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.

1984: Heartbreak and a Year of Living Dangerously

 

1984: Heartbreak and a Year of Living Dangerously

Back in 1980, I packed up my whole life and moved to South Florida with Melissa, my wife. I’d landed a job as Chief Engineer for Firedoor Corporation of America in Miami. That title sounded mighty important at the time—had a nice ring to it on a business card—but truth be told, it didn’t change much. I was still doing the same kind of work, just with a shinier label. Still, the pay was better and I thought I was climbing the ladder.

Melissa and I settled into Hollywood, Florida—just a stone’s throw north of Miami—and except for a guy named Tom Stone, an old co-worker of mine, we didn’t know a soul down there. That kind of lonely gets into your bones after a while, but I was chasing something I couldn’t quite name. More money, more status, maybe just trying to prove something to myself.

My folks back in Leeds, Alabama, used to say they wished I’d find what I was looking for and settle down. What they meant was, “Come on back home, son.” But I’d gotten a taste of city life—restaurants, nightlife, even had a membership to the Miami Playboy Club where I’d take clients for lunch. Yeah, it was that kind of life.

Then everything changed.

Around 1983, Melissa started showing signs that something wasn’t right. She was off balance, got weak and confused at times. Eventually the doctors told us she had multiple sclerosis and sarcoidosis affecting her brain and lungs. It was like getting the wind knocked out of us, and the first doctor gave us hope that never really showed up.

After a few months of hospital visits and no improvement, we brought her back home to Birmingham and checked her into Brookwood Medical Center. That’s when we heard the hard truth. She wasn’t going to get better. We decided she’d stay with my folks in Leeds so I could keep working. They took such good care of her—waited on her hand and foot like she was royalty.

I brought her back to Florida for a while, but it was just too much. She couldn’t be alone, and I couldn’t be there all day. She started imagining things—wild stories she’d tell me when I got home, stuff that clearly hadn’t happened. That’s when I knew she was slipping away. Another doctor gave us the final blow: there was no recovery in sight. I sent her to spend some time with her family in North Carolina. We talked all the time, but my work started to suffer.

She came back to Florida one more time, but things got worse. She fell into a coma not long after being admitted to the hospital again. Her folks and younger brother came down to be with us.

On Valentine’s Day 1984, the doctors told me she wouldn’t make it through the night. That same day, my sister Lisa was in labor with my niece, Cory. I leaned down and whispered in Melissa’s ear, “Please don’t go today. Lisa’s in labor.” I like to think she heard me because she hung on a couple more days. She passed peacefully on the evening of February 16.

Her body was flown home to Birmingham, and two coworkers drove me back to Leeds. I was numb. I remember almost nothing from those days, just flashes. What I do remember is this: the love people had for Melissa. The funeral procession stretched for miles. My dad said, “If you want to know how much she was loved, just look behind us.”

I went back to Miami, but I was just going through the motions. I didn’t pray. I didn’t lean on my church. I was mad at God—angry in a way that only a broken man can be. I started drinking, then spiraling. The nights got longer, the mornings got harder. I’d wake up with hangovers in strange places—sometimes in Liberty City, sometimes in Little Havana. Bars, backseats, bad decisions.

I started mixing in drugs—weed, cocaine. I saw some dark things in that world. Beatings. A shooting. Honestly, I think I was trying to die without doing it myself. I just didn’t want to be here anymore. But, somehow, God didn’t let me go.

Then one day, Larry Masters called. We’d worked together back in Leeds. He said the company we worked for had moved to Dothan, Alabama, and they needed an Engineering Manager. I said, “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” It was the first good decision I’d made in a while.

I flew to Dothan, took the job, rented a house, and started digging myself out of debt and despair. I still cried most nights, but work kept my hands busy. The new company was learning how to deal with custom architectural jobs, and I was the guy explaining the ins and outs of it all. That challenge helped steady me.

Then one day, Vic Shultz walked into my office.

Vic was all swagger—red-haired, straight outta Wisconsin, and full of confidence. He threw a little get-together at his apartment clubhouse and made it his mission to pull me out of my funk. We'd talk, sit around listening to music, and slowly I came back to life. Vic had just gotten out of a bad marriage—I never asked questions—and he was always chasing women. One day he was dating a convenience store manager named Margaret, and she had a roommate named Susan.

One night, Vic tells Margaret, “There’s this guy I work with, widowed, sad, good heart—you need to set him up with Susan.” Margaret brings it up to Susan who replies, “Fine, but the guy better not be expecting any hanky-panky.” (Her words, not mine.)

We went to dinner and then out dancing at a place called The Red Barn. I danced one dance—I’m awful—and then we mostly just talked. Susan could talk up a storm. She loved her kids, Tiffiny and Michael, and told me all about them. I liked her right away, but we didn’t see each other again for a while.

A few months later, I ran into her at the convenience store where she worked. We started talking again, and eventually we went out a second time. That night she told me more about her life, her friend Pat who was like a mother to her, and her family in Leesburg, Florida. When she talked about her kids, her whole face lit up.

She invited me over to meet them. Tiffiny put on a whole show, acting like a movie star. Michael came bursting in from outside yelling, “Mom, he’s got a limo!”—because of my tinted windows. I laughed harder than I had in months. When I left that night, all three of them hugged me. It felt like coming home.

The more time I spent with them, the more I felt like I belonged somewhere again.

One night, I told Susan I wanted to marry her—but I asked the kids first. Tiffiny ran to get Michael, and when I said I wanted to marry their mama, they both lit up. Michael hugged me and said, “I’m gonna have a Daddy!” I cried like a baby. We got married the very next day. Vic was my best man.

Not everyone tells this story the same. There are things about 1984 that are just between me and God. There are parts of Dothan I’ve left out on purpose, and Vic, bless him, has kept those chapters closed too.

I don’t see Vic much anymore—haven’t laid eyes on him since 1995—but he’s still in my life, in that quiet way only old friends can be. He shows up in my Facebook feed, and I know he’s still watching out for me.

So Vic, if you’re reading this—mark your calendar for the end of August. I’m coming to see you. We’ll drink to old times and new ones, to the wives we love and the kids that saved us. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll smoke a stogey and remember what it felt like to be invincible.