Pay-per-view wrestling prices were no joke back in the ’90s, especially for a 9-year-old.

“Dad, can I have $35 to watch WrestleMania?” I asked. “Thirty-five dollars to watch wrestling? Are you kidding me!?”

That was a hard no from Pops. So, I called my Mamaw (my grandmother).

“Mamaw, can I have $35 to watch WrestleMania?” I asked. “What is that, darlin’?” she replied. I told her it was this awesome wrestling event being shown on TV, but I had to pay to watch it.

“I can’t give you $35, darlin’,” she said. “But I have some chores around here that need to be done, and I’d be happy to pay someone to do them.”

There was a tone in her voice that let me know I was the one who could do those chores. My guess was that they pay for the labor would be $35.

I put the phone down and ran into the living room where my pops was lounging and watching TV. “Dad! I need you to take me to Mamaws. NOW!” I sprinted back to the phone, “Mamaw? Dad is bringing me over to your house now. I’ll see you soon.”

My dad laughed and said something to the effect of, “Anything for that, Trippy.”

Dad and I got in the car and started making our way from Fairhope to Lake Forest. The familiar sound of sports radio immediately filled the car, and I rolled my eyes. I never fully appreciated, or understood, listening to sports on the radio until I was older — but that’s a story for another time.

As the car wound through the neighborhood of dense trees and winding hills, I knew we were almost there when I saw the hole in the side of the red-dirt hill. 

The hole is right by the stop sign on the street where Mamaw lived. It wasn’t a special hole by any means. The Alabama weather had almost eroded the entire hill it was on on. 

But I knew that was where some kids died.

Growing up, Mamaw told me a group of kids had been digging a tunnel on the hill when it collapsed on them. The ones inside didn’t make it. They died, she said. Of course, this wasn’t true. But she knew I wanted to explore it, and a story about kids dying was a pretty strong deterrent.

I wonder why I never wanted to go spelunking?

Mamaw was standing on her porch waiting for us when we pulled up. Against the carport wall was an assortment of items, including a leaf blower, a rake, a blue mop bucket with rags and dish detergent inside, and a little cooler with a bottle of white grape juice, some sliced apples, and sharp cheddar cheese.

I got out of the car and ran to give her a big hug. My dad was still sitting in the car, listening to whatever sporting event was on. Mamaw motioned for him to come in before hollering, “Get your butt inside, G.B.!”

While Dad slowly made his way to the porch, Mamaw gave a speech on the chores that needed to be done.

“I haven’t been able to get my car washed in almost two weeks,” she said, hands on her hips with an expression of disbelief that it had been that long. The car didn’t seem dirty to me. It was parked in her exposed driveway, surrounded by tall pine trees, so the only dirty things were a few pine needles.

It’s important to know that my Mamaw was the most moving-around-can’t-stay-still woman I ever knew.

She woke up every morning at 5 a.m. and walked around her hilly neighborhood with a little baseball bat in case a dog ran up on her. Then she would go to the gym by her house. Then she would come home and clean, even if she had cleaned the day before.

Vacuuming, ironing clothes, washing sheets, cooking — she’d take a break to watch her soaps, but even then she’d wind up doing something.

I mention all this to let you know that the car most definitely had been washed in the past two weeks. If I’m honest, she probably washed it the day before. There’s no way in hell she was just sitting in her house looking at a “dirty” car.

“Now, you see all these leaves and pine,” she said, pointing to the pine needles and leaves that covered her driveway. “Scottie (my uncle) can’t make it until later this week to blow the driveway off. And Tripp, all this garbage is driving me crazy!”

Keeping her driveway clean was pointless. 

This was because anytime the wind blew, the damn thing was covered in pine needles and leaves. She could have blown it off herself before pops and I got there and it would have been covered up 15  minutes later if a light wind rustled the pine trees above.

But she made it sound like this was something that needed to be done, and I was the only one who could do it.

By the time she finished explaining everything, my dad had finally made his way to the porch. She eyed him over. “Son, come here,” she said, pulling his face close so she could inspect it. “When was the last time you got your haircut and beard trimmed? Go on in the kitchen, and I’ll be in there after I finish telling Trippy what I need done.”

My dad smiled and headed inside.

You see, my Mamaw was a retired beautician/stylist. She cut my dad’s hair, my brother’s hair, my nephew’s hair, my hair — you get the picture. I swear I didn’t let anyone cut my hair until I moved away for college. Even then, whenever I’d come home from school, I’d tell her I needed a trim — even if I didn’t — so I’d get to spend some time with her.

