Keepin' It Real with Cam Marston

On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam has learned that there are moments in time where a simple guttural sound really really matters. And they can't accumulate because they expire quickly. All this relates back to an incomplete Christmas present. ----- I got an ant farm for Christmas. My kids laughed and they told their friends and they laughed but my family came through and on Christmas morning I opened an ant farm. It has a main chamber and two auxiliary chambers. I set it up just like the pictures showed. A few weeks ago, in March, I got the ants for my birthday. Apparently, the farm didn't come with ants, a detail we overlooked. They are harvester ants and I worked with an ant guy in Raleigh to select the species. He wanted pictures of the farm and info on where the farm would be positioned in relation to lights and windows and such. He considered Mobile's humidity and suggested harvester ants. I pretended like I gave his suggestion some thought and agreed. They are, right now, working diligently over my shoulder from their spot on the kitchen counter. Every day all of us stop in front of the farm to comment about the work they've done overnight. Last night my wife and I spent a while on my new favorite AI called Claude – I call him Claudius because he feels Roman to me – and learned that ants can go a month without food, they really need water, they nap for two minutes at a time, and their poop is microscopic. I've dropped hints about needing a big magnifying glass so we can see them up close, identify each of them and name them. Laugh all you want at my ant farm, but I've become very proud and protective of the health and vitality of my ants. Last night as my wife was staring in at the ants, she made some thoughtful observations about them. Each of the things she said, grammatically speaking, ended with a period and not a question mark. I remained focused on whatever I was doing, and I noticed a sudden change in her body language as she quickly stood up and walked away. My inner alarms sounded. "Did I do something wrong?" I asked. Well, apparently, in my house, my wife's thoughtful observations about ants deserve acknowledgements from me. Some sort of something suggesting I heard her and am now also considering her shared observations. And that sound is, I think, this: Huh. For example, when my wife says 'That ant, I think his name is Bruno, is carrying a grain of sand all the way from the main chamber to the little water chamber and found a perfect spot to put it.' I should reply: Huh. Apparently, based on her tone and body language in the debriefing of my errant ways, that 'Huh' matters. A lot. So all last night I offered lots of Huhs. And gave some extras that I asked her to bank for when I forget to reply Huh to her future sentences that end in periods and not question marks. I was told, however, that Huhs don't bank, which is a shame. So, get an ant farm. Don't forget the ants. Don't forget to Huh after your wife says something about the ants and it gets uncomfortably quiet in the room. I'm Cam Marston and I'm just trying to keep it real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam has been pitched by a software company to duplicate himself. Who would want another of him? Even he questions his own worth from time to time. ----- I've just come from my accountant's office where I handed all my tax information to the lady at the front desk. The manilla envelope was much lighter this year than in years past. Last week I had a long talk with an AI guy out of Houston. He said he loved to find people like me – content experts with books and videos and training programs and blogs and podcasts and such. He wants to take all content I've created over my thirty years in business and feed it into an AI thing he's created and create an on-demand Cam Marston kind-of-app. He told me I can read a couple paragraphs into a recorder and the AI can duplicate my voice so very closely, no one will know the difference. Once all the content is fed in and I've read my paragraphs, my clients can come to my website and ask me a question, and the app can answer the question in my own voice. I can charge a monthly subscription for my expertise and reach out to my clients who've used me repeatedly and let them know I'm now open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Thirty years of work, thirty years of research, five books, two training programs, three hundred podcasts, as many blogs and three million airline miles used to get all of it all turned into an app. Now I can create content by simply asking myself questions using the app. And my answer can be turned into a video of me talking as well as an article, a blog and a full-length podcast. All I have to do is format the output and promote it. Promote artificial me. The AI guy really has no interest in whether anyone subscribes or how I use it, he simply wants the fee to set it up. I've been thinking about this. There's a lot that's fascinating about all of it. And I can see the appeal. But I'm unsure if I want this. I'm unsure if I want to participate. I feels, for some reason that I can't exactly explain, like a downward spiral. Ultimately, with the way things are going, it will become my client's AI interacting with my AI – neither of us ever talking. I'm getting old and grumpy, but I don't believe another app is going to solve anything any more. More apps do not make life better. And so often when my clients ask me about their teams or employees, I learn that hidden in the heart of their question is a question about themselves. I don't think an app can address this like eye contact and listening can. Which may explain why my volume tax documents continue to get smaller. Where this is all heading leaves a distaste in my mouth. And rather than furiously try to keep up with this race to clone