THE COMMON IS SPECTACULAR!

It's Not Easy Being a Good Dad

2009-06-22T14:52:00.002-05:00

I spent Father’s Day in town with Amy. Lacey celebrated the day with her husband Nick and son Madden in Nashville, the place she should have been. We traveled to Chattanooga yesterday to be with Dallas for the day. Our return Saturday gave him a chance to rest before beginning the second term of summer school on Monday. Even Snoop was away at the vet’s since we weren’t sure of the time we’d be back from Chattanooga. I enjoyed a low-key day with just Amy, but twangs of missing the kids hit a couple of times during the day.

I’ve also thought about my own dad on this celebratory day. He died in 1965 when Jim and I were thirteen. So, for more than forty years, we’ve not had a father on whom we could shower gifts and “I love you’s.” No, this isn’t a moment of self-pity. Instead, it’s a moment of reflection on the man we called Daddy and on why I made some of the mistakes with my own two children.

Daddy wasn’t “kid-friendly.” He worked too hard and too long. Shifts rotated weekly so that the man rarely knew what time of day it was. He was sleep deprived and in poor health. His pay wasn’t that good, and he attributed that fact to his having only finished the sixth grade, after which he began a life of work to help out his family.

Dal Rector worried. It’s the Rector Curse. He fretted over money, insurance, our education, Mother’s having to work—EVERYTHING! One of the vivid pictures in my mind is of his sitting at the kitchen table. He wore a t-shirt, the kind with straps, and a pair of work pants. To one side sat a green mug with coffee so thick that it must have been spooned from the percolator. To the other side sat his elephant ashtray. A Winston was pinched between two fingers; Daddy’s left hand propped up his head. His shoulders were rounded and slumped from the weight of his world. Before him lay a small spiral notebook, the kind that can be carried in a shirt pocket. He held in his right hand a pencil with which he “figured” how to stretch too little money across to much month.

Survival of his family was the name of the game. Daddy didn’t have time to fool with playing. In the end, I suppose he knew best as he tried to make sure Mother had all possible help rearing three boys alone.

When my kids came, I was determined to be more involved in their lives. I made sure they knew how to hit a baseball, how to dribble a basketball, and how to throw a football. I coached their teams. We went on vacations, and I “made sure” they had a good time. It was important to me that they had Christmases where their most wished for presents were under the tree. I helped with homework as much as I could. Keeping busy with them showed that I cared, or at least I thought it did.

I fought battles with my own children. All too often I pushed my children hard and made mountains out of mole hills on many occasions. They sometimes resented me, a fact that had me thinking of them as ungrateful. To me, if they knew what it was like to live without a dad, my two children would have changed their tunes.

The fact is that they didn’t have to live without a dad. I was there, but I pushed too hard. Kids need plenty of room to grow and learn. Smothering them, the way I did, drove them to a distance where they could breathe. I see that now. I wish that realization had come earlier so that life would have been easier for them and me.
What I can see now is that my dad did the best he knew how to do. He loved in his way. I did the same. In both cases, our ways were far from perfect. I’m lucky because I’ve adapted to be what my children need in a dad. What my dad missed out on most of all were the chances to watch his sons grow into men and to tell him he was loved and respected. I’d love to thank him for all he did for us as well.

Gun Clarification

2009-06-17T08:06:00.002-05:00

I've had some emails that have taken me to task for my stance on guns. As a means of clarifying things, I must first say that I don't have a problem with guns and respect others' rights to have them. What I object to is a legislature that passes a law that allows patrons to carry weapons into establishments that serve alcohol. Hey, I have no objections to alcohol either. I just don't believe the alcohol and guns mix well.

I'm not suggesting that anyone's guns be taken away. What I am suggesting is that this law is one that eventually will come back to bite the legislature in the butt. Our representatives don't seem to be able to deal with laws that help society, but they are quick to enact ones that seem to be of little importance. Municipalities won't have to abide by the law, so perhaps local officials will use the good judgment that is lost on the legislature.

As I said before, I don't oppose guns, just dumb laws that endanger the general public.

Guns in Bars? You're Kidding!

2009-06-16T07:59:00.000-05:00

A check of statistics from GunCite.com shows that the U.S. is seventh in the world in firearm murders per hundred thousand (3.72). The figures are based on information from 1999, so it’s safe to say that that number has increased over the last ten years. One thing’s for sure: our state legislature has made it easier for Tennessee to increase its yearly average.

An over-ride of Governor Bredesen’s veto means that many residents can now carry their handguns into establishments selling alcoholic beverages beginning July 14. Our esteemed representatives have decided that doing so is safe. Many question their judgment on the matter. Let’s not forget that our elected officials not all that long ago enacted the “Road-Kill Bill.” Remember that one? It gave us the right to load up animal carcasses and haul them home, where we could skin them and have “good vittles for the table.” The rest of the country horse-laughed us, but who can blame them? We’ve worked for years to dispel the perceptions that Tennesseans don’t wear shoes and don’t have indoor plumbing. With the passing of the road kill bill, the hoots of laughter began again and the questions about us poured like rain.

I can’t figure the logic of the gun-toting bill. Okay, a man can carry his gun into a bar. He can get skunk-drunk and turn surly in a New York minute. If another patron crosses him, the ol’ boy can pull his pistol and blow the adversary’s head off. That doesn’t sound too sane or logical to me. What about the innocent bystanders who don’t own handguns? If they are caught in the crossfire of a feud between two patrons, the flying lead might put an early end to their food, drink, and entertainment, not to mention their lives.

Perhaps the legislature is trying to draw more tourists to the state. I remember commercials that used to advertise re-enacted gun fights at some small attraction. With tough times, supporters of the bills are trying to increase state revenues by encouraging folks to witness a live gun fight. People this day and age love “reality shows,” and nothing comes closer than blood and brain matter splatting on walls of our Tennessee establishments.

Businesses that serve alcoholic beverages will become saloons. Let’s see, the waitresses can dress like Miss Kitty, gun toters can imitate Festus. If they become inebriated, they can play the part of Otis from “Mayberry.” When things get out of control and places are shot up, our local law officers can perform the duties of Marshall Dillon or Sheriff Andy Taylor.

I’m not about to deny others’ rights to have guns. However, I’d rather not have them carrying those weapons in places that I frequent. The papers could be filled with stories of battles that broke out at O’Charley’s or homicides at the bars of Regas or Copper Cellar. Owning a gun is much like driving a car. Almost anyone can do either, but only a handful should be allowed. I can see it now. A guy is on the way to his favorite watering hole when he suffers from a fit of road rage on the interstate into town. He pulls out his handy pistol and unloads on the driver with whom he is furious. Then he can reload and spend the rest of the evening sucking down his favorite drinks. Plain and simple, too many individuals lack the good sense that should come with gun ownership.

The men and women in our state government evidently don’t have enough common sense to be in office. They can’t figure out how to fund education, road construction, or health care, so they deflect the attention by passing an asinine bill that lets Tennesseans play cowboy and cowgirl. Mercifully heavens, we need some guidance here before too many people are gunned down.