So, my dad knew when we were headed to Mamaws that he was going to get freshened up without even having to ask.

“Okay. I am going to cut your dad’s hair in the house. You have all the stuff you need out here. I even packed you a little cooler for snacks,” she said with a big smile. “And if you get tired, come on in and take a break.”

I could see my dad through the window already seated in her kitchen. He was facing the TV, which he had already adjusted so he could seamlessly move from the radio version of the sporting event to the televised version.

Once she was inside, I got to work. I knew I had to do a good job because Mamaw had a standard. She was a perfectionist. A neat freak. She was the G.O.A.T of keeping shit clean.

When you came to her house, your shoes came off and you placed them either right next to the door or in a corner where they were out of the way so that someone wouldn’t “trip and break their neck.” When you finished your plate, you better be sure to wash it off and leave it in the sink — but don’t you DARE think about putting it in the dishwasher because Mamaw had a system. 

Only she knew the intricate techniques for loading her dishwasher the right way.

I will skip all the boring details about how I washed a car that I wasn’t even tall enough to reach above the windows, or I almost flew backward when I hit the leaf blower on full power to clear the carport. 

Just know that I tried really hard because I wanted that $35. But, also because I wanted Mamaw to have a clean car and clear carport.

I walked inside to get her so that she could come inspect my work. My dad was now on the couch in her den, watching sports and eating a cut-up apple and some slices of sharp cheddar cheese. 

My Mamaw was just sweeping up my dad’s hair in her kitchen.

When I close my eyes, I can see her sweeping hair. I watched her do it in the salon she worked in when I was really young, then at her house in Mobile, and at the house in Lake Forest. She held the broom with her hands stacked on top of one another and leaned over as she swept. Sometimes she would hum a song.

Her hands were worn from raising kids and grandkids, hard work, yard work, and everything in between.

She was so amazing.

When she finished sweeping, I took her by the hand and led her outside. I was so proud of the work I had done and was so excited to show her. 

As she made her from the porch to the carport she put both of her hands over her mouth like she was shocked. Her eyes got real big. “Oh my goodness,” she exclaimed with excitement. 

“The car looks so beautiful, and all those nasty pine needles are off the driveway. You did such a wonderful job, Trippy.”

She even made a point of walking up to her car and gawking at how clean it was (she would have had it a thousand times cleaner). Mamaw spared no expense to show you how much she appreciated something, and more importantly, how much she appreciated spending time with family. 

“Let’s go inside where my wallet is.”

As a 9-year-old, I felt so good about myself. It felt awesome to have helped my Mamaw. I’m sure my parents wish I had the same sentiment about doing chores around our house. Sorry, mom.

Mamaw grabbed her purse and pulled out her tan billfold wallet. It was worn and loved.

“I only have $40,” she said, rubbing two twenty-dollar bills together. I started to go ask dad if he had change, but she stopped me. “That was $40 worth of hard work, don’t you think?,” she asked me, shooting me a wink and smile. 

When it was time to go, the three of us walked to the car. “Where are you going to watch the wrastlin’ match, Trippy?” she asked. “I think I am going to have some friends over and watch it in the downstairs room on Dad’s TV.”

“Hot dog, that sounds like a good time,” she said, clapping her hands, laughing, and smiling all at once.

She gave dad and I each a big hug for our send off back to Fairhope. Every time she hugged you it has so much power and love in it. Whether we were going 2,000 miles or the short 15-minute drive home, the hugs were always the same.

“I love you,” she said to each of us after receiving our hugs.

As we drove off, she stood on the porch and watched. She waved, and I waved back. I rolled down the window and screamed, “Love you, Mamaw.” She screamed back, “I love you too, Trippy!” 

I kept waving as the card moved further away, and she kept waving back. I always used to watch her when we’d drive off.

I’d look back to see if she ever stopped waving or turned around to go inside when our car faded out of her sight. But she never did. As long as I was waving and our car was in her view, she watched us until we disappeared.

She never turned her back on the opportunity to see her family, even if it was an image of them driving away. She never turned her back on the people she loved.

Two weeks later, when the title screen for WrestleMania XII flashed across the screen, I was lying on the couch eating apple slices and sharp-cheddar cheese. “Anything else before the show starts, Trippy?” she asked. “No ma’am,” I said. “OK. I’ll just be in the living room if you need anything.”

There was no one like my Mamaw. My brain is packed full of all the amazing memories I have of her. 

