The Heartbreaker Banquet

I have seen a whole lot of music in the past decade.  I'm a sucker for music documentaries, musician biographies, and, most of all, live concerts.  In music documentaries, there is a recurring figure: usually a gray-haired and gray-bearded guy in his late-50s or early-60s reflecting on the event in question: Woodstock, the Festival Express, etc.  He's probably wearing tie-dye because the director asked him to, but you get the feeling the tie-dye may come out a bit more often than his children would like.  You also get the idea that Jerry Garcia always was and always will be this guy's hero.

Anyway, at some point in the interview, the guy says: "Something really happened there, man.  I mean, really happened."

This comment, said in the most "far out" voice possible, generally produces a smirk or an eye roll from me.  I assume that what "happened" was substance abuse, probably some decent tunes, but altogether moments of passing significance. 

This cynicism, and I think it's fair to call it that, has been reinforced by my live music experiences.  I've delved into the festival environment through eight or so Austin City Limits Festivals and two Bonnaroos.  I've also hit a handful of smaller gatherings.  These events are a ton of fun.  Great music, great food, interesting hardships, logistical challenges, and stories that may or may not be shared someday with my son.  But these events have also grown to unwieldy proportions. I've had a great time, but it rarely feels like a unique experience, and the crowds are just too large to really allow for connections between festival-goers.

But this week Megan and I attended the Heartbreaker Banquet, and I can finally tell you: something really happened there, man.  I mean, really happened.

The Heartbreaker Banquet

I first learned of the Heartbreaker Banquet through a musician named Jonny Burke (more on Jonny below) who also happens to be one of the brains behind the operation.  Last year he told me about the event and invited me to join.  Between a brutal caseload and a wife who was eight months pregnant, I decided to make the terrible decision to stay at home.  Afterwards I drooled over the press write-ups and decided this mistake could not be repeated.

For starters, the venue is absurdly good.  The festivities take place in an abandoned movie set from an old Western that happens to be located on Willie Nelson's ranch in Spicewood, Texas.  The ranch is far enough from Austin to feel like a break from the SXSW chaos but close enough to be accessible.

Within the Wild West town, known as Luck, Texas, music was performed on two stages--a larger outdoor stage and a small stage in the movie-set church.  Given our particular bias for acoustic guitars and heartfelt ballads, Megan and I spent most of our time in Willie's church, but the big stage is perfectly set up to pack a punch but still feel connected to the band.

The amenities were incredible as well.  Sponsors include Lagunitas, Left Hand, and Tito's Vodka, which means no one went thirsty.  Food trucks provided the grub.  Any cardiologists reading this will be happy to know I helped develop their future business with some bacon fried rice with fried egg on top, courtesy of Be More Pacific.  I'm not even sorry.  I probably worked it off by dancing later.

Most importantly, tickets are somewhat tricky to come by.  We chatted with quite a few of our fellow concert goers, and it seems people obtained tickets one of two ways: they either knew somebody on the inside or jumped through the various entertaining social media hoops to land tickets (at one point they were providing ticket codes to people who managed to get to a particular donut shop and post a picture with the owner . . . another code was projected on the side of a building at 5th and Congress . . . pretty innovative stuff).

This meant the crowd was both intimate and full of people who really wanted to be there.  At one point Megan sat down in Willie's church without realizing she was sharing a pew with Shovels & Rope.  We had a great conversation with Valerie June's publisher, which gave us some real insight into her music and background.  We met a guy who used to build furniture with the bass player for The Happen-Ins.  Maybe this is just what life in or near Austin is like these days, but the ticketing process helps narrow the crowd into superfans and music lovers.  It's a special thing when sound checks and stage changes vanish in a moment due to excellent conversation.

The Music

Of course, none of that matters without extraordinary musical talent.  While the acts cross a number of genres and styles, most of the bands at least this year loosely fit into an Americana-singer-songwriter-roots-blues-rock type vibe.  Someone on stage has a guitar in hand, and that guitar most likely has a hole in it, and the hole was probably put there by someone else during a bar fight in 1973.  Banjos, slide guitar, tube amps, mandolins, an old Strat, a Martin OM, fiddle, mustache, beard.