Surveys

2009-06-03T10:45:00.003-05:00

I don’t put much faith in surveys. They’re forever producing numbers that just don’t reflect the truth of matters. The only reason I care one whit about polls is that they offer plenty of writing fodder.

One recent morning the local news said that the results of a recent survey indicate that people claim they aren’t religious. First of all, I don’t know what folks mean when they say they’re not religious. That might mean that individuals have no affiliation with a particular denomination. Those on the inside of the churches call these people “un-churched.” It’s a label I detest. The sound of it is negative, akin to the “unclean” or the “uncivilized.

Our world has seen plenty of instances where churches become kingdoms unto themselves. They are like country clubs where membership is limited and applicants must follow a strict set of guidelines. (I heard recently of one church that wanted $5000.00 to hold a funeral in its building, and the person who had died was a member of the congregation.) Some churches exclude groups that are “sinners.” I thought that was the whole idea behind church: opening the doors to all people at all time who need to develop a relationship with a higher power. If those surveyed are saying they want no part of that kind of hypocrisy, then I understand. However, they might do well to continue looking for a church that fits their particular style of worship.

I’m not sure I believe that people are turning their backs on a spiritual relationship with a Creator. With that said, I realize that times are tough for many, and then there’s a younger generation that is full of questions and doubting. We have a tendency to turn blind eyes and deaf ears to everything outside of our own little worlds. That’s part of what makes us human. However, most people come around at some point in life. It might be in a personal battle or a war or a tragedy. The saying “there are no atheists in foxholes” applies. Most of us reach the ends of our abilities to do it all. At that point, we reach for something outside ourselves that will give us the strength to carry on. What is amazing is that every time we do reach, something out there takes our hands and leads us. So, I don’t believe for one minute that fewer people are religious. Individuals are just at a place in life where they are trying to do it all themselves.

I’m over all the polls about divisive issues. The origin of the world, right to life versus right to choose, homosexuality—controversies are whipped up by factions that want to be right. Perhaps these sides are more interested in surviving and thriving than in getting along. We spend too much time accusing others and defending ourselves. More tolerance and less judging could make this world a better place to live.

Every day seems to bring a new public opinion poll on hundreds of issues. We’re told about the president’s approval rating, the public’s perception of the economy, and U.S. citizens’ views of ongoing wars. A minute sampling is used for the generalizations that are spread across the headlines. The facts are that President Obama will continue to serve, regardless of how popular he is with Americans, the economy is cyclic and will improve as soon as the poisons administered by seedy financial institutions are removed, and American troops will be stationed in countries to fight wars for the foreseeable future.

We all could live better lives if many surveys were ended. But how would we know which politician to like, which religion is best, or how to invest our moneys? Without surveys telling us what to do, we might make decision by using some common sense. It might be a novel, but welcome, approach.

Waterdogs

2009-05-20T13:23:00.000-05:00

We’d no sooner arrived at the beach than Lacey took grandson Madden to the beach. None of us were exactly sure how things would play out. It could be either good times or a complete bust. All held our breaths and crossed our fingers as she sat him on the sand. It was a good sign that he didn’t whimper when sand stuck to his hands. He looked at them, moved from sitting to crawling position, and cut a trail toward the incoming wave. They washed over him, and he smiled and waited for next one. We breathed sighs of relief that Madden had fancied the water. I shouldn’t have been surprised. The boy comes from a long list of “waterdogs.”

When I was a young, our family didn’t take vacations to far away places. Only one time did we pile into the car and drive to Treasure Island, Florida. The rest of the time, Daddy stayed home and worked while the rest of us traveled to the Smokey Mountains for a week at King’s Cottages. Our days were spent swimming in the icy cold waters of the river that ran close to our cabin.

Days began with breakfast, and after waiting for an hour for our food to digest, we walked the quarter up a mile dried-up river bed to the swimming hole. Sometimes, all of us slowly walked into the water and allowed it to numb them gradually. On other occasions, we took deep breaths, took off running, and dove under the water. Our heads surfaced as we waited for the pain to subside as our bodies adapted to the water temperature. Entire days were spent in that water. Our only escape was to eat lunch. Kids suffered through sunburned skin, which made the water seem that much colder, toes stubbed on rocks, which felt better as the water numbed them, and poison ivy outbreaks, which were soothed by coolness to skin. We even swam after dark and were surprised at how much warmer the water felt during the nighttime.
When Lacey and Dallas were young, we purchased a membership to a subdivision pool a few miles from the house. Those two loved the water as well. They’d begin begging me early in the morning to take them swimming, and after considerable griping, we hopped in the car and drove to the pool. The kids enjoyed jumping into my arms from the side, but as they grew older, playing with friends and other children at the pool took center stage. I sat in the pool, more to keep from being burned by the sun than anything else. On many summer evenings we made a return trip to the pool and stayed until closing time or until someone got too tired. Sometimes, the kids would fall asleep in the backseat of the car before arriving home. That swimming pool gave plenty of fun and exercise, and it led to many nights of sound sleep to two little ones.

Now Madden is taking his turn in the water. I’m glad he’s not afraid. Children who become scared of the water miss so much of the fun that makes summer complete. Amy and I have discussed building a pool in our back yard. I’m against it because its maintenance would fall in my lap. She reminds me of how much fun it would be to have our children and grandchildren enjoying the water. I’m not sold on the idea yet, but I know that if the pool is built, our waterdogs will come.

An Only Child with a Dozen Brothers and Sisters

2009-04-30T11:04:00.002-05:00

My mother-in-law fell in March and broke her hip. For the next two weeks she lay in the bed, and for only a few minutes did she recognize anyone. The times were trying on Amy as she watched he mother slip from this world to the next. For me, those weeks were filled with wonder as I discovered that my wife, who is an only child, has several brothers and sisters.

Amy is blessed with close relationships with her cousins. They came to the hospital to offer their support and help to Amy. At the same time, these folks poured out their affections to “Aunt Mary.” Scott had taken her to dialysis treatments recently, and he developed a closeness during that time. He stood by her bedside, held her hand, and talked to her with a tenderness usually reserved for one’s parents. Tommy and his wife Debbie made several trips during the ordeal. Tommy, too, held Mary’s hand, and he offered prayers for her and the family. His brother Mike made sure to spend some time with his aunt as well. Tim lives in Nashville, but he took a day off in order to make a visit to the hospital. Melinda and her husband Howard frequented the hospital and sat with Amy during some rough times. John, the eldest cousin, brought his mother Georgia Lee and cooked a meal for us one afternoon. Jimmy came by as well.

We were fortunate to have had an area to sit close to the room. Most of the time, no fewer than six people filled the chairs on most days. Frances and Bruce were their almost every day and night. During those times these cousins, aunts, and uncle reminisced about the good old days when they were children. The stories about parents, and grandparents, as well as extended family members, had us laughing most of the time. Hospitals are dreary, depressing places, but that seating area was one of the happiest places of all. One voice would rise over another and then another would take the lead, and before long, Amy had to shush us lest the hospital staff throw us out.

What was so astounding to an outsider looking in was the love that these nieces and nephews had for their aunt. They kissed her and patted her. They cried to see Mary in such terrible shape, and they held hope that just for a minute she could have a clear moment so that they could tell her how loved she was.