Spending time with her. Laughing with her on a road trip to Arizona, or talking to her in a hotel room in Montgomery when we were running from a hurricane. Crying in her kitchen when I thought my brain was broken. “Don’t cry darlin’,” she’d say, “Or else I’m going to start crying.”

She was loyal and strong, unwavering in her faith and her belief that family was the most important thing on the planet. I loved her so much.

She was the best. I mean, when I met my best friend, Ron, in the sixth grade, one of the first things I wanted to do was let him hang out at Mamaw’s. And we did! We went over there and spent the night. She made us the world’s best scrambled egg and cheese sandwiches while we played PlayStation in the den. She loved Ron.

Anytime I went over there, without fail, she’d ask. “How’s Ron? How’s his momma and daddy? I love that Ron.”

Her cooking was LEGENDARY, too. Dirt cake, crunchy potato casserole — I could go on and on. Literally, I could take this story in 1,000 different directions because I have a thousand memories of her. 

For that, I am extremely grateful to the Universe for giving me the best Mamaw.

July 21, 2017, Text from Dad: Aunt Kay and Mamaw just got their postcards! You wouldn’t believe how excited they are! Aunt Kay at office! Mom (Mamaw) at house! She called me. Sure she has called her brothers and sisters.

I sent her a postcard from Scotland when I visited in 2017. The card had a bunch of sheep on the front and said, “Scottish Traffic Jam.” Dad said she laughed and laughed. I sent her another one when I was in Ireland of a picture I took of the Northern Irish landscape. She kept them both.

No surprise, though. She had an entire wall of her grandkids and great-grandkids accomplishments. Whether it was art someone had drawn for her, a clipping from a newspaper article with one of us in it, or any other things we gave her went on that wall. 

I bet it spanned 10-feet tall. It got to the point where she had to use a ladder, and eventually she tapped some things along the baseboards. When you have 7 grandchildren and 19 great-grandchildren I suppose space does fill up pretty quick.

My postcards got prime location on the fridge, though. No big deal.

August 28, 2024, Text from LaLa: Mamaw got her card. I just read it to her and just laughed.

I wrote another postcard this July when I was in Northern Ireland. We were visiting the Giant’s Causeway and I saw a card that had a little map on the front with cool markers of famous places in the area. 

I wrote the card while sitting in the cafe that was located in the visitors center.

On the card, I told her how it was tradition to send her a card when I was traveling aboard since I did seven years ago. 

I wrote how much I loved her laugh. Man, that laugh could cure the shittiest of days and make the best days even better. I wrote about how she was the best Mamaw. I told her how much I loved her.

When I finished, I put the card in the mail drop located in the parking lot of the Giant’s Causeway. I wanted it to be super authentic with a postage mark from the area. 

I mailed in on July 20th. It arrived at Mamaw’s on August 25th. I’m glad she got to read it. Thank you, LaLa.

I love you so much, Mamaw. Give Dad and Papaw the biggest hugs for me. Check in from time to time, ya hear?

I’ll be sure to eat some apples and cheese for WrestleMania XLI in April.

I tapped the green felt twice. It was Friday night in Vegas and I was feeling lucky. My fingers aren’t as chubby as my dad’s, but memories of us playing Blackjack flooded my brain.

“Hit me low,” he’d say to the dealer, tapping his two fingers on the table.

I started to cry. I’d say it was weird, but it’s Vegas. People probably thought I was on a losing streak. But also, I could give a flying fuck. 

I left the table, making my way through cocktail waitresses and a cacophony made up of slot machines, players’ cheers and sighs, and people singing Grateful Dead lyrics. 

I got back to my hotel room and turned on Game 4 of the NBA Finals. The Mavs were massacring my Celtics. I was already sad thinking about Blackjack, but then I had one of those moments where I expected my pops to text me.

“Luka is kicking our ass! We will get them in Game 5! Having a good time? Win any money player? Concert good? Looks cool dude!”

That’s the text I was expecting. But I knew deep down my phone wasn’t going to deliver that text.

I knew Father’s Day would suck. And it does. This is the second Father’s Day without my pops. Last year it was the heels of his death that I was sad, but the weight I feel this year wasn’t present. I suppose the reality of it has just become more solidified as time moves on.

The weeks leading up to today are just primers for making it worse. There are fucking advertisements everywhere, basically inescapable reminders that I won’t be celebrating. I tried to think back on past Father’s Day for some good memories.

Of course, I beat myself up for the last one we got to celebrate with dad. Or should I say the one where everyone else but me celebrated with him.