I'd say the acts speak for themselves, but a lot of the talent at Heartbreaker fits in the "up-and-coming" category.  I raved to my friends: "Guys, guys, . . . guys, I'm going to get to see Houndmouth live and in concert.  So stoked."  The return expression made me question whether I'd somehow slipped into Mandarin.  I'm guessing my regular reader hasn't heard of them either, but seriously, just listen to Penitentiary.  So so good.  And turns out they do a damn good live performance as well. 

But that's the brilliance of the banquet.  Performance after performance, we would walk away thinking we just couldn't believe we saw that level of talent in that size a crowd.  The accessibility was truly amazing.  The person sitting next to you at one show would be playing drums during the next one.

We saw a lot of music over the 10+ hours we spent at Willie's.  I recommend looking at the lineup and exploring every artist, but I thought I'd hit some of our favorites here.  I need to DEEPLY qualify this by noting that we did not see everyone, and, as I mentioned, we had a strong bias for watching bands playing in front of the four rows of pews in Willie's church.  I didn't even see Shovels & Rope, which was one of the bigger draws for me at the outset.    

So, now that the disclaimer is out of the way, here are the five performances that really made our day.

Riley Downing & the Tumbleweeds

I have a playlist called "Bourbon Sippin'."  This playlist is one of my guilty pleasures.  It comes on late at night after its namesake has been consumed in sufficient quantities and goes best with a campfire.  The artists are what you might expect:  Hank Sr., George Jones, Willie, Warren Zevon, Vern Gosdin, David Allan Coe, Bill Monroe, Townes Van Zandt, and others.

Every song performed by Riley Downing and the Tumbleweeds belongs on this playlist, and I intend to add them once I can track down the music.  These guys write great songs that your grandfather would be proud of.  They are songs I wish I could hear out of the radio in my great-grandfather's El Camino that I remember riding in on his farm in Panhandle, Texas.

I spoke with Riley for a while after the performance and got the feeling these songs came from a deep place in his upbringing as well.  He asked me to take his picture next to Willie's church, noting that where he comes from everyone keeps a framed picture of Willie Nelson next to their fireplace.  That's the kind of music these guys play, and we loved every minute of it. 


Samantha Crain

Going into the event, I knew Samantha Crain had a song about my favorite city, Santa Fe.  That song happens to be called Santa Fe, and you should check it out.  Not surprisingly, that brilliant bit of songwriting is not her only great work.  Her gorgeous voice and intricate lyrics joined beautiful instrumentation from a fiddle, upright bass, drums, and pair of guitars.  We got the idea immediately that we were in for a treat, as Samantha indicated she was able to play some songs that didn't quite work in the crowded bars she usually played.  If you are a fan of heartfelt lyrics and performers who pour themselves into everything they do, check out her albums.

Valerie June

My path toward loving blues music goes back quite a ways.  I remember as a kid listening to my dad play Robert Johnson recordings often followed by Eric Clapton and Stevie Ray Vaughan.  In college, I ended up doing a research project comparing Elvis Presley and Che Guevara.  My research on Elvis's influences pulled me deeper into blues music including Arthur "Big Boy" Crudup and the pantheon recorded on the Sun Records label.  The research prompted me to balance my blues listening--as I would rotate between Robert Petway or Howlin' Wolf and newer bands with a blues basis like the Black Keys or the White Stripes.  I probably learned the most about the blues from Megan's father who blogs about blues music and who has written two thrilling mysteries loaded with blues music and history, River Bottom Blues and The Devil's Blues.

With that in mind, Valerie June's music fits beautifully in the blues tradition.  Her take on classics as well as the songs she has written herself fit within the tradition of great blues music while including her very unique twist.  Her music has strong echoes of country and gospel influences carried by captivating vocals and simple instrumentation ranging from guitar to soprano banjo (think banjo ukulele).  She calls her music "organic moonshine roots music," and after hearing her play in Willie's church, I don't think I can improve on that description.  Megan and I would have loved to sit in the church and listen to her play all afternoon.  We eagerly await her future releases.