After a two-week struggle, Mary passed. It was a blessing for her; it meant no more pain and frustrations with failing health and constant medical procedures. It also became a blessing for Amy. The cousins, as well as aunts and uncles, closed ranks and circled her with love. Their grief was close to Amy’s, and they assured her that all she needed to do was ask and help would be on the way. The nephews served as pall bearers, and they carried Mary to her resting place. They couldn’t have been sadder or more caring in their services if their own mothers had passed.

It’s been nearly a month since Mary died. The cousins have maintained their contact with Amy. I can only equate it with the close contact that Jim, Dal, and I kept after the death of our mother years ago. John and Joy, another cousin, have worked to put together a reunion in July. It will be a day with much food, fellowship, laughter, and tears. They’re all excited to be together.
One night at the hospital, I told Amy that she wasn’t an only child. She had a dozen brothers and sisters in her “cousins.” My thanks forever goes out to them for loving Amy and taking her in as a sister.

A Madden Addiction

2009-04-26T13:36:00.006-05:00

We just got home from Nashville. Amy was determined to travel to see "the boy," and I was given the choice to go or stay at home. Right! If I'd stayed home, Lacey would have been none too happy with her daddy. I just couldn't figure out why we were making this trip. Next Friday is Madden's birthday, and we are attending his party on Saturday, so in just a few days Amy and I will again climb into the car are make the two-hundred mile jaunt to middle Tennessee.

It didn't take long to figure out why we made the trip to see Madden. When we arrived, he was eating his supper. His attire for that event was a diaper and nothing else. Lacey loads up the tray of his high chair, and Madden dives in.

I don't recall any child or adult enjoying a meal as much as this little guy, but Amy says that Dallas was the same way. She used to take our son from his chair and call it quits for him; otherwise, he'd have eaten until his stomach exploded. I recall one Easter when Dallas was barely a year old. We ate dinner at Mother's house, and all of us stacked our dishes on a table located in an adjacent sun room. We enjoyed our dessert, and then someone pointed to Dallas. He was standing at the pile of dirty dishes and eating from them. His face was covered with sweet potato casserole, and the look on that mug was one that indicated he'd been caught in the act.

Madden is the same way. He crams food in as fast as possible. He is an indiscriminate eater. So far, he hasn't culled much of anything. Broccoli, chicken, ravioli, carrots--all are fair game for this little guy.

Amy and I walked into the kitchen when we arrived and were met with hugs and kisses from Lacey and her husband Nick. Madden was too busy for such acts, but he did look up and flash a big smile at us. Of course, his lips were rimmed with whatever foods he'd been poking in his mouth, but that smile was enough.

All Saturday, Madden split his time between eating, sleeping, and capturing our hearts. His best trick is reaching for either Amy or me. Of course, we whisk him from the arms of a parent or the carpet on the floor, and the boy can have pretty much anything he wants. However, all that Madden seems to demand is attention, and the supply of that is endless.

Lacey, Amy, Madden, and I went shopping for next weekend's birthday party. While the two women looked for suitable birthday items in the women's section, I pushed my grandson around the store in a buggy. He didn't whimper once, and I strutted around the store like any proud granddad would. We walked through the children's area, and I decided Madden needed a pair of "something" to wear at the beach. I couldn't find mesh shoes that fit, but I did come across a navy pair of crocs. Got'em! I eyed a water sprinkling system for children's play in during the summer months. Got it!

Later Saturday, Amy gave Madden a bath, read him a story, rocked him, and put him to bed. She was on cloud nine. It's amazing how much more enjoyable those tasks are when they are done as a grandparent than as a parent.

We loaded up the car Sunday morning and arrived in Knoxville by early afternoon. Amy commented in the evening how much she missed Madden and Lacey and Nick. I shook my head and told her not to worry; we'd be back in Nashville in only five more days. That'll be fine with me too. I'm ready to see the little guy and my grown kids too.

WAITING ROOM CROWDS

2009-04-14T08:46:00.002-05:00

My mother-in-law fell and broke her hip. After surgery her condition turned precarious, and doctors zipped her from the surgical floor to the heart floor, and finally to the intensive care floor. It was at this last stop that I noticed the families of patients, and to be honest, they were entertaining.

One family had its father/husband in a room. The group numbered as many as ten at times. They sat in the waiting area next to the elevators, although seating was available outside the rooms of patients. The mother of the group was a short, rotund woman who wore glasses and always seemed to have on the same red polka-dotted blouse and matching red slacks. For some reason she sat in a wheel chair, and other relatives pushed her everywhere. The woman seemed to delight in seeing familiar faces and insisting they stop by to see her husband.

The son of the man was memorable. He wore his shirt untucked, and it cascaded over his large belly. His receding hairline ended at his slicked down brown hair. The man was in his twenties, and he spent much of his time sitting in a chair at the desk in the outer waiting room and holding court with other family members. Often, he walked to the nurses’ station to engage in conversation with the staff. After the first day, nurses suddenly needed to take care of a patient when the son ambled toward them.

Another patient’s condition required staff and family members to wear gowns and gloves. For the family, the throw-away yellow gowns were improvements to their wardrobes. Those individuals wore the same clothing every day that they appeared in the unit. Men with grubby faces and mud-covered boots sat in the waiting areas for long spells. One staff member was overheard saying that the group would benefit from being hosed down; at least that would knock down aroma that was a combination of cigarette smoke and sweaty bodies. Another commented that he didn’t need to wear a gown because no germ could live on him.

One woman in this family was of particular interest to all. She must have injured her right knee for she wore an elastic brace each time she visited. The amusing part was that the brace was worn “over” her jean leg. None of us had ever seen a brace worn that way. The woman had a perpetual smile and glassy look that helped to explain the situation.

The group of which I was a part had its own personality. For one, not enough seats were available for every bottom. We had assembled a small crowd, and some of us were too loud. In fact, my wife Amy “shushed” us on a couple of occasions and warned that the nurses would toss us if we didn’t back off. Most of us speculated about Mary Alice’s condition, but I don’t think a single person had a licensed to practice medicine. Amy was reserved, but polite, and the strain of the situation showed most on her and her Aunt Frances. Her uncle Bruce was silent, partly because he doesn’t deal well with sick loved ones, partly because he has little patience with this bunch of big talkers. Mary Alice’s other sister Georgia sat like a bulldog beside the bed and made sure she heard every word that doctors said.

When loved ones fall ill, families and friends unite. They come faithfully to check the status of the sick person. Then they spend much more time catching up on the latest gossip and just enjoying each other’s company. Most of us can do little for the patient, so we hang around and try to figure out what to do next. Waiting room crowds are fun to watch. Some of them, however, can do more harm than good for the ailing person.

KEEPING THE GOOD THINGS OF THE SOUTH

2009-04-14T08:44:00.002-05:00

I’m a southern boy, born and raised. No one can be prouder of his heritage, and I’ve bragged over and over about living in a small community outside the city limits of Knoxville. With that said, I’ve seen some things of late that disturb me about the south that I love so much.