It was 2022 and I had a headache. My sister Shai was having the celebration at her house, where my other four siblings and their families would be. We had planned a little cookout with one dad’s favorite desserts to cap the day: homemade ice cream.

But I wasn’t there. I had a migraine and stayed home. I play it back frequently. My sister Mal leaving the house with dad. “Not feeling good dude,” she said, peeking her head in my room. “No,” I replied in a sickly voice. “Ok. If you start feeling better you can come over whenever.”

I heard her start to leave and my dad said, “Trippy still not feeling good? He’s not going to be able to come?”

What an absolute piece of shit.

That’s what I say to myself when I think about that Father’s Day. I could have pushed through that migraine. It wasn’t bad enough to stay home. What a selfish decision I made. There’s a photo with my four siblings and pops and I’m not in it.

My siblings and family all tell me not to think like that. They say it’s OK, reassuring me of family events they missed because they were sick, or maybe one of their kids wasn’t feeling well.

I know it’s not a kind thing to say to myself, but it’s the reality that comes when someone you love is no longer here. A common pitfall to focus on all of the things you did wrong or didn’t say, losing sight of the good memories.

After the text didn’t come Friday night during the Celtic massacre, I searched my phone for the phrase “Father’s Day.” I found a string of texts dating back to 2016 where I wished pops a good day. They were so lovely.

I usually was working the Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival on Father’s Day, so a lot of the texts were, “Happy Father’s Day from the Roo!” In fact, the festival is happening right now. Dad would respond saying he loved me. I would call him later in the day to chop it up with him, and then the next day I’d ask how his day was.

The texts made me smile. They made the shitty feeling that engulfed me earlier when I was beating myself up about a migraine slowly disappear. And that’s a large part of who my dad was.

He always tried to make people, especially his family, feel better.  I know he saw me beating myself up and said, “Don’t do that, son. Please don’t do that to yourself.”

He was witty, and kind. He gave WAY more than he received. He would move mountains to help the people he loved, or a total stranger. He was more interested in making people smile than himself. He cooked the best seafood ever.

He had an infectious laugh and sense of humor, but also a fierce loyalty that flipped a “don’t fuck with them” switch if he felt his crew was threatened or mistreated.

He was cut from a different cloth. 

Today sucks. But I know exactly what he would do on this day. Before receiving calls from his kids to wish him a happy Father’s Day, he’d send us a group text to my siblings and I, and it would sound something like this.

“Happy Father’s Day to Jeff, Chris, and Jack (those are my 3 sisters’ husbands), and to Justin! I’m so lucky to have four men that are great fathers to their children! I hope they have a great dad. I love you all so much. Dad.”

So, I will make an effort to remember how much I loved my dad today. To remember how much my brothers and sisters loved my dad. To remember how much everyone loved my dad. I’ll focus on my pops, and not that stupid migraine.

WAIT! I forgot to finish my story about Friday night! 

After I rode the intense reality wave of dad being gone, and the Celtics losing big, I got up to grab a shower. I needed to wash the smell of cigarettes (gross) out of my hair. I was reaching in my pockets to set out my wallet and whatever else was in there on the counter when I found a $25 chip.

I thought for a moment. I slid put the chip in my pocket, slid my shoes on, and made my way back to the casino. 

Wearing my tie dye Bill Walton Portland Trail Blazers t-shirt (rest easy, big dude), I found a Blackjack table that was empty. It has a different dealer, thank God. The one from earlier wasn’t very friendly. There was no banter or small talk, and when I started to cry simply they simply said, “Please don’t get water on the cards.”

I sat down at the table and the dealer smiled. I placed the $25 chip down and the dealer laid out the first card…a 2 of spades. Not great, but I was still in the game. Next came a face card, the Jack of diamonds. Ouch. 

I was sitting on 12 and the dealer was showing a face card, but didn’t have Blackjack. I tapped my two fingers on the green felt to signify I wanted another card.

This time, as the dealer was preparing to pull the card I said, “Hit me low.”

Boom. Face card. Bust.

SMACK! I got beamed straight in the eye by a pair of pear, white beads while yelling, “Dad! Dad!” as he floated by on a gigantic alligator. That is my first memory of Mardi Gras.

Fifteen years later, I’d be riding right next to him and my big brother. 

Pops always said, “Mardi Gras is the most fun you can have with your clothes on.” Take that for what you will, but suffice to say he really loved this holiday. He joined the KOER in 1994, a Mardi Gras organization in my hometown. His dear friend, John Ambrose, was already in and talked pops into joining.