myself and quickly disgorge myself of my hard-won content through some app, I'm wondering if I'd rather not just walk away. I'm Cam Marston, just trying to Keep it Real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam realizes that he really had no choice over what he gave up for Lent - it was given to him and he's not happy about it. ----- Our new puppy continues to rule the house and my life. She was trained by the breeder to urinate on a pee pad which is exactly what it sounds like – an absorbent mat for dogs to urinate on indoors. At our house, that means the carpet. She'll trot off the hardwood floors, pass the open back door to find the Persian rug and squat and look at me with an expression of "look how good I am!" Meanwhile the whole yard in available to her. Making this a bit more challenging is, as I write this, my wife is in Raleigh with her parents, and my twins are in the throes of their senior year of high school which means friends are greater than puppies. That leaves me. I find myself explaining to the puppy why a yard is better than a rug to leave her mark. Her expression is, well, skeptical. As I write this it is my deceased mother's birthday, giving me a solemn feeling and I learned today that I had volunteered to spend the night with my father after his knee surgery helping him dress and get to the bathroom and all that. All this leads me to this – apparently, I gave up happiness for Lent. I don't remember choosing this. I think it was put upon me by the Almighty. And it has started out strong, I must say. I can only hope it's easier from here on out. I mentioned my Lenten happiness sacrifice to a friend and he paused and said, "Yeah, but Cam, is that truly a sacrifice for you? I mean, is that really much of a change?" which stung a bit and made me unhappy. However, considering that I've committed to unhappiness for lent, I thanked him. In order to maintain my commitment, I plan to do the following until Easter: First, I will read the headlines and scroll through social media within five minutes of opening my eyes each morning. This will set the unhappiness expectations for the rest of the day. If something that I've seen or read gives me lift, I'll immediately add flavored creamer to my coffee which will return me to my targeted Lenten disposition. Next, I'll list all my unachievable goals and list everything I've ever wanted to own and don't own. I'll read the lists aloud each day. Third, I'll live in the past and recall my regrets and worry about the future and the bad things that will certainly befall me. That's a good one. Happiness evaporates when you do that. Works every time. Fourth, I'll become an Auburn fan. Fifth, I'll beg my sons to get a haircut. If I run out of ideas and find myself slipping into happiness, there are a few of you I know I can call to get me right. You seem to have mastered unhappiness. Not only are your cups half empty, your cups are full of holes. Normally I avoid you but until Easter, I'll need your help. I'm Cam Marston and I'm just trying to keep it real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam wonders what the life span of a titanium knee is and whether his father might need one or two more with the way he's going. ----- My eighty-nine-year-old father is scheduled to get a knee replacement next week. Let me say that again - he's eighty-nine and getting a new knee and is eager to return to his very active life when the pain subsides. He's done this once before and wants the same results. People stop me nearly every day to ask about my father. They comment on how healthy he is and how he never slows down. This is true, though I can attest to him slowing a little over the past several years. He is eighty-nine, after all. Over Christmas holidays my brothers and I were with him at his property in Clarke County. We were all sawing on an oak tree that we were sectioning for firewood. We've done this nearly every Christmastime for about forty years now – felling the tree, cutting it into pieces and then splitting those pieces and stacking them in a rack near the camp. It will become the wood we'll burn next Christmas, letting it age about a year before burning, and we cut a lot of it every year. Dad has always led the way on the firewood. He finds the tree and leads the way on the cutting. His use of a chainsaw on a tree is the equivalent of Michaelangelo's use of a chisel on a block of marble – his dissection of the tree is a work of art. This past year, though, with four saws all buzzing at the same time, I heard one stop, saw dad put his saw down and step back and rest. "I'm going to let you all have at it," he said over the noise of the saws. Good, I thought. My brothers and I are beyond capable. But it may have been the first time I ever saw him step back. A story lives in the lore of that cabin in the woods. It comes from when I was a pre-teen and I had a friend there with me. Dad started cutting trees for firewood. Our job was to drag branches, do our best to split the logs, and put the split pieces in the trailer then unload and stack the wood in the rack. It was hard work and we were tired. We had gone through three trees and Dad stopped. My friend's face showed relief – finally, he was saying. Enough. We had some water. Maybe a sandwich. Then Dad cranked his saw up again and said, "One more" and marched off towards another oak tree. My friend's face fell and we all heard him say over of the noise of the saw, "Another tree??" That line lives on today when we're cutting wood. Another tree? Yep. Another tree. I don't know of any other eighty-nine-year-olds getting knee replacements. It's remarkable. He's always been able to outwork me. And in a few weeks, he'll be back to blaming his partners for losing at pickleball. He'll be sharpening his chain saw. And he'll be eyeing another tree. I'm Cam Marston, just trying to keep it real.