For one thing, the land below the Mason-Dixon Line is being eaten by suburban sprawl. Once upon a time, the south had few “true” cities. Towns were scattered throughout the states. These days, towns have turned into cities, but folks don’t like living in them, so they flee to the countryside. Before long, the city reaches out to annex areas, which in turn, drives people farther away. This vicious cycle is responsible for the development of Farragut and points beyond. Currently, development reaches all the way to Dixie Lee Junction. I wonder how long it will be until “city” and sprawl, complete with strip malls and subdivisions gobble up the land all the way to Kingston to the west and Sevierville to the southeast.

With the growth of small towns in the south has come the flood of folks from the north. No, I don’t hate Yankees. In fact, I have some friends who were once residents of such places as Chicago, and Minnesota, and Michigan. What bothers me is that this influx of folks is slowly killing the southern accent used by natives to the area. In fact, those who speak in such a manner are dismissed as illiterate or ignorant humans for whom there is little hope. My fear is that one day our native East Tennessee tongue will perish. Already words such as “warsh” (warsh your hands for supper), “poke” (put those groceries in a paper poke), “rat” (“sit rat thar”), and “fixin” (I’m fixin to watch some television) are disappearing from everyday conversation.

I worry that my grandson might never learn to speak the language of the south. In school, he’ll be taught the “correct” way to speak. Never mind that losing the accent from a section of the country in many ways destroys its true identity. I don’t want Madden to speak the same as Midwesterners. They’re good people, but the lack of an accent makes identifying their origins impossible.

Food is another thing that’s disappeared from the south. When I was a boy, Crisco was a staple in every household. Meat was served as often as folks could afford it. Bologna on white bread was what we ate for lunch, and sometimes Mother fried it for supper as well. Now, the health industry tells us that everything we ate then is bad for us. In its place are nutritional foods. They taste like cardboard and are void of salt, another thing that will kill us.

I travel I-40 to and from Cookeville often. For some time now, I’ve noticed an unpleasant site just passed the last exit at Monterey. Some individual has unfurled a confederate flag atop a pole that can be seen by passersby. That flag is not one of the proudest things we in the south have. It doesn’t stand for pride in the area. It doesn’t serve as a unifying banner. Instead, it symbolizes the fracturing of our country that came to a head during the Civil War. For some, that war is still being fought. They still want separation from the rest of the United States. And of course, too many of them want to keep black Americans in second-class citizenship. They might want to look to Washington to see that most of the country no longer thinks that way. No, things are perfect, but huge strides have been taken over the years.

I love the south and always will. I hope that it can keep many of the good things that have come from it—scenic country settings, the drawls that give richness to the language, and the foods that make eating a delightful activity. At the same time, I hope that those destructive things from our south will be recognized as divisive and forever dropped.

Nap Time

2009-03-23T21:11:00.000-05:00

Blood-shot eyes felt as if they were covered with sand. Fussiness had replaced what only a few hours earlier before been jovial mood. There was a definite need to lie on the bed and drift off to dreamland.

No, it’s not a baby that needs a nap. It’s a man, a manly man, a dad, or a granddad. It is we who have the right claim to sleep in the afternoons. Those siestas shouldn’t be wasted on youth.

Babies are allowed to stay up for only a few hours at a time. Moms roust them from their cribs long enough to change dirty diapers and serve up bottles. They might even spend a few minutes in play time. Then it’s back to the bedrooms to place the little ones back to bed. On too many occasions, the little ones aren’t ready to return to sleepy land. They cry and scream and otherwise make life more unbearable for their moms. With just a little luck, the little guys might cry themselves to sleep. Too bad that within an hour or two they’ll be back up and the whole routine can begin again.

When I was in first grade, nap time was strictly enforced. What a shame! It was during those beginning years of school that all of us children were most excited about learning—reading about Dick and Jane, writing our letters and names, adding and subtracting our numbers. Mrs. Longmire was the teacher, and she strictly enforced the forty-five minutes that we lay upon our towels. No talking was allowed. Keeping six year old children still for that long is an impossibility. At least one kid usually needed to go to the restroom. Before nap time was complete, at least one of the crew had been jerked to his feet to receive a swat on the behind from the teacher. Kids spent the rest of the period barely breathing as they listened to the whimpering of the one who’d just “had a knot jerked in his tail.”

No, children shouldn’t be exiled to their beds for afternoon naps. They should be reserved for us men. We enjoy nothing better than a couple of hours of sleep. Heaven is stretching out on the couch on a weekend afternoon and letting sleep overtake us. The television blares some kind of ball game or race, and we fall into an unconscious state while maintaining a death-grip on the remote control. The sound might blare from the television, but the slightest noise from a spouse or child awakens us long enough to snap at people by yelling, “I’m trying to take a nap here!”

Naps don’t necessarily refresh men. Many times we wake up grumpy. Sometimes it’s because we’ve slept through the last-minute heroics of our favorite football team or the last lap maneuvering of a NASCAR race. Men sometimes awaken in rotten moods because the deep sleep they’ve enjoyed has ended in a throbbing headache. Maybe a list of “honey-do’s” is waiting to be completed after a nap, a fact that can destroy the very reasons for having gotten horizontal in the first place.

The older we get, the quicker we tire. Adults live much tougher lives than children. We’re the ones who need more rest; our bodies require more time to recuperate from the toil of work or strain of responsibilities. Naps should be included in the daily work schedule. Productivity could skyrocket if the work force was required to sleep for an hour at two o’clock in the afternoon. It’s for sure that few adults would fidget or complain about having to lie still for an hour. Naps are wasted on people under the age of thirty.

Heroes

2009-02-15T18:39:00.002-05:00

The papers and evening news broadcasts have been filled with stories of steroid use by major league baseball players. Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps is thankful for that the attention has been focused on something other than his “bong” use. Today’s kids have difficulty finding a hero out there. Even the television show “Heroes” is confusing. Half the characters meet the definition; the other half are from it. That wasn’t the case during our younger years.

We had plenty of sports heroes during my younger years. Sandy Koufax was one of the best pitchers of all times. Back then, I was a Yankees fan and pulled for Mickey, Yogi, and Whitey. Dizzy Dean was another hero whom I loved to hear announce games. In football, my number one player was Johnny Unitas. No one else could pass the ball or run a team like him. Seeing Peyton Manning in a Colts uniform is almost like seeing Unitas again. When the Packers defeated the Kansas City Chiefs in the first super bowl, they became instant heroes to football fans across the nation. Of course, no athlete was without fault, but most seemed to cherish the games they played and the fans who adored them.

I was an elementary student when Alan Shepard made that first flight into space. He took a fifteen minute ride in suborbital space. In that little time, the equivalent of one quarter of a football game, Shepard managed to achieve hero status. Millions of kids throughout the country wanted to become astronauts. John Glenn was the first American to orbit earth, and his fame continued from space to the halls of the U.S. Senate. So many of us young people watched as Neil Armstrong took those first steps on the moon in 1969. In the early years of the space program, every launch made news, and every person who flew those is mission was a hero. For years now, lift-offs into space go without recognition and only a small headline in the papers.