Jonny Burke

In September 2006, I headed to Austin for my bachelor party.  Our group gathered at Threadgill's on a Friday night to enjoy a relatively cool evening and live music.  The headliner that night was Bob Schneider, playing with the Texas Bluegrass Massacre, but as we walked in, an opening act we had never heard of was playing.  We walked through the venue, bought some beers at the bar, and sat down at picnic tables.  Pretty soon we realized we had stumbled across some real talent.  The band, consisting of Jonny Burke and Sean Faires, was called the Dedringers, and these guys could write some songs.  The lyrics had strong echoes of Townes Van Zandt and Steve Earle, and we were thoroughly impressed.  The next morning one of my friends checked the Austin Chronicle and learned that the Dedringers would be playing again on Sunday night at midnight at Momo's.  So, a few days later, we rounded up even more folks and showed up to the gig.  Apparently Sunday at midnight is normally a lonely time to play, and Sean and Jonny seemed pretty surprised to suddenly have a crowd of hard partying fans who had shown up just to see them.  It was a great show, and I am certain my exceptionally rare "Live at Momo's" Dedringers' album will someday be a valuable collectors item.

I saw the Dedringers several times after that over the years at places like Gruene Hall and Floore's Country Store.  As time passed, you could tell that Jonny and Sean were headed separate directions creatively, and by the last show I saw, it felt like watching two different solo artists swapping songs.  A great time, but you could tell the end was near.  Turns out is was.  Now Sean and Jonny are running separate directions, and it has allowed them to really develop as musicians and songwriters.

Jonny played Saturday late in the afternoon in Willie's church, and the performance brought me right back to the gig at Momo's.  Jonny's set consisted almost entirely of new songs, and the writing was just brilliant.  His songs craft images and tell stories in such detail that you feel like you are living them.   In some sense this is scary, as he pulls his audience into dark stories of strippers and drugs and people down on their luck, but that's often where great songwriting takes you.  El Paso is one such song.  Saturday afternoon he played a new song about a stripper named Chloe, which reminded me of Townes' Tecumseh Valley.

Jonny mentioned the show was being recorded, and I eagerly await its release.  His prior records are excellent, but I got the sense on Saturday that Jonny's best work is still ahead of him.

Shakey Graves

In November I found myself in Austin for a conference for work.  When such an opportunity arises, I try to track down my college friends to get an update on what I'm missing by not living in the ATX.  My former college roommate, Shelby, picked me up from my hotel to go visit another former roommate who had just had a baby.  As I got into the car, I noticed some interesting music playing.  Some of the songs sounded like something I should have known about or felt like I would have heard before, but there was something different about it I couldn't quite place.  The pick patterns were spindly and surprising, and there was a fuzzy feel to the recording that made me think it came from vinyl that had been slightly damaged by decades of use in a backwoods Southern juke joint.  There were songs about moonshine and death and a lyric that resonated with me strongly following a long day at my conference: "Life's too short for a business lunch."

Shelby told me the recording was from Shakey Graves, and he popped it in the player because he thought I'd like it.  Good call, Shelby.  I liked it a lot.

Shakey Graves is the brainchild of Alejandro Rose-Garcia, who has steadily built an ardent following in the Austin area.  Some great press has helped, but, most importantly, he writes amazing music that listeners connect with very deeply.  The Austin Eavesdropper has a great post about this connection and his music in general, so I'll let her talk about that and move onto the dancing.

While his recordings have a gorgeous melancholy feel, the live performance is electric.  Part of this is a product of the mechanics of the performance.  During sound check, Shakey walked out with a strange suitcase, which he set down behind the microphone.  I anticipated the suitcase to be full of pedals or other equipment until I realized the suitcase itself was an instrument--a drum.  He set up a tambourine and two bass drum pedals, which he operated by stomping his heels.  Then he shouldered his archtop acoustic guitar, and Willie's church came alive.

The performance was mesmerizing.  He produced consistent rhythm through hundreds of calf raises while picking his guitar with frenetic energy and remarkable accuracy.  The exertion of the performance appeared in his face but resonated well with the music played.  The crowd was hooked.  By the end of the show the entire congregation was on their feet dancing and stomping along with Shakey.  I wondered at times whether the old church in Luck, Texas, would finally fall apart as the crowd became one giant percussion section.  I've seen a lot of live performances, but nothing I've attended compared to the energy and pure collective joy of that moment.