In a few coastal cities in the deep south, in the weeks before Lent begins, a strange behavior begins to appear. Honorable and respectable people step into a different personalities for a short time. They do it together, and it's a heck of a good time. ----- Grown people acting like fools for a few days might very well be good for the soul. I'm not sure how large groups, primarily of men, agreeing to behave silly is therapeutic, but it is. I'll leave it to some psychologist try to explain it. As a participant, though, I assure you, it's good stuff. Over the top costumes, over the top floats, parading, parties, dancing. It's not behavior most participate in unless it's limited to a certain calendar window and amongst friends and neighbors. My wife's cousin visited over the holidays. She toured one of Mobile's museums and saw the extraordinary displays of costumes and the photos of floats and our city's royalty and their flamboyant, extravagant attire. It was all over the top, as it is intended to be. I told her that some people simply don't get it and she summed it up perfectly – to enjoy it, you have to be in on the joke. And that's it. I've not heard it said better. You've seen skits on TV or pranks where one person is playing the fool but won't let on that he's doing it? His face and behavior are serious and intentional, but all the while, but his behavior is, well, foolish. The people around him play along and everyone enjoys the spoof. Well, what if a group of people are in on the joke, behaving ridiculously for a narrow window of time but not letting anyone know that they know it's a spoof. In Mobile, Alabama, these groups are largely called Societies or Orders. In New Orleans they're called Krewes. They're all in on the joke. And what is the joke? The joke is that this doesn't matter but we act like it does. That our supposed kings and queens are kings and queens of nothing. Kings and queens of a type of Kabuki theater played out in front of the masses in elaborate, flamboyant costumes for their own entertainment and the enjoyment of their Societies, Orders, Krewes, their invited guests, their mothers and fathers, and, perhaps, their whole cities. There is no reason to do this. There are stories that tie these celebrations to preparations for lent, to Easter, even explaining the behavior away to the days before food could be refrigerated. But, underneath it all, there is no good reason to do this. And that's why we do it. That's part of the fun. We agree that for a while we look at each other out the side of our eye and for a few days and we'll not hold each other accountable for the silly things we say, or do, or wear. All is understood, Ok'd and soon forgotten. I have a ridiculous top hat that I'll wear in the coming days with my Mardi Gras costume. People will tell me I look like a fool. They're not in on the joke. They don't get it. Of course I do. And my reply to them will be this – and it's something they won't understand. I'll simply say, "Happy Mardi Gras." I'm Cam Marston and I'm just trying to Keep it Real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston admits that from time to time when he's on his knees at church on Sunday he asks himself what in the world he's doing. Has he, maybe, lost his mind. ----- The Mayan god of rain was called Cha ac. When drought hit the jungles of Central America fifteen hundred years ago, Cha ac was called upon to send rain. So, the Mayans, led by their shaman, offered a child – children, actually. The archeologists who studied Bartlett Cave in Belize say they found the bones of eighteen children in one area alone, and there were many areas. None of the children were over four years old. The Mayans would not kill the child. They'd leave the child to die in the cave believing that the child's crying and tears would evoke pity from Cha ac and he'd send rain. The child, in exchange for their sacrifice, would ascend straight to the afterlife. It's ghastly for us to think about today. Have you ever been deep in a cave and turned off the flashlight? It's a pitch-black darkness that, unless you've done it, is impossible to imagine. The sound of every drop of water is magnified, and your brain begins playing tricks, imagining the dripping sounds are voices. And that was my experience in only five minutes of that darkness. Imagine that for days as the child slowly starved to death. Again, it's ghastly. The Mayans were utterly convinced their faith was right and correct and holy. That their communing with their gods and their interpretation of their god's messages told them what their gods wanted and instructed them how to live in a holy way. They fought other tribes for their gods. They forced their captives to convert and worship Cha ac as well as the many other Mayan gods. And they did this for centuries. This was a religion with a theology and a practice and a hierarchy of men who claimed to know. How different are we today? What's changed? I listened this morning as the bishop of my church talked with certainty and confidence about our church, its lineage, and its strengths. He spoke with certainty about what God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit undoubtedly want from each of us. How the practice of our faith is a pathway to both the heaven of an afterlife and a heaven on here on earth right now. He's a member of a very long tradition of shamans, medicine men, priests, rabbis, saints and others that commune with the invisible, telling us, with confidence, that he knows what god wants from and for us. That his reading of the sacred texts, his communing with his god, and his reading of the patterns of the earth say, with certainty, that he's right. That he's on to something. That he knows. The shamans told the Mayans that Cha ac demanded the sacrifice of a child. How could a god ask for such a thing, we wonder? That's insane. Well, my god walked on water and came back from the dead. And each Sunday we drop to our knees we partake in a ritual where he asks us to eat his flesh and drink his blood. And I do. Is this, too, not