We were lucky in those days to have had political heroes. John F. Kennedy was the first for our generation. “Ask not what your country can do for you; rather ask what you can do for your country” became the mantra for individuals who joined the Peace Corps. They were inspired by Kennedy and his desire to help. His brother Bobby stood out among men during the ugliest days of the Vietnam War. Bobby wanted to lead the country in a new direction, just as his brother had wanted. Martin Luther King, Jr. wanted a different direction too. His efforts were aimed at finding equality for the millions of black citizens in the U.S. For their efforts, all three men were gunned down by others who were frightened, ignorant, and jealous. They became not only heroes but martyrs also.

The times are bleak in our country. Americans face uncertain futures. Many wonder if the country’s greatest days lie behind it. Even in such difficult times, our children have the opportunity to discover new heroes. One might be President Barak Obama, who has given millions of Americans a new sense of hope. He calls us to service, and we want to go. His positive attitude is mixed with a dogged determination that can envision success in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. Isn’t that what a hero does? Doesn’t he inspire us to go beyond ourselves to reach heights about which we only dreamed? Let’s hope that the rest of our elected officials do all within their powers to help President Obama succeed. Our country is counting on it, and our children need at least one national hero.

Court TV

2009-01-29T10:44:00.000-05:00

Personal interests can surprise people. While one individual might enjoy an extreme sport, another might spend his free time practicing some kind of new meditation practice. Most folks, however, don’t engage in such serious hobbies. To the chagrin of my wife Amy, one of my favorite activities is watching court shows on television. Yes, I’m a “Judge Judy” groupie. I also enjoy “Judge Joe Brown,” “Judge Mathis,” and “People’s Court.” Is it educational broadcasting? No. Is it interesting? Definitely!

Judge Judy reminds me of my mother. Both women are cut-and-dry people. They don’t suffer fools at all. Mother always believed that two sides existed of any situation: right and wrong. Choosing the right is what people are supposed to do unless they are mentally incapable of knowing the difference between the two.

Judy Sheindlin is a Jewish lady with plenty of chutzpah. For twenty-five years, she’s served as a judge in family courts, and now she serves in what is undoubtedly the most popular court room in America. Each day, her show airs at 9:00 a.m. and 7:00 p.m. Episodes included a variety of cases covering a myriad of complaints. Civil courts are open to strange people with ridiculous claims, and Judge Judy airs some of the most ridiculous.

Some say they feel sorry for the people who appear before Judge Judy. I have not the slightest sympathy for them. For one, these folks have viewed the program enough times to know what goes on. Second, for some reason they sign up to appear on a show that will air across the nation. Third, they bring to courts cases that are absurd. My take on it is they deserve to be verbally flogged by Judge Judy for being so ignorant. Hey, these folks exchanged their dignity for the price of a plane ticket, hotel room in California, and $100.00. Yes, they might even win their cases and receive a cash settlement paid by the show’s producer. That happens about 40% of the time. It’s not enough for me to look like a fool to millions of viewers.

What I like best about this feisty woman in a judge’s robe is her attention to details. In most cases she cooks a person’s goose in its own grease. She listens intently to what people says and then uses their words to destroy their cases. She also uses common sense. One of her favorite expressions is “If it doesn’t make sense, it’s not true.” She’s caught hundreds who appear before her in boldface lies.

Sheindlin also is prone to name calling. Among her favorites are “moron, idiot, and fool.” She holds nothing back, and some people declare that she’s too mean to those who appear on the show. All someone who objects to her attacks needs to do is watch a few episodes of the show. Before long, they’ll declare that Judge Judy has hit the nail on the head by referring to folks with those names.

I make no apologies for liking “Judge Judy.” It’s closer to “real TV” than some of the other so-called reality shows. It’s about time that we called on the carpet those whose frivolous lawsuits are without merit. I only wish I could get Nashville stations. They air three straight hours of court television Monday through Friday. I need to go now because before long, the court shows will be on the television.

It's Not Fair!

2009-01-15T17:30:00.001-05:00

Fair is defined as being marked by impartiality and honesty: free from self-interest, prejudice, or favoritism. It’s something most folks learn about throughout their lives. However, most often the word fair is used with two other as in “It’s not fair.”

When we are children, the concept of “fair” is drilled into our little heads. Parents insist that we be fair in our play with brothers and sister and that we don’t allow self-interest to do something wrong when we must split a treat. Little by little, kids grasp the meaning of the word fair. Some learn it when they hear the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

As the years go on, the phrase “It’s not fair” enters our vocabularies. In school, kids are forever squawking about how unfair tests are. Teachers are blamed with their failure because they have given unfair tests, unfairly made accusations of misbehavior, or moved unruly students to isolation. The whining goes on forever.

Kids also begin to think that home is an unfair place. They can’t understand how it’s fair for parents to expect them to help out around the house. They claim adults treat them like slaves. When a child misbehaves and is punished, he cries “foul” and complains to the powers of heaven that being grounded for sneaking out last night or losing his car because he received a speeding ticket is not at all fair. Demanding that a teen stay home to study for exams can lead to temper tantrums that declare the whole world is against the youth. One thing’s for sure: kids don’t think moms and dads have a fair bone in their bodies.

Unfairness continues in the work place. Some bosses actually set expectations of their employees. Those new to the workforce are shocked that they are to be at work on time every day. Tell them a dress code is in place, and they become apoplectic. A few are dismayed that they aren’t starting work in a management position or that their salaries aren’t equal to veteran workers. To the amazement of employers, parents sometimes call to demand that their “babies” be treated better.

Unfortunate things occur in all our lives. We wouldn’t wish them on anyone else. But if we lose a loved one, one of the first thing we say is “It’s not fair.” I’ve said it before. Then I thought to myself, would it have been fair for another’s loved one to have died in place of mine? I didn’t want to have my parents and my brother die; they were too dear to me, but their passing had less to do with fairness and more to do with a larger plan. That seems to put life a bit more in perspective.

Here’s a news flash: life isn’t fair. Bad things some time happen. Some folks don’t treat others well or play by the rules. Parents do the best they can to rear children who are good, loving, and caring individuals. In the course of parenting, they sometimes make mistakes, but they are rarely unfair. Work isn’t a place for fairness; it’s every man for himself. It’s where the fittest survive. No, fun isn’t a constant ingredient; that’s why it’s called “work.” All would do well to get a bit tougher and begin providing their own fairness. The next time you hear the line, “It’s not fair,” I dare you to ask the speaker why it’s not. The answer might be shocking.

Children's Christmas Programs

2008-12-24T12:05:00.000-05:00

The other Sunday at church, the youth were in charge of the service. It’s called the “Hanging of the Greens,” and the older kids read parts explaining things such as Christmas trees, chrismons, wreaths, and candles. At one point, the youngest children were ushered in to sing a couple of songs. Some were dressed in wise men costumes. The youngest wore white outfits and had silver wings. They reminded me of Christmas programs at church when I was a little person.

Most of the church programs at Beaver Ridge Methodist Church, where I attended back then, included a choir loft filled with children. Mrs. Kirkland was a member who took on the duties of teaching us children the songs to be sung. Each Sunday morning in the late fall, we sat in a group and sang songs before attending our individual classes. During those early years, singing is so much fun. Kids that age aren’t self-conscious; they belt out songs with all the excitement and energy in their beings.