Next year?

Megan and I stuck around a bit longer to catch some of Will Johnson's haunting music and to see Jim James, someone I had last seen as he fronted My Morning Jacket in the pouring rain at Bonnaroo.  Both were great performances, but we were pleased to let Jonny and Shakey wrap up the day for us.

As this was the "second annual" Heartbreaker Banquet, I can only hope that it will be followed by a third annual Heartbreaker Banquet.  It is hard to replicate the magic of an event from one year to the next.  With this level of talent, I imagine it is tempting to open the floodgates to larger venues, larger crowds, and pricey tickets, but the folks running this event seem to do it for the love of great music, and I am optimistic that they will preserve the feel of this event going forward.  I know I'll save a little space for this on my calendar next year.  I have no idea who will be playing then, but after this year's event, I am certain it will be a wonderful time.

      
 

Home for Sale

We are on the brink of putting our home on the market.  When we bought it, I knew that probably someday we would move somewhere else--time passes, families grow, people move.  Now that the inevitable move is upon us, I'm finding myself nostalgic and emotional about the place.  The Knapp men are known softies, and I'm no exception.  So, before we say farewell (and perhaps to further our marketing efforts), I thought I'd reflect on our five years at Merrilee Lane, the place where our family was born.

The purchase of the house on Merrilee in October 2007 was, in many ways, an endpoint to what had been a fairly vagabond existence for me.  For most of growing up, I split my time between two houses.  Both were wonderful--whether I was rocking to the Smashing Pumpkins on my sweet boombox and learning to make masterful apple pies at one house or greeting my then-toddler sister at 2 AM to watch the Lion King at the other.  But the back and forth was tough at times. College meant the usual constant moves from dorm to dorm, study-abroad program to study-abroad program.  Law school was more of the same, as I had a knack for moving into housing situations that were temporary such as my accidental move to a party house on a street I later discovered went by "McFratty Boulevard."

On October 14, 2006, Megan and I got married.  At the time we lived in an apartment of the future as perceived in the past--like something out of the Jetsons or the Soviet Bloc.  Modern stylings, loft-like living, cold and strange architectural details.  We started our house search in February 2006, put a contract on an old Tudor-style home in September 2006, and then, when our realtor, Brenda Sandoz, quickly perceived our contract was not going to work out, we visited just one more place--the house on Merrilee Lane.

In that first look, we could tell the house, which was built in 1948, had its issues.  We noted a hump in the ridgeline of the house and rotten French doors leading to a deck.  There was a carpeted mudroom that had been well-loved and seemingly well-urinated by the owners' dog. The owners' children had left an array of crayon sketches in unusual places such as cabinets, closet doors, and ceilings.

But we barely noticed these minor defects.  Instead we fell in love with a big backyard and deck.  The open floor plan and spacious rooms foretold great parties.  After bouncing through dorms and apartments, this house provided room to breathe, and we fell in love.  We celebrated our one-year anniversary eating Scalini's Pizza on the floor of the kitchen while we waited for coats of paint to dry.

Queue the montage of home improvement.  I spent about ten hours and four Home Depot trips on a beautiful Fall day replacing door locks. We painted nearly every interior surface in the house, some multiple times to get the color just right.  We ripped up the dogified carpet and added tile.  We installed gorgeous and shockingly expensive French doors to replace those that had rotted.  We added gutters to protect our shockingly expensive French doors.  We straightened the hump out of the ridgeline.  We gardened like fiends, turning a barren patch of clay soil into an abundance of flowers, herbs, and vegetables.  We had beers on the back patio with our plumber, a guy who has had a hand in replacing every water-related appliance in the house.  We hired a window cleaner named Keith to clean our windows, and then we repaired the windows when Keith accidentally sent his ladder crashing through a couple of them.  We replaced a rotting and warped pine fence with a beautiful cedar one.  When baseball-sized hail arrived this past summer, we put on a new roof.  We created a laundry room, and I spent many hours in the crawl space, wishing I were a much shorter person as I adjusted the dryer vent.