insane? So, I ask again, are we really all that different? I'm Cam Marston, just trying to Keep it Real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam is coming to the end of a month of no alcohol - Dry January. February begins soon, though. And Cam's wondering whether he'll continue on or not. ----- My dry January has just a couple days left. This is the third consecutive year I've participated in Dry January and I've remembered again how much I like it. Thirty nights of good sleep. I feel like I've lost ten or twelve pounds. My head is clear each day. The benefits are amazing. And, just like the last two years, I wonder why I don't do this more regularly. When my wife moved to Mobile with me, she noted how the parties down here start around Halloween and go straight through Mardi Gras. There is no let up. Nearly every weekend is a reason to gather, to have a party of some sort, and accompany the party with a drink or two. It reaches a crescendo around Christmas and another crescendo at Mardi Gras. I've found that Dry January serves as a nice break in the party pace after Christmas and before it picks up again for Mardi Gras. And after a go-go holiday season, I find it nice to prove to myself that I'm in control of myself. I like a bold glass of red wine and a tasty IPA and putting them both aside for thirty-one days is, I feel, a fruitful and worthwhile discipline. Oddly, when I tell some people that I'm participating in Dry January, I get dismissive comments. "Loser," they say. Or they tell me I'm weak which is exactly what I'm trying to prove to myself that I'm not. They're kidding, but only kind of kidding. If I were to tell my friends that I'm not going to yell at my wife for thirty-one days, they'd applaud me and offer support. If I told them I was going to stop beating my dog for thirty-one days, they'd say, "Good. That dog doesn't deserve that." If I shared that I would no longer berate and belittle my children for thirty-one days, they'd offer me firm, unwavering support. So, declaring that I'm dropping behaviors that destroys families and shorten life-spans, gets me firm support. Except when it comes to alcohol. When I tell people I'm dropping alcohol for thirty-one days, which certainly can destroy families and shorten life spans, I'm called a loser. That makes no sense but that does reflect…something. I'm not sure what, though. It's clear to me that the habit of having a beer or glass of wine in the evening is the part I like the most. It's that ritual that I crave. And Sunday afternoons about 5pm is when I crave that ritual the most. Stella Artois non-alcohol beer is my go-to in those moments. It's not the same as a high gravity IPA, which I love – especially Braided River Brewery's Hoppy By Nature, that stuff is nectar - but it does scratch the itch, especially when I know that all this will be over at the end of the month. Which it will be. Or may not be. Again, the benefits of drying out for a month are great but I also like a little tipple at the end of a long day. I don't know. I'll have a tough decision to make this coming Monday, when dry January ends. I'm Cam Marston and I'm just trying to Keep It Real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam's family got a new puppy. It's been nearly ten years since they got their last dog and much of his memory of having a puppy is gone. The memories are coming back fast. ----- We got a puppy. Her name is Rosie. She's a doodle of some sort. And while I say "we" got a puppy, truth be told, my wife got herself a puppy and the family will share it with her. My wife stalked Rosie down when the litter was one week old. It was in Hudson, Indiana and she found it through an online search using something called puppyfinder.com. Rosie came from a litter that had its own web page. Long gone are the days of classified ads in the newspaper announcing free puppies to anyone who can come get them. Rosie has a microchip. She has papers, or something like that. And I don't have the courage to ask my wife how much she cost. My wife drove twenty hours round trip with a night in a hotel to get her. And Rosie is the boss of our house right now. I'm unsure if she is our pet or if we are her pet. If a pet is defined as an animal that brings joy and entertainment, then we are most definitely her pet. Any whine from the dog gets someone's full attention. Whenever she goes for a toy, someone is there to help her play with it. And she has wipers. She uses the bathroom with reckless abandon, and someone is there to wipe it up and wipe her up. No sultan or pharaoh ever had it so good. She sleeps sporadically. We take turns getting up with her throughout the night, me standing outside in the cold in the dark in my underwear saying things in a high-pitched dog voice that I hope will goad her in to going to the bathroom. "Be a good girl. Be a good girl, Rosie. You know you need to go. Go ahead. Be a good girl. Squat, please. Squat. Please." Then I bring her back to her crate and get back into my warm bed, hoping she won't whine. Long ago, when our kids wouldn't go to sleep, we'd feed them Benadryl. However, get caught drugging a dog so that it will sleep will call out the pet gestapo. People will tolerate some sort of non-traditional methods of raising your children. But get caught doing something considered unusual to a dog and whew! People will take your pet from you then burn your house down. Puppies are, though, perhaps the cutest animals on the planet. But they require vigilance. And surveillance. My wife has paid and subscribed to an app on how to raise puppies and train dogs. It says we aren't to tell the puppy No until they're older. I didn't ask my wife if there were fine print telling us to throw our common sense out the window. But we have, in favor of an app. Thankfully the app has not prohibited me from hollering WHAT ARE YOU CHEWING NOW. Or DON'T BITE THAT DON'T BITE THAT DON'T BITE THAT. Or WAIT WAIT LET ME GET YOU OUTSIDE. Or saying to my wife, "I think it's your turn to wipe it up." I'm Cam Marston, just trying to keep it real.