As the Christmas season drew closer, Mrs. Kirkland demanded that rehearsals be held after school on a couple of occasions. Most of the group already knew the songs that were to be preformed. The concern was over how children would react when they had to sing in the choir loft in front of a church filled with adoring parents and others. Practicing the singing only made sure that we got everything right.
Most people don’t aren’t so sure that I can sing a note, but back in the day, I had a good enough voice to be given a solo on occasion. One year, my brother Jim, Mike Guinn, and I sang “We Three Kings.” We stood in front of the church and were scared stiff; somehow we managed to get through that song without passing out or making mistakes.

Another year, those in charge decided to put on a play. “The Littlest Angel” included a plot and songs. Jim was chosen to play the part of the littlest angel. Folks who know Jim find it hard to believe that he could pull off a convincing performance in that role, but he did.

Those Christmas programs were always fun. They signaled the beginning of the season to us, and Santa always made an appearance to pass out gifts at the end of the program. Each member of the choir wore a cape that Mother had sewn. I’ll bet the number was well over thirty, but each child’s cape was identical, and we all looked like those kids on Christmas cards who are singing at the altar.

A new song or two might have been introduced each year, but the ones that meant the most were familiar Christmas carols. “Silent Night,” “Away in a Manger,” and O Little Town of Bethlehem” never sound as sweet or magical or reverent as when they’re sung by a group of little children. All of those traditional songs have stuck with children as they have gone through life. The oldest member of a congregation can let lose and sing them and never worry a minute whether or not his or her efforts will fall in discord on others’ ears.

When the service ended the other Sunday, I found Cindy Pearman, who directed the little ones as they sang. I gave her a hug and thanked her for making that Sunday a special one. Cindy and others worked tirelessly to teach children the wondrous songs of Christmas. I’d like to have the opportunity to say a thank you to Mrs. Kirkland, Mother, and the other women from my childhood for doing the same. I suppose the good lord will have to pass the message along to them for me.

I hope everyone takes a few minutes to sing those Christmas carols that bring back wonderful memories of life and Christmas.

Christmas Changes

2008-12-08T17:10:00.000-05:00

Christmas has changed a lot in the last couple of years. Amy’s mom doesn’t travel as well since she began dialysis three times a week. Dallas is in Chattanooga, and although he is with us on Christmas, it’s easy to see his squirming and desire to get back home to his life. Who can blame him? Our daughter Lacey and son-in-law Nick now have a son, Madden, and it’s a sure bet that before long, they’ll spend Christmas at home in Nashville instead of traveling to Knoxville and Huntsville, the two cities where parents live. When I think about it, changes during the holiday season have come about for years.

The first serious change in our Christmas came in 1965. Daddy died in August of that year. All of us were in a fog as we tried to get through a rough situation. Jim and I got new bikes, and although we were appreciative, the gifts in no way filled the void that was left. Mother cooked another huge meal that fed extended family, but the day would have been better if Jim, Dal, Mother, and I had spent the day by ourselves.

A year later, Dal was dating Brenda, his future wife. Jim and I didn’t take to her at first. She was a stranger intruding in our Christmas. Dal spent all of his time with Brenda, and we were jealous. As the years passed, Brenda became an important part of our lives and member of our family, and Christmases would have been bluer without her. A few years later, Jim married his Brenda, and I was jealous of him. Another change came, and I felt left out.

In 1974, Amy and I were married on December 20. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t home for the holidays. We spent Christmas Eve with Amy’s family and hit the floor early Christmas morning to make the one hundred mile drive home. I admit my mood was surly, and I doubted this plan would ever catch on.

In 1976 Jim’s son was born, and our Christmas took a different spin. As he grew older and got toys from Santa, Brandon expected us to play with him. Amy and I got him several toy percussion instruments one year. He passed them out, and we all marched through the house playing drums, cymbals, triangles, and other things that made plenty of noise.

Lacey and Mindy both came along in 1981, and Dallas was born in 1985. The house was filled with kids and noise and toys. We still made the trip to Cookeville for the first three years that Lacey was around. Then Amy told her parents that they’d need to come to Knoxville. So, they came, and brought Amy’s uncle and aunt with them. It was an adjustment having so many people in the house for Christmas Eve, Christmas, and the day after, but before long Christmas didn’t seem right without our Cookeville family. Being home with my brothers and their wives, Mother, and kids made for a good holiday.

For the second year now, we are back in Cookeville. Our Christmas Day is spent there. Lacey, Nick, and Dallas make the trip, and we share the special time. We all miss home and Jim’s family. Mother and Dal have passed, and Brenda stays in Nashville with her brood. New places and fewer loved ones change the holiday.

Madden will soon know what’s going on for Christmas. Then things will change again. I can see us making the trip to Nashville that day to watch the first grandchild open his presents. The whole Christmas routine will have come full circle. It will be Amy and I making the trips to our children’s homes, and that’s the way it should be. The change will eventually become the norm.

Pushing the Right Buttons

2008-11-18T09:58:00.000-05:00

Sometimes we parents scratch our heads and wonder how we’ll survive life with our children. Sure, moms gush over newborns, and dads strut with pride over the child. In most cases, life runs with few problems until those gifts from above are riddled with hormones. Then adults wonder how they can ever do the right thing.

I was the same way. Lacey was an independent child from the moment she entered the world. She is my daughter, but because of her mother, Lacey was and is an intelligent child. Mixing an independent streak with intelligence is a sure recipe for upheaval in a family.

At one time, my daughter announced that she’d like to leave home and never come back. She was fourteen at the time, and if I wouldn’t have been arrested for child abuse, I’d have helped pack her bags. Our house was a war zone—Lacey on one side, me on the other, and Amy as the U.N. peace-keeping presence. The battles were often fraught with harsh words and hot tears.

An uneasy truce was called during Lacey’s last summer at home before college. She’d graduated from high school early and worked to make some extra money. We loaded the car the following August and carried her away to Middle Tennessee State University. Her plan was to earn a degree in recording industry management and then move to England to work in the business. After getting all her possessions placed into her dorm room and making idle small talk, we left for home. In the blink of an eye Lacey’s whole world had changed. Her wish had been granted; she was on her own.

The first two weeks of college, Lacey was miserable in her homesickness. She called home and cried, and we did too. Even after all the rough times, the bottom line was that we loved each other and needed each other. We were FAMILY. Nothing could change that. It took only two weeks before my little girl came back to us for good.

Dallas tried to be the perfect child after Lacey left home. He didn’t like the fights we’d had when she was home, and he made a vow that things would be different. Since he’s been in college in Chattanooga, I’ve shaken my head at some of the things he’s done. A change in majors and a setback here or there has thrown him off “my” schedule for his graduation. Dallas is so much like his mother that I don’t get much of what he does and even less of what he thinks. Still, that boy is my son, and no father could ever be as proud as I am. He is loving, giving, and unpretentious. Some girl is going to be lucky to have him as a husband.