But it was so much more than five years of maintenance and hard work.  We hosted three semi-legendary (at least in our minds) paella parties.  We hosted wedding showers and then baby showers, sometimes for the same couples.  We hosted out-of-town family: aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, brothers and their girlfriends, cousins, college friends, and really anyone who needed  place to crash in Dallas.  We cooked and hosted our first Thanksgiving--which featured a turkey sheltered by a geodesic dome of pears. I grew and later shaved off two excellent mustaches.  Megan and I spent many hours together, just the two of us, with books or guitar or pottery wheel or conversation, a glass of wine or pint of beer, on the back deck enjoying the sunshine, the shade, and sometimes a summer rain.

We got a dog named Harper in April 2009 who changed the way we lived.  We became defenders of socks, and we spent hours walking him throughout the neighborhood just trying to expend some of his precious puppy energy.  In the process we met many more of our neighbors and wandered the shores of White Rock Lake, desperately trying to get Harper to overcome his fear of bridges and kayakers.

This year we turned the office into the guestroom and the guestroom into a nursery.  Miller moved into the house in April, and again our lives in this house were transformed.  In his earliest weeks, his cries could be soothed by a few minutes in the backyard where he would stare up at the big tree.  We rocked him for hours  and paced around the house trying to get him to sleep.  He and I watched a lot of Texas Rangers baseball--particularly when the Rangers were out West and the games ran late.  He peed on us a time or two (don't worry, future buyers, we cleaned up), and he transitioned from consuming small quantities of milk to craving bananas and rice cereal, avocados and sweet potatoes.

We love this house, but we know it is time to move on.  If you know someone looking for a great place to live, send them our way.  We'll be happy for them to look around and see the possibilities.  For now, as we have for the last five years, we'll enjoy beautiful Fall days on the back deck discussing the future while Harper chases squirrels and Miller stares up with wonder at the big tree.  

Cadillac Ranch

Zanzibar Ferry

I just turned to BBC News to see that a ferry sank traveling between Zanzibar and Dar es Salaam.  Megan and I took this ferry during our honeymoon, and, based on that experience, I can imagine the terror that likely ensued in the lower part of the ferry.  Our thoughts go out to all on board.

Miller at One Month

The Joys of Poop

Yesterday evening I had the pleasure of spending several hours with Miller while Megan was out the house.  My mother-in-law was also around, using her wisdom to help me avoid parental malpractice, but it resulted in more one-on-one time with the little guy than I have had since we left the hospital.

I gave him a bottle (of milk), which he greatly enjoyed, and afterwards held him, basking in the glory of fatherhood.  Suddenly, Miller formed a distinctly concerned and confused expression on his face.  His eyes locked with mine, his forehead wrinkled, his wispy eyebrows twisted downward.  If he could speak, I expect he would have said: "WTF?"  A groan, more facial contortions, and then, explosion.  I felt massive vibrations in my arm along with a splattering sound of epic proportions.  Miller's face relaxed.  Poop happens.  But, for us, these explosions still feel like little miracles.

Some my readers will have seen a version of this story I posted in a Facebook competition for Graham Brothers Jewelers in Amarillo. The story I posted for Graham Brothers has resulted in a lot of feedback from friends and family who were unaware of the ordeal, so I thought I would expand the discussion here.  In short, for months before Miller's birth, we were afraid poop wouldn't happen.

At a routine sonogram around the 20th week of Megan's pregnancy, the sonogram doctor noted that Miller had a "prominent" stomach.  In other words, his stomach was larger than average.  They noted no other major warning signs, but they decided it was important to monitor the condition.  This resulted in monthly sonograms that transformed from exciting glimpses of our child to dreaded events adding to our anxiety.  Month after month we had the same result: prominent stomach, no other warning signs.

We hit a low point about two months before the due date.  Megan received a call from the sonogram doctor around 8 PM one evening.  The doctor stated she was concerned about the latest sonogram findings and recommended an MRI in order to get more information about possible conditions.  Her concerns ranged from intestinal blockage to unformed intestines, to cystic fibrosis, to a whole host of other possible problems.  In the course of that conversation, our mild concern transformed into a hefty pile of worry.