On today's Keepin' It Real, Cam admits to packing something very strange on his recent trip. The result is an encounter he's always hoped for - it was the fulfillment of a long-held dream. ----- There is a series of episodes of the old sitcom Cheers where the character of Cliff Claven visits Florida and won't stop talking about it when he gets back. I'm about to do the same from my wife and my short trip to Belize. Last week's commentary was on the Mayan ruins my wife and I visited there. Today it's my Belize hummingbird story. I love these little birds. To me, any animal that moves like they do and flies as quickly as they do and their only food is, essentially, sugar water deserves respect. They expend extraordinary energy with a diet that consists of only Gatorade. When my wife and I got into our hotel room, I unzipped my luggage and assembled the hummingbird feeder I brought. My wife was unaware I had packed it and she gave me a look of concern. "Maybe you've gone too far," she was saying, "when you travel with your own hummingbird feeders." I filled it with the sugar water I had packed in a thermos and stepped outside the hotel room and found a tree branch and hung it up where I could easily see it and get close to it. By that first afternoon, a blue headed hummingbird had found it and was feeding regularly. It was very active at the feeder in the evenings and morning and each day I'd sit near the feeder and get closer and closer to it so that it began to recognize me and realize I was no threat. On day three I put out small feeders that fit in the palm of my hand. They have a small elastic band on them that you can fit over your finger. I left them near the feeder and the bird began feeding from these smaller ring feeders and I kept them full. I tried to get close, but the bird would dart away. It was a much larger bird than the ones at our feeders here in Mobile, maybe twice the size, and when it flew it made a huge buzzing sound. I tried repeatedly - it wouldn't let me get close. We were leaving Belize on day four. Checkout was eleven AM and we had to eat and pack and get on the road. I woke early, got near the feeder and put the ring fingers on the index finger in both hands and sat as still as I could next to the feeder. And he came. He fed at the feeder then came to ring feeders in my hand and hovered, eyeing me and the feeders warily. I could feel the wind from his wings. And then he drank. I watched as a dream of mine came true – I was hand feeding a hummingbird that I had lured in over four days. He came back and I had my phone camera on and video'd it and showed it to my wife when she woke. I was giddy and I'm not sure why. Such a simple thing but, man, it was awesome. I'm Cam Marston and I'm just tryin' to keep it real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam and his wife went to Belize in December and visited some of the ruins that Belize is famous for. On his trip he stood atop one of the Mayan temples and realized that though it was a long time ago, maybe things haven't changed that much. ----- Just prior to the full brunt of the holidays my wife and I took a quick trip to Belize. I wanted to warm up for a few days – I'm perpetually cold – and see what is known as the broadleaf jungle. We headed inland, into the mountains towards our small hotel. As the altitude got higher, we entered something called the Mountain Pine Ridge Forest. The hills, the red color of the dirt, and pine trees as far as I could see reminded me a lot of Clark County, Alabama. Fortunately, the lodge sat low along a creek and just like in Clark County, the hardwoods were plentiful along the creek side. Towering and massive trees of species I'd never seen. It was beautiful. One day we drove aways and spent a long while at the Mayan ruins of Caracol. You've seen them in pictures. Massive stone pyramids made about 1400 years ago in the heyday of the Mayan civilization, reclaimed by jungle when the Mayans abandoned their civilizations and rediscovered about ninety years ago by a logger looking for Mahogony trees. It occurred to me as my wife and I stood atop the tallest pyramid looking out for hundreds of miles over the jungle canopy, that men sure like to make other men carry rocks up hills. Rocks, by their very nature, typically want to be at the bottoms of hills or they make up the very hills themselves. Why is it that men, to boast of their power and influence, force others to put rocks on top of each other until they've created something massive? Why rocks? Why up? Why fight against nature and gravity? "Hey," someone said. "See that big rock there? Go put it up there," he said, pointing to a higher point. "Naw," the other person said. "It's down there for a reason. Rocks go downhill. That's the way it works. That's what makes them heavy – they like being down at the bottom of hills. Maybe we can put some dried leaves up there. That would look nice." "No," he said in reply, "It'll be rocks up there. You were captured in the last war between our tribes so please get started." So, we got pyramids. Every continent in the world except Antarctica and Australia have stone pyramids, built my men to boast to their citizens and enemies about their power and influence. Seems to be a thing. And they didn't share blueprints, they each did it on their own. Rocks stacked high. And the Mayans would build over the previous king's temple and make theirs higher. Temples stacked on temples. Rocks stacked on rocks. All carried up. Higher and higher. Men. Trying to boast. It has, however, occurred to me that on my back patio is a brick fireplace with a block of granite high up in the center of the chimney that the brick mason put there at my request. The rock was hauled to Mobile all the way from North Carolina. And, I really like to show it off. I'm 1400 years distant from the Mayans but maybe I'm not all that different. I kinda get it. I'm Cam Marston just trying to keep it real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam discussion rebellion in children and how it's recently