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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.