We ended up rejecting the proposed MRI.  The approach would have required sedating both Megan and the baby and would possibly fail to provide any additional information.  Instead we waited, hoped and prayed for the best, and prepared for the possibility of needing to bring in specialists after birth.

Miller was born at 3:09 PM on April 26.  His birth, followed by a healthy-sounding cry was wonderful, but lurking at the back of our minds was his first poop.  We wanted a full, stinky diaper, and we wanted it as soon as possible.

The following hours flew by in a frenzy of nurses and family and other visitors.  We had Megan's recovery to tend to, and we also had to figure out how to take care of the little guy.  Hour after hour passed with no diaper filled.  By 9 PM, we were exhausted and needed some rest.  We asked the nurses to wheel Miller to the nursery for a few hours until he needed to eat again.  We both immediately fell into an exhausted deep sleep.

Around 11 PM, the night nurse brought Miller in for an attempted feeding.  I asked her, "Any chance you had to change a diaper?"

Unaware of our particular concern and potentially suspecting I was questioning her skills as a caregiver, she responded, "Yes, we changed his diaper."

At this point, I'm sure both Megan and I looked insane and desperate.  Megan's bevy of drugs had left her with a series of unusual facial expressions normally bordering on a vacant, droopy stare, but, at this time, transitioning to a hopeful, vacant, droopy stare.  My intense nap had left dried remnants of drool on my cheek, and my hair was a messy disaster.  I asked urgently, "Pee or poop?"

Apparently used to dealing with crazy people, the nurse responded: "Both."

Megan and I broke into huge smiles.  We hugged, we kissed, and I'm pretty sure we even high-fived.  I text-messaged family and friends who were equally thrilled to hear about Miller's first bowel moment.  About an hour later, I witnessed some beautiful pooping with my own eyes in real time.  In case the nurse didn't already think I was crazy, I was gleeful as the black muck oozed all over the changing table.

We are now three weeks in, and he's still packing diapers.  While my excitement at the dirty ones has died down a little bit, I am still thankful for every one of them.  I'm told this opinion will change when he moves to solid foods . . . but I'll enjoy it right now.

Miller Clay Knapp, Born April 26, 2012

He's here. I can't imagine a more transformative and amazing fourteen days than the weeks we have spent with Miller.  This time has flown, but here is the update.

This Ain't Sea World

Megan and I struggled to sleep the night of April 25. We celebrated our last evening out without needing a babysitter with a dinner at Bob's Steak and Chop House, but even the effects of excellent beef and (for me) delicious wine were unsuccessful at calming us in the face of such excitement.

The morning of April 26 was worse. We both wandered the house aimlessly picking up, organizing, reorganizing, creating meaningless tasks, and generally trying to prepare for the unpreparable (so maybe that is not a word, but it seems appropriate to describe impending parenthood).

At 12:30, we arrived at the hospital. Our anthem of the morning was the brilliant Andy Samberg/T-Pain collaboration, "I'm On A Boat." Specifically, as IVs were inserted, blood drawn, and heartbeats monitored, the lyric, "This ain't Sea World, this is as real as it gets," repeated over and over in our minds.  By 2:45, Megan was summoned to an operating room to have a massive needle inserted into her spine. I donned scrubs and joined her at 2:55.

At 3:09, we had a baby. Megan's doctor lifted him over the curtain to give me a first glance--and he was bright purple. I knew to expect a purple baby, but the sight was still shocking and disturbing. The little guy then let out a strong cough, shoved some fluid out of his lungs, and released a healthy cry that is perhaps the most beautiful sound I've heard.  Megan and I are very cool and tough, but we teared up at the sound.

Megan's view at this point was restricted to the curtain separating her head from the surgery taking place. I was able to peak around the curtain and see the nurses clean, weigh, and test the baby. A digital scale, complete with a panda and a sunshine-rainbow, announced his weight at 7 pounds, 7 ounces.

Tests completed, the nurses brought us Miller for our first opportunity to spend time as a family. By 3:30, we were headed to recovery.