Amy and I visited Nashville recently. Our grandson Madden was to be baptized, and Lacey wanted us to be present for the occasion. We spent a wonderful weekend with Lacey, Nick, Madden and Dallas. My son was the first to leave for home. When he did, the party balloon deflated and was replaced with a blue funk. When our time to leave came, the tears flowed from mother and daughter. Observers might have thought Amy was upset about leaving Madden, and that was part of the story. However, her biggest reason for crying was that she didn’t want to leave Lacey. The two have developed a tighter bond over the years, and now they share those special secrets that only mothers can.

The ride was quiet on the way back to Knoxville. I thought about my two children and said a prayer of thanks. They are good people who love and are loved. Some way, some how, Amy and I pushed most of the right buttons. The proof is in the fact that Lacey and Dallas have grown to be the kind of humans that they are. Thank you lord!

Memories Sparked by a Parking Space

2008-10-23T16:01:00.001-05:00

Amy and I try to make a trip to Cookeville every couple of weeks or so. It’s Amy’s hometown and the place where her mother, Mary Alice, lives. She undergoes dialysis Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday and must arrive at the center about 6:00 a.m.

I volunteer to take Amy’s mom to the center on Saturday morning when we’re in town. Because Cookeville is on Central Standard Time, I have little problem getting up and making sure we’re prompt for her sessions. I also enjoy driving around Cookeville and the Tennessee Tech campus before I pick up Mary Alice for her appointment. The trip around the college is filled with memories.

Each visit, I make sure to pass the football stadium. During my years at TTU, the football team played powerful games. NFL players such as Jim Youngblood (L.A. Rams), Mike Hennigan (N.Y. Jets), and Elois Grooms (N.O. Saints) gave opposing OVC teams fits in the early 70’s. The TTU band presented precision shows, and the music they played was entertaining. The parking lot on the south side of the stadium is smaller now than during my years in school. Commuters parked at the site during the day, but in the evenings it was loaded with couples who searched for a bit of privacy. In those days, no member of the opposite sex could visit another resident except on special occasions. The parking lot became a place for couples to see each other and not be harassed. The campus police patrolled the lot to keep it safe from would-be troublemakers.

Another place I always visit is the men’s dormitory area. The old Smith Quad has been demolished and with it went many memories; in its place stands the new nursing school. Capitol Quad brings back memories as well. I can still see “buck-naked” guys sliding down hallways that had been covered with water and washing powder. Those “Tide Slides” caused messes, but they offered a little fun and relief to guys who usually studied hard. I shake my head when I recall the idiot who stood on the roof of one five-floor dorm and refused to come down until he could seen the funnel cloud of an approaching tornado. Most of all, I close my eyes and relive the evening that Amy stopped by my head resident apartment on her way to a wedding. I’d never seen her so dressed up, and she simply took my breath.

My favorite place to visit on a trip to TTU is the back parking lot at the student center. There, a parking spot is important to my life. Facing the lot from the student center, the space is the first one right of center in the row at the top of a set of steps. I parked there one day and saw Amy jogging with her P.E. class. We’d had our first date the weekend before, and I remember how embarrassed she was that I’d seen her without make-up and in gym clothes. That same spot became more special a few weeks later when Amy and I stood at the back of my VW Beetle and declared our love for each other. I have a vivid picture of the moment, even though it happened 35 years ago.

This coming weekend, we make another trip to Cookeville. On Saturday morning, I’ll again make the trip to get Mary Alice. Before I pick her up, however, I’ll re-visit those places on the campus of Tennessee Tech University. Who’d have ever thought that such wonderful memories could be sparked by a parking space?

A Part Time Job

2008-09-24T15:54:00.000-05:00

Well, school’s been in session for some time, and so far, I haven’t missed it. I’ve been able to fill the time with a variety of activities: games of golf, interviews for news stories, completion of “honey-do’s.” I keep waiting for what people told me would be that empty feeling. Thankfully, it hasn’t shown its ugly face. Still, it looks as if I’ll have to scout out a part time job.

For one thing, I am a social creature. Other people are important. I’ve spent most of my retired days by myself, except for my little buddy Snoop. If there’s one thing I do miss from my teaching career, it’s the communication with fellow teachers and with students. Laughing at jokes and engaging in heated arguments are things that I’ve always enjoyed. Snoop is good company, but the only communication coming from him is an occasional bark and constant growling. I figure he’s had enough of my being home all the time. It cuts into his sleep time. A part time job will allow me to be with people and Snoop to catch up on some much needed rest.

Another reason for finding a job is that the extra income will come in handy. I’m not going to make a fortune, but what money I bring in will level the financial playing field to what it was before calling it quits. The cash can pay a couple of small bills, and some of it might be squirreled away for a weekend trip to some place that Amy might like to go.

Working somewhere also gives a bit more structure to life. Whether or not they admit it, people feel better with a daily routine. It sets the parameters for the things that come in life. Work takes a hunk of time, and we divvy up the rest for other things to which we are obligated or for recreational activities that we enjoy. For some, work dictates bed time. Having to put feet on the floor at 5:00 a.m. causes folks to turn in before Monday Night Football is over.

A part time job prevents some terrible things. One is boredom. I’m not close to being bored, but when cold weather arrives and I’m stuck inside, the days will grow much too long. Being a captive in the house leads to a miserable attitude that frustrates me and tortures Amy. Reporting to work stops folks from taking themselves too seriously. Excessive amounts of time bring on worries over things that aren’t. We imagine the problems and let them grow until they’ve consumed and smothered us in a gray funk.

I know I will need to find a part time job before long. Doing so will keep everyone in my life happy. I don’t want to work more than a couple of days each week, just enough to get me out of the house and to make some extra “jingle.” To put more time than that in a job would defeat the purpose of retirement. Worse than that, too many hours at work will greatly affect my writing time. That’s one of the reasons I felt good about leaving teaching so that I could spend more time at the keyboard.

I’ll see how things go and begin to look for that part time employment. I’d rather not work some in a business where former students and their parents will see me and ask, “What are you doing here?”

Buying a Car

2008-09-04T16:28:00.001-05:00

The news says that the economy is sluggish at best. Skyrocketing fuel prices lead to more expensive clothing, appliances, and food. Gloom and doom set the mood for the country. With that outlook, it’d seem that car dealers would fall over each other in an effort to sell a vehicle. Instead, some of these businesses employ practices that have stained the industry’s reputation for years.

My old Pathfinder still chugs along, but it’s not dependable enough to take on a journey to Chattanooga or Nashville, cities where my kids live. The 2009 models were coming out, and I figured the time would be a good one to get a good deal. So, I visited dealerships in the area. What transpired is what only can be called nightmarish.

One dealer advertised a couple of used cars in the morning newspaper ads. One was a subcompact; the other a compact. The stated prices piqued my interest enough that I made the trip to the lot. I’d written down the stock numbers and registration numbers of the cars to make sure I got the right one. By 10:00 a.m. I arrived and waited for the first salesman to swoop in. He did in about a second and a half. I showed him the stock number of the first vehicle and told him I’d like to see it. He looked at his list, and then back at me.

“That ones not here anymore,” he said.
Stunned, I looked at him and said,
“How can that be? It was just advertised in the morning’s paper.”

Then, this guy has the gall to look at me with a straight face and reply,
“We sold it at 8:30 a.m.”