hit his home. ----- All children rebel against their family and their parents. I certainly did. I see photos of myself as a teen with hair touching my collar and remember my father telling me over and over again to get it cut. I didn't and maybe I didn't because it bothered him so much. I knew my kids would rebel, too. It was inevitable. And much of it's been the same over time – hair styles, vocabulary, music, and clothing. These are the signs of rebellion. They have been for a long long while. My hope was that my kids wouldn't show up at home with some tattoo they got out of rebellion that, once they were older, they'd regret. Wait till you're older, I'd say, when you're more aware of consequences and can make these decisions smartly. My daughters wanted multiple ear piercings. No, I'd say. Adding extra holes to your body are decisions to made in later days. Not now, as a teen, when impulsiveness runs dangerously high. If that's what you want to do some day, great. But not now. Wait. Please. We've always been Alabama football fans in my house. My mother went to school there. She loved it. She told stories about her sorority days and the night she stood up Joe Namath because she saw him from behind as she was coming down the stairs of her sorority house and his hair touched his collar. She went back to her room and called downstairs sick. My father went to dental school at the University of Alabama School of Dentistry which was in Birmingham and eventually became UAB. As kids, we considered it Alabama though not in Tuscaloosa. So our mom and dad went to Alabama in our eyes. I was a fan as a kid and it passed to my kids. My favorite oldest son goes to school there and my favorite youngest son will begin there in the fall. They wore Alabama jerseys as children watching the football games in the den in the fall. Auburn has been the butt of jokes for a long time around my house only because it's our rival and that's the way you talk about rivals. I can remember saying that my kids are welcome to go to Auburn but once they do, they can never come home again. It sometimes got a laugh. Well, last night, my favorite youngest daughter announced she has committed to attend Auburn University in the fall. And I was elated. I truly was. She's found a place that she likes and, based on her friends there, a place that likes her. She's smart and they like smart people at Auburn. She's creative and ambitious, and they like those people at Auburn, too. Gone is my bravado about never sending a child to that cow college on the plains and her never being allowed to come home again. She's breaking a mold, breaking a tradition, carving her own path. And if this is her rebellion against her family, I'm grateful for it. It's not bad, not bad at all. In fact, I'm quite proud of her. I'm Cam Marston and I'm just trying to Keep It Real.

On today's keepin it real, Cam reminds each of us AND HIMSELF that being thankful is not a seasonal behavior but an attitude we should aspire to live year round. ----- Today the tone should be, well, thankful. Thankful for my friends and family. Thankful for my health and safety. Thankful for all the food I had yesterday. Thankful that its finally getting cool outside. Thankful that no one else in my family likes cranberries so I can eat as much as I want. There's a lot to be thankful for but I propose that thanks for these very things needs attention year around. Not a pithy, self-righteous blog post or letter once a year. Which is what has jumped out recently. So today's commentary is about hypocrisy - words versus actions. For example, I got a blast-out letter in the mail Monday from a colleague reminding us that the most important things in life are not fame or fortune but family and friends and this is the time of year to be mindful of that. The letter was sent to his clients and others he's ID'd as influencers. This is the same guy who cancelled dinner plans with my wife and me because he got a better offer. He, in fact, said that. His words were that family and friends are key. His actions suggest he's sincere until there's a better offer. His words were hollow. His behavior hit deep. Additionally, daily, with claws sharpened and fangs looking for places to sink into flesh, some of our nation's most hateful, divisive, and character-less politicians have suddenly adopted this holier-than-thou stance to wish everyone a peaceful Thanksgiving and holy wishes for a holiday season. For the entire year they have wanted their enemies to slowly burn at the stake in public view. Their default rhetoric is hate, however, this week, they take on this BS pious façade, wishing happy and holy peace on friends and enemies alike. Their behaviors are their tell. Their words - scripted and empty. On a personal note, I'm dealing with a manufacturing problem with a hunting rifle. Their social media presence – their words - suggests that they are hugely customer focused. However, getting them to respond to their manufacturing defect has been anything but customer centric. Emails, voice mails, social media connections. No help. Their actions thus far suggest that once you buy their product you cease to exist. Hypocrisy galls me. Am I guilty of it? Certainly. Have I have said one thing and done another. Many times. I'm no saint. But I'm aware of it and I'm working on it. If I'm thankful for friends and family, do I cultivate those relationships throughout the year? If I'm thankful for my health, do I work to maintain it throughout the year? If I'm thankful for a country of freedoms, do I work to protect and serve them throughout the year? If I'm thankful for a successful company, do I value my customers throughout the year? Or do I throw out a vapid social media post annually or a mass-produced letter near the holidays. Do I ignore my customers when they need me to fix a mistake? I hope not. I certainly hope not. Let's work to live the words we say, and live our thanks every single day. On that note, I'm thankful for all of you and this wonderful platform I have to try to Keep It Real.

