I didn't take a picture today, but I found this one in the archives from six years ago. I went to Micky's house to hang out with him and Rory and their kids for a bit that day, but I don't remember how we got from there to being out and about -- as it appears we are in this photo.
It still doesn't seem real that Micky died in a car accident last year. Here's his obituary, which I wrote with guidance from Heather.
Micky and I went to high school together, way back when. But now he is our tax man. Back then I would have never guessed I would eventually trust him with my personal finances, but I do and I’m happy about it. Life is weird like that.
As I park across the street in front of the large Victorian house with a wrap-around porch, I see Micky open the front door.
“Come on in,” he yells to me, still across the street. He also says something about the baby being asleep and the door having a tendency to slam.
By the time I get to the door, a large white lab is looking at me through the screen. I walk cautiously inside, making sure to ease the door closed behind me. Hardwoods. High ceilings. Early 20th century. I follow the sound of voices through a den, a dining room, to the kitchen. I followed Micky’s voice, but I find Heather leaning over the stove top. Micky’s voice still echoes against the wood throughout the house. It’s become a sound to me, but Heather understands it. Years of practice has left them comfortable communicating with each other using the echoes of this house.
When Micky returns to the kitchen, he’s worked up a sweat. He rolls the sleeves up on his button-down, he takes his sweater vest off, and in doing so he transforms himself from the man who owns Minton and Sons Tax Service to the kid I knew in high school. It’s not long until I’m reminded he is both of those people.
When I feel a shock on my butt, I turn to five-year-old Copeland running away from me with a wooden spoon. I try to take his picture, but he won’t let me. He makes a game of hiding from my camera.
I pour myself a beer from the growler Micky picked up at the liquor store. Stone’s Throw, we think, but it could be the other one he got. They aren’t labeled. Micky pours himself one and asks Heather if she wants a beer as she walks in from the dining room.
“Yeah, is this mine?” she asks, grabbing the one on the island Micky already poured for himself.
When the new one he pours comes out with too much head, Heather ribs him about the bad pour. Micky looks boyishly disappointed, then says, “Yeah, that one’s yours,” giving her the better-poured beer in what translates to me as an admirable display of marital affection.
Heather and Micky move around each other flawlessly in the kitchen, always working as a team. He washes dishes, she puts them up. He feeds Vice, she tends to Copeland. She moves the rotisserie, he mashes the potatoes. When some potatoes end up on the drawer handle, they both come together to try and get Vice to lick it off.
When the baby wakes up, Micky brings him into the kitchen and they take turns holding him as they continue working on dinner. They pass him off like a 20-pound baton. Micky makes room in the fridge for the two growlers we’re drinking from.
“Babe, what the hell…?” He says playfully while pulling out a large bowl with no top. “Choate, you want some old tuna fish?”
The top of the tuna is noticeably hardened. Heather laughs and says, “I was planning to eat that the next day.” Micky puts it back on the top shelf of the fridge.
“Why are you putting it back in there?!” She says.
“There’s no reason to pull it out now,” he says. But then he does pull it out and put it in the sink to wash later.
When dinner is ready, we sit down to chicken, mashed potatoes, corn casserole, and croissants. This is a pretty standard meal in this house, with the exception of the corn casserole, which has been added for my benefit. We sit around their glass-topped table, Beckhem sits in his high chair. Until he decides to stand.
“Buddy, you better sit down,” Heather says. Beckhem doesn’t sit.
They tell me Copeland wants to do right, all the time. He wants to succeed in school, and he does. If they tell him to do something, he will. Beckhem is the opposite. If Heather and Micky tell him to not hit his head on the table, he will absolutely hit his head on the table until it welts. It’s clear they love them both in their different ways.
In looking at what’s on the table and what is in their kitchen, it’s also clear they believe in eating organic foods, and they support local commerce. They order their meat once a month from Falling Sky Farm. They speak with conviction about the benefits of giving back to the community in which they live, in which they are raising their two children. Not long ago, I ran into Micky at the Arkansas Cornbread Festival where he was volunteering. When I saw him, he was changing out a trash bag with a smile on his face. The time I saw him before that, he invited me to a fundraiser he was organizing for a cause I can’t remember. What I do remember was how sincere he was about raising money for something good. Just like he’s sincere now as we talk at his family’s table about how important it is to give kids a chance in life, despite the terrible situations parents sometimes put them in. He doesn’t want to talk about helping, he doesn’t want to get credit for putting on a successful fundraiser, he genuinely wants to help.
After dinner, Copeland and I play a game in the den. He sets balls in the chair—a couple of blue ones, some yellow ones, and red ones.
“If I pick up a blue one, you sling me onto the couch when I run by,” he says. “If it’s a yellow one, then you go slow. And if it’s red, um…um…if it’s red…you don’t do anything.”
As he steps back into the hallway to get a running start, I’m nervous about what I’m actually doing. I don’t quite understand the rules of the game. He charges down the hall on his bare feet. I’m standing with my feet spread wide, my knees bent, like an infielder, and just before he gets to me, he comes to a complete stop at the chair. I can tell he’s searching for a blue ball. He picks it up, and then takes two steps toward me. I pick him up under his arms, my thumb covering the logo of his elementary school on his knit polo shirt. I drop him onto the couch like I do my nieces.
“I got the blue ball,” he tells me. “That was too slow.” And then he tells me he’s winning, I’m losing. I didn’t know we were facing off. The next time he grabs a blue ball from the chair I throw him across the room like a large pillow. He laughs, then declares he has earned another 25 points. When he grabs a red ball, he takes two steps toward me and then we just look at each other. He makes 15 points doing so.
Heather sits in the chair with Beckhem and laughs along with us. Micky prepares to head to the duck woods, and he stops to show me his shotgun. As we walk out of the house together, Copeland announces that he’s somehow up 89 to zero in our game. I have lost the game, but I had good time playing.
Rotisserie Chicken recipe as sent from Micky via email:
Buy chicken, rip guts out, tie legs together, shove a pole up its ass, spin for 90 minutes.
No matter where you are, if you want to invite me to dinner, I’d love to come. In return, I’ll do my best to be a good conversationalist and document a small piece of your everyday life. I’m a fun dinner guest, people. Kids love me. I’ll give your pets a lot of attention. If you want to invite your weird uncle over for dinner, too, so he’ll stop bugging you, now’s the time! I’ll talk to him so you don’t have to.
I live in Little Rock, Arkansas, but I’ll keep a list and when I’m traveling in your area, I’d love to meet you and your family/roommates/cat and enjoy a home-cooked meal. Email me at gchoate17 (at) outlook [dot] com with the subject line: Dinner at Our House.
