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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

On this week's Keepin It Real, Cam Marston continues to be interested in the research he's doing on retirement trends. He's discovered something called a Men's Shed which is different from a Man Cave where men can go and stand next to each other.

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My work continues to lead me into retirement research. Specifically, how to make retirement fruitful and productive. One of the leading causes of an unhappy retirements is too few friends or no friends at all. Referred to as social isolation, the US Surgeon General said that social isolation is as unhealthy as smoking fifteen cigarettes a day. I find it interesting that being alone is as unhealthy as repeatedly inhaling smoke into your lungs. They seem dramatically different to me. Oddly, there are times I need social isolation to stay healthy or at least to stay sane. I guess too much isolation is the issue.

This research on retirement led me to something call Men's Sheds. Not Man Caves, which are for a man and maybe his buddies to drink and watch sports in spaces painted in testosterone. This is a Men's Shed. I first heard about them in Australia and now they've grown to Canada. They're destinations for retired men to gather and do something together – more than watch sports and drink. They're places that retired men gather to work on things with their hands. It seems a lot of them involve wood working and fixing things made from wood. One retired person has the tools and knows how to use them and opens up his shed for everyone to come and mess around with the woodworking or hang out while other people are messing around. Men around the community join them and they gather in the Men Shed regularly to build and fix things. It gives them purpose and camaraderie, which, if I read all this correctly, men seem be on the search for more so than women. It doesn't say why.

Furthermore, and this interested me, is that men develop friendships shoulder to shoulder. They watch things together next to one another or do things together next to one another, and friendships develop. And I think about the number of fathers I've come to know over the years as we stand together facing the ball field or the volleyball court watching our kids play. We had great friendships, and I only got to know them and come to like them when we stood side by side. I think that's kinda interesting.

Last thing and I'll get off this topic - is the many fewer places for men to gather. Having a 'men only' space is taboo today. In fact, many things 'men only' is taboo today. I mentioned to a friend in Oregon that I'm a member of a male-only Mardi Gras organization. He wondered what kind of misogynistic world I live in down here in south Alabama. He wondered how civilization has passed us by. How could I possibly be a member of such a thing? I let it go. But later in the same conversation he quietly admitted he had no real friends where he lives. He has to travel to see his friends. I felt for him. So I sent him a picture of me and my buddy standing side by side on a Mardi Gras float wearing big grins and throwing beads with the note: "Sure looks like hell, doesn't it?"

I'm Cam Marston, Just trying to Keep it Real.