On this Week's Keepin It Real, Cam is tired of people not from Alabama degrading and belittling our state. But in this certain case, Cam says, we might deserve it. ----- Go find a podcast called The Alabama Murders. It's a seven-episode series by author Malcolm Gladwell done under his Revisionist History podcast. I love Revisionist History – it's been one of my favorite podcasts for a long time but, well, The Alabama Murders is yet another example of someone who is not from here looking at Alabama with shame and disgust. Our state has been the target of this for a long long time. Gladwell goes out of his way a few times in the podcast to say something along the lines of "what you think people would do in this case is this. However, this is Alabama." It's a clear shot at our state. A slap. Degrading and belittling. However, I want you to find The Alabama Murders podcast because, candidly, we deserve it this time. Two men were executed for killing a woman who they did not kill. The jury of their peers wanted them jailed for the harm they did but the judge, who also knew they didn't kill her, changed their sentence to the death penalty in a move called judicial override. If Gladwell's telling of the story is true, after every state in the union had eliminated judicial override, Alabama kept it for a long while. After every state in the union reverted every guilty party's judgment to what was given to them by the jury of their peers, Alabama refused to change any sentences, grandfathering in the judicial override sentencing which led to the execution of the two men who did not kill their victim. Her husband did. Go find The Alabama Murders and hear the story for yourself. The most gruesome part of the story is not the murder of the lady, but our state's repeated failed attempts to execute the prisoners. It was, unquestionably, cruel and unusual punishment performed by men who then took to the media to boast about creating new precedents that states across the nation should adopt. Granted, the podcast included some dramatization. Long silences to let words linger, music that drove home the cruelty inflicted in each execution and attempted execution. And silences where we can only assume the person being interviewed was quietly crying. But folks, there is no question there should be egg all over our face based on what happened. I'm as sick as the next person of Alabama being looked down upon. And as much as I admire and like Gladwell, I've read all his books, I wish he'd sniff around his own backyard to find stories of justice gone wrong. Leave us alone. There are many many good people here but Gladwell seems to want us to think otherwise. However, you do need to hear this podcast. You need to hear all that happened and who facilitated it and who knew about the cruelty in the executions and did nothing and who knew about the true murderer and sentenced these men to death instead. Find The Alabama Murders in your podcasts. It'll make you flinch. It'll make you want to turn away. Don't. Listen to it. And help me hold our state and our elected officials to a higher standard. I'm Cam Marston just trying to Keep it Real.

Are traditions the same thing as routines, they're just done less frequently? And if the tradition is both loved and hated, what does that mean? On today's Keepin It Real, Cam shares that he both loves and hates them. ----- I have a routine that I practice nearly every day. I both look forward to it and hate it. I wake up shortly after 5am. I have clothes laid out on a chair next to the bed and I dress and go into the kitchen and start the coffee. I fold laundry while it brews. I then pour myself a cup and sit in my morning chair and write in my journal for about thirty minutes. I then review my calendar for the day, make a to-do list, boil an egg for breakfast, shower, dress, and head into the office. It's the same thing every weekday. I love my routine. It's helpful. It grounds me. It's something I can control. It's a predictable thing in this unpredictable world. It's reliable and I like that. At the very same time, I also hate my routine. It drains the life from me. It's oppressive. It holds me back. It severely restricts me. It's tyranny. How can something that I love so much, that I count on to be there every day, also crush my soul? It makes no sense, but that's what it does. This, of course, leads me to the upcoming Thanksgiving holidays. Routines and traditions are not the same thing, but they can have the same impact. For years my extended family has gathered at my father's cabin in the woods of Clark County on Thanksgiving Day. I can't be there on Thanksgiving Day without thinking of my mother. She's been gone for three years or so and yet the place still reflects my mother's presence. And Thanksgiving Day was the pinnacle of her presence each year there. She'd set the table in a way I can still remember. She'd send her grandkids into the woods to find leaves that had changed colors for the fall – they're not easy to find in south Alabama. The leaves would be arranged in small vases down the center of the table. There were short wax candle figurines of pilgrims and turkeys that magically appeared on the table each year. They were on that table when I was a child; my kids, decades later, knew to expect them and asked about them. We eat. Comments are made that if you want any food, don't get behind my sister-in-law in the line to fix your plate. The same thing every year. The same comments. The same wonderful food. It's a tradition. It's an annual routine. It's wonderful to fall back on – we know exactly what's coming. It's also specifically prescribed behaviors which we all agree to participate in, which, to me, can feel stifling. However, I happily do it because not having it – this tradition, this annual routine – not having it available to me – would be worse. The meal would feel empty and awful. I cherish it. Just like tomorrow, I'll get up again just after 5AM, get dressed, start the coffee maker, fold clothes while the coffee brews, and so on. It's boring and predictable. But I need it. I cherish it. Not having it available to me would be worse. I'm Cam Marston, just trying to Keep It