The Learning Curve

Megan and I are overachievers to a fault. We collectively have about forty years of formal education, and we approach most new adventures through careful research and study. Before visiting South America, we ordered extensive road maps to assist in travels around Patagonia, studied multiple guidebooks, contacted local acquaintances for details, and arranged a sophisticated itinerary. Before getting a puppy, we studied dog training books from at least three different authors while also interrogating friends who had well-behaved pets regarding methods and techniques.  We've put poor Harper through four dog training courses (which has paid off splendidly, as noted below).

We approached having a baby with a similar methodology. We attended multiple classes: classes on breast feeding, classes on baby CPR and first aid, classes on general baby care, classes on C-sections and C-section recovery. We read books including What to Expect When You're Expecting, What to Expect the First Year, Bringing Up Bebe, Secrets of The Baby Whisperer, and So You're Going to Be A Dad. Megan joined multiple email lists that would circulate updates and advice on that stage of the pregnancy along with tips for preparing one's home.

As we got to the hospital, I got the sneaking suspicion that I had no idea what I was in for. Megan's anaesthesiologist highlighted this point by asking if we had read any books. We said "yes," to which he replied: "Good, so you know how to raise other people's children."

That evening, as our guests slowly left the hospital, and I found myself in a room with just Megan and Miller, I began to realize that the real education was about to begin. The nursing staff--particularly a night nurse named Erin with astonishing patience--provided great help, but it quickly became apparent that Miller would operate on his own schedule, learn to feed at his own pace, and, significantly, leave us having to identify problems through a cryptic series of seemingly indistinguishable cries.

A few weeks later we are getting much better in that department. He head-bobs like a raver at a metal concert when he's hungry. He has a fairly specific cry when he needs to burp. Once that burp comes, he sounds like a 40-year-old bratwurst eating champion letting out a triumphant victory belch. He is exceptionally talented at evading diapers. The wet and dirty ones don't seem to trouble him too much, but perhaps that is because he manages to distribute his expulsions well beyond the bounds of the diaper itself. We still refer to the books sometimes, but Miller has his own ways of working with us. We'll figure it out together.  

Our biggest adventure so far was Miller's newborn photo session. Having seen her amazing work for some friends, we hired Leslie Lane of Lane Portraits.  Before her arrival, Leslie shared the secret formula: keep the baby up for an hour before the shoot, turn the house to 85 degrees, and then feed him well right before the photos should begin.  For somewhere near 90% of babies (so I'm making up this number), this induces a coma-like slumber in which the little one can be molded into angelic poses and photographed for hours. 

Miller was not in this 90%.  Instead, the feeding made him want to feed more . . . and more . . . and more.  He went on a four-hour feeding rampage with brief moments of quiet in between.  During these brief moments, Leslie snapped photos until the peace would again be disrupted.  Fortunately, Leslie is a pro, and she managed to capture some gorgeous material with relatively few shots.  We'll post them when they arrive.  Unfortunately, Miller's prospects of employment as a baby model are now gone.

One of our biggest concerns was how Harper would handle being edged out as the baby of the family.  Harper is a great, if highly energetic, dog.  He loves to play with all creatures, and he greets most visitors with enthusiasm.  We feared this enthusiasm would result in him tormenting Miller.

Instead, his golden retriever genes seem to be kicking in.  He regards Miller with curiousity but has avoided licking or otherwise antagonizing the baby.  He seems perplexed by some of the sounds Miller emits, and he often dodges the crying by moving to the other side of the house to sleep.  Harper still looks at stuffed animals, pacifiers, and other baby possessions with a particularly hungry glare, but, for now, all is peaceful in human-canine relations.

We are also learning to use all the baby gadgets. In the photo above, Megan improvised a bottle warmer.   Since then we've mastered a more sophisticated bottle warmer device, which does the job efficiently and without implying that we are boozing our child.  We have bottle sanitizers, wipe warmers, baby monitors, swings, bouncers, strollers . . . all the tools of the trade.  Won't be long and we will literally be able to operate all this stuff with our eyes closed (and a good thing too, as we will likely be exhausted).

I will try to do a better job keeping new content on the blog.  We have some travels ahead--a San Angelo wedding in June, a trip to Amarillo in July, and a visit to Red River, New Mexico.  While Miller has enjoyed occasional brief outings, the road trip will be a new task entirely.  But I'm sure we'll have it all figured out by then . . .