florida, South Carolina, and Tennessee. Our favorite waters ran beside my sister Janet’s property, where we caught countless fish and collected a lifetime of stories.

It has been nearly a decade since Michael and I last fished together. His work—tearing down and rebuilding commercial jetliners—keeps him busy. I couldn’t be prouder of the man he’s become, yet I miss those days on the water. Maybe now, in retirement, I’ll carve out time again. Maybe I’ll dust off my rods, and maybe Michael will join me, just like he did when he was a boy eager to tag along with his dad.

Life with Tiffiny was different, full of the challenges and joys of raising a teenage girl. We bowled, roller-skated, and took road trips. Once she began dating, I couldn’t resist grilling her boyfriends as if they were applying for jobs.

Her poor prom date had to outline his education and career goals before she whisked him out the door, mortified. I probably embarrassed her often, but we had fun, and those years left me with memories I cherish.

There’s a sweet but fleeting season when your children see you as the smartest man on earth, when they trust you completely and call out for “Daddy.” That time passes too quickly. But the memory of it lingers like sunlight after a long day, warming me still.

And so, I think I’ll head out back and rummage through the shed for my fishing gear. You never know—Michael just might call, and if he does, I’ll be ready.