Real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, it's Friday and Cam's brain has had enough. He once wanted to keep going. Now, he's just hoping to make it to today. ----- I can remember complaining that there simply weren't enough days in the week to get all the stuff I needed get done done. I wished that each day was longer and the work week had more days to it. I wanted a twelve-hour workday and a ten-day work week and a three-day break at the end. That would be preferred, I thought. That way I could get everything done and take a break when it was over. Wow, have times changed. Or maybe I've changed. Maybe it's age or wisdom, but I don't feel the same way about work anymore. I usually charge out of bed on Monday morning with a to-do list that I made Sunday evening. I hit the list hard Monday and Tuesday, adding things to it along the way. By Wednesday I can feel my energy beginning to fade. I'm watching dumb TV at night rather than reading. Thursday morning, I try to get a few simple things done because I know that lunch on Thursday about the last time, I'll be productive that week. Friday, I make a show of it. I leave the easy items on my to-do list for Friday so I can feel like I've done something as I check them off and by lunch on Friday I'm cooked. My brain is fried. I'm tired. Nothing more will get done until my list making begins again on Sunday. At my gym, one of the trainers asked if I wanted to join her workout at 5:30pm on Fridays. It caught me off guard. I laughed a little and told her that by 5:30pm on Friday I'm useless and beginning a workout at that time on a Friday was out of my world of possibilities. I'm more likely to be having a beer with friends or in a ball on the couch, beaten to death by the work week. An organized workout is nowhere near being on my radar. The trainer is young. She looked confused. I didn't even try to explain. I'm beginning to appreciate dentists hours more and more. My dentist begins reminding me of an upcoming appointment about six weeks out with a barrage of texts and an automated voice mail, nearly threatening me to not miss my appointment. The dentist also attaches emotions to their message, as if missing or having to reschedule will hurt their feelings. I feel ashamed and like I've let them down if I have to reschedule. When I arrive, I see they pack their patients into the workweek so that they can take half a day off on Wednesday and a whole day off on Friday. His office is a spinning carousel of open mouths and teeth and the dentist is on the move from patient to patient. But call him after noon on Wednesday or on Friday and you'll get the answering machine. He's gone. So is his team. But my phone is still buzzing with automated messages telling me about my upcoming appointment and how they'll be heartbroken and maybe even cry a little if I can't make it. However, by the time Friday rolls around, I think my dentist and I are living the same dream. He's locked his office door, and I'm shutting down my brain. He's earned his day off, and I've earned the right to stare at nothing for a while. Maybe that's how grown-ups measure success — not by how much we get done, but by how guilt-free we can be when we finally stop trying. I'm Cam Marston and I'm just trying to keep it real.

On this week's Keepin It Real, another chapter closes in Cam's life. And he wonders what comes next. ------ John Cougar Mellencamp has a song called Ain't Even Done with the Night. It's one of my favorites. That song became a regular part of my days four or five years ago. I'd pick my daughter up from her volleyball practice and as we made the turn from the gym onto the larger road, I'd ask Siri to play it. My daughter would protest and moan. "Not again, Dad" she'd say. I'd sing it loudly. It became our song in a weird way. She didn't like it, didn't want to hear it again and again, but eventually began singing it with me. To this day I can't hear that song without thinking about picking up my daughter from her volleyball practice. This week she played her last volleyball match. She's a high school senior, and I watched her walk off the court Wednesday in Birmingham for the last time. She gathered with her team and her coach to talk about the match, and then she lingered out there a while. I stood by, eager to smile and congratulate her on her volleyball career that included many more wins than losses. When she finally left the court and walked to me, I took a big breath, looked into her red eyes full of tears, and could only hug her and kiss her sweaty head. My words were lost. I muttered quietly how proud I was of her, tears in my eyes, voice choaking. Last night my son, her twin, played his final high school football game. Like my daughter, his football community has been a big part of his life since he was in middle school. I located him after game, kissed his sweaty head, and told him, like my daughter, how proud he made me to see him out there year after year as a teammate, a contributor on the field, and a leader of the underclassmen. So, after four kids and hundreds of games and matches, countless hours in stands and on sidelines, it's all over. As I think back on it now, I regret ever complaining about having to pick up my daughters and her friends from another volleyball practice and taking each of them home. I regret wishing I'd get a Friday night in the fall where I wasn't committed to being in the football stands. I wonder how I'll feel when the absence of commitments to my children and their activities makes me wonder who I am now. These tethers that I once begrudged actually offered me meaning, purpose, and an identity. I've heard it referred to as the thunderclap of silence. What will fill that void? And who will I become? My children may be my role models in this regard. Their eyes are already on what's next. One is talking about college roommates already. The other is getting college applications out and acceptance letters in. Their time being on the courts and on the field will quickly fade to memories and stories; parts of their former identity. And for me, it's with great sadness, difficulty, and a lump in my throat, that I reluctantly turn the page. I'm Cam Marston just trying to Keep It Real.