Shortly after that, my big brother joined. He rode next to my dad on the Gator. So it was two Taylors in a row. 

You had to be 21 to join, but every year my pops would always say, “When you’re 21, you’ll ride next to me and your brother. I can’t wait to have both my sons riding with me.”

Growing up in Fairhope, it was always cool if you knew someone riding. It meant you were guaranteed to catch something. We’d tell pops and Bub (big bro) where we’d be standing on the route, and they would be on the lookout. As a kid, my brother-in-law would park his truck along the route a day early, right across from the local park. 

It is important to give the riders a landmark. It makes it a bit easier to anticipate where your crew will be so they’re easier to spot in the sea of people. But that’s easier said than done, as I would later learn. 

When they would spot us though, it was game on. 

We’d get pelted with beads, footballs, moon pies, and cups. My sister and I would get home and pour out our plastic grocery bags that we used to collect our spoils in, sort of how you do on Halloween. Back in the 90s the world famous Chattanooga moon pies had not hit the parade circuit in lower Alabama, so we’d get these ones in silver wrapping. Literally never knew what  flavor you were going to get…like a box of chocolates. 

As I grew up, I went to the parade with friends and we’d stand next to an old payphone right outside of Papa’s Pizza. Pops and Bub always delivered with the throws. And then, when I was 21, it was my turn.

My first Mardi Gras was on par with what people predict will happen — you have a little too much fun leading up to the ride, and then your brain takes a little nap while your body hurls things into the crowd, you completely miss all of your friends and family, despite telling them, “I’m going to hook you up!” You go to the Mardi Gras ball in your costume, brain still asleep, and eat and dance. Then, you wake up feeling terrible. 

The three of us managed to get a picture together that night in 2009. You can see it above. I had a great time, but my dad had the best time.

For the next 13 years, I spent one night a year (two if you include loading the float the night before) with my dad and big bro. No matter if I was living in Colorado, Florida, or on the road for work, I’d come home every February/March and ride on a gigantic alligator float with two humans I love more than I can express.

It’s about an hour-and-a-half ride around the small town of Fairhope. After it’s over, you say the same thing every year. “Great ride! Crowd was at least 100,000, the news said.” I don’t know about all that. Afterward you went to the ball, danced, ate, and drank. Fortunately, my brain stopped taking naps once I hit 25. I didn’t have time to feel like shit for the next three days.

As pops grew older and his health declined, he had really hard time getting on the float. Our good friend Jeffery would do everything he could to try and make it easier for him. One year he mounted a stool so dad could sit and throw since he couldn’t stand for long. Jeffery built extra steps, installed an easy access “door,” and reinforced a steel pipe running down the center of the Gator to create more stability. Everyone wanted pops to ride, but eventually he physically couldn’t get on the float. 

I promise no one wanted to be on there more than him. It sucked to watch, and even more so that he wasn’t riding with his friends and sons.

Still, my pops would INSIST my brother and I rode. He wanted to hear all about it. “How was the ride,” he’d ask us as soon as it was over. “Great weather? Good music?” 

Dad passed away in September 2022. In February of 2023, we honored him by throwing cups and beads with his face on them. A design by the incredible Chase Moran. The whole float wore a button with his initials on their costume. It is a tradition on the Gator that you wear the initials of any rider that passed away. If you look closely at the design of pops, you’ll see a BS pin and a JA armband. BS stands for Bill Smith, and JA stands for John Ambrose.

Now the riders wear GB on their chest.

I dropped out of the KOER this year. Previously, I had ridden for 13 consecutive years. Last year was tough. Even though he hadn’t ridden for the past 3 years because of health, he always texted and talked to us after the ride. Not getting that call, text, or seeing him the day after was fucking heart breaking.

It makes me sad, knowing I won’t be next to my big bro this year. Sad that I am missing an opportunity to share pops with a crowd. Sad I won’t get to throw things to my nephews and nieces, or take a photo with my sisters before we get on the float. There’s a lot of things that made me sad about it.

At the same time, Mardi Gras season will always make me smile. It will always make me cry. Those memories of riding next to the big guys and Bub have so much joy and happiness packed into them that they’re a strong hit of carry-me-through juice. That’s what I like to call the moments where you get a powerful does of the person that is not longer on this plane of existence. A memory that allows you to continue to continue, to quote Simon and Garfunkel.

With that said, Happy Mardi Gator!

I hope everyone riding in Mardi Gras this year has a great ride. Has great weather, great food, and great music. I know pops does, too.

I also hope you are able to spot your crew in a sea of 100,000 people.