I glared at him in angry disbelief. However, I another car appealed to me, so I asked him about it. The salesman said he wasn’t familiar with that one. He suggested we go to the showroom so that he could look at the log sheet that listed all the cars. I followed him, all the while resigned to the belief that the day was going to be a bad one.

This salesman didn’t do anything to contradict my feelings after he came back to me in a couple of minutes.
“Hey, you’re not going to believe it, but we sold that car at 8:30 too. Man, we had people lined up and waiting to get to these babies!”
By then my mood had gone from excited to ticked off. I looked at the salesman and said,
“Don’t blow smoke up my tail. I was born at night, but not last night. You guys lied. It looks like a bait and switch move!”

As I turned on my heels to leave the showroom, I told the salesman loud enough for everyone in the place to hear that I would never buy a car from his business—EVER!
A salesman at another dealership told me he was giving me special deals because we had a mutual friend. I thanked him and told him the vehicle I wanted, and he gave me a figure. The close of business was near, so I contacted him the following morning and asked that he give me an “out-the-door” price for the car. He promised to call me back in “a few minutes” with the number. Two hours later I called again but could only leave a message since the salesman wasn’t available. Another two hours passed and I called the third time. The guy forgot what I wanted and faithfully promised to call me in a couple of minutes with the total. At 7:00 p.m. I called the last time.

Now remember, this guy is going to give me a special deal. What he gave me was the shaft. From the time I’d called him that morning until that evening, the price of the car had gone UP $2000.00. He offered some dribble about having to pay someone to make sure the new vehicle had all the fluids, that it was washed, blah, blah, blah.

I was furious by that time. I asked him why he wanted to treat me as he had done and called him out about the continuing hike in price. Then I told him to take the car and drive it up a dark orifice and that I’d go somewhere else to buy any future vehicles.

I bought a car, but it wasn’t from a dealership in town. I hate to buy cars anyway, and when guys jerk my chain as these salesmen did, I vow that my next car will be purchased from some little old lady who will at least tell the truth.

Summer Saturday Nights

2008-07-11T06:55:00.000-05:00

One recent Saturday evening, Amy and I sat on our porch. The temperatures had cooled enough so that the ceiling fan provided enough circulation to keep us comfortable. We read a while, and when I took a break, the falling darkness surprised me. The time reminded me so much of earlier days of my life.

One part of Saturday evenings that I always remember is the rhythmic, repetitive song of the cicadas. They’d taken the place of birds that in the spring jabbered both night and day. The summer melodies were interrupted only by the bark of a dog or the occasional engine roar of a passing car. Trains passed constantly throughout the night, but we were too accustomed to the echoes of their horns and the zing of their wheels upon the rails to have paid any attention.

After the family came inside for the night, our ritual began. Mother had found a few minutes between washing clothes, working in the garden, and cooking meals to take a bath and fix her hair. Her head was covered in gray curls that were tightly wound and kept in place by what seemed to be hundreds of bobby pins. By evening, she’d taken her station at the ironing board where she worked through a basket of clothes. Scattered throughout the living room were pants stretchers that held jeans for Daddy and us three boys. Three pairs of boys’ shoes had been shined for the next day’s church, and clothes had been laid out.

Daddy had plopped down in his chair, a platform rocker, and hoisted his feet on the matching ottoman. My twin brother Jim sat in the floor and applied globs of Deep Heat to Daddy’s ankles that were perpetually swollen from standing on concrete floors throughout his work shifts. My older brother Dal and I found our places, and the five of us passed the time watching our favorite shows, “Perry Mason” and “Gunsmoke.”

Going to bed was a curse and a blessing. Summer nights were humid and provided only a whisper of a breeze coming through open bedroom windows. A box fan in the living room whirred as it tried to move air through the house, but the efforts were in vain. Dampness from the thick air fell on beds. The sheets held a fresh scent from having been dried on the fifty-foot, double clothes lines in the back yard, and they also were scratchy to the skin.

We’d taken our baths before bedtime but spent little time drying off with towels. That water and perspiration made pajamas stick to our skin and made beds all the more uncomfortable. Jim and I shared a room, and for too long we lay on twin beds and suffer through fits of giggles until Daddy came to the door with the final ultimatum: be quiet or face the belt. When we did lie still for just a couple of minutes, sleep that was so peaceful and deep came quickly, and we thought no more of discomfort from heat and humidity.

Oh, I appreciate air conditioning and cable television, and computers and all modern conveniences. Still, sitting on the porch after dark and looking toward the house where I grew up, I miss the people who were my world back those many years ago. A father, mother, and brother have passed. Jim is still here thankfully, and I am blessed with a wife, two children, a son-in-law, and a grandson. Folks don’t come outside much any more because we’re all spoiled by air conditioning. Locking ourselves inside sure deprives us of conjuring up memories of good times from years gone by. I hope that folks can spend some quiet time on a porch or in a chair out in the backyard so they too can recall summer Saturday nights.

Beach Thoughts

2008-07-11T06:38:00.001-05:00

Amy and I traveled to Treasure Island in Florida recently to attend our nephew’s wedding. He and bride Abbie were married on the beach in a laid-back, Jimmy Buffet-like setting. I spent more time on the beach an ever before, several things there made impressions on me.

I love the beach, but I always have managed to scorch my hide with an almost second-degree burns. For some reason, this visit to the beach we discovered beach umbrellas and chairs. Suddenly, the sand of the shoreline were pleasant. Most days Amy and I spent no fewer than five hours under that umbrella. We chased the shade with our chairs most of the day, and when we returned to our room, neither of us was burned in the least by the son. That was good news to a guy who’s already had one cancerous spot removed from his neck and now has two others that need to be checked. I can’t understand why we never rented them before. Maybe umbrellas weren’t available at other beaches, or maybe our budgets on previous occasions were so lean that we couldn’t make the investment. I know from now on I’ll have an umbrella, even if I have to buy one and tote it from place to place. I’ll have the chairs too so that sand doesn’t cover fill every crevice of my body.

I looked at plenty of bathing suits during that week. The young folks had cut bodies that sported two-piece suits that emphasized every curve. That’s as it should be. However, I saw all too many swim suits on older folks that mesmerized me. That’s because I couldn’t believe the oldsters were wearing them. One ol’ girl looked to be well into her seventh decade. I eavesdropped on her conversations enough to determine her home was Germany. This Frau wore a black bikini. Her rounded belly was offset with drooping shoulders and overly long arms that failed with swing rhythmically with her walk. Her husband wore a suit that was popular the seventies. It was about the length of a pair of basketball shorts from the same period. The attire accented his stark white legs that were so skinny that he could have sued them for nonsupport. He protected his head with a hat that looked as if it were the property of a yodeler in the Alps. Another guy was still wearing the same size trunks that he wore during his high school years. He now wore them low enough to let his belly hang over the waistband. The saddest outfit, however, was worn by an older man, probably in his late sixties. He toured the sands in his Speedo. Sure, the guy was in decent shape, but not good enough to wear something like that. It’s for sure that folks should take others into consideration before they squeeze themselves in swimwear.

Something else became clear during my beach observations: the differences between boy and girl children at play. Boys are surprisingly louder. A few little guys around the ages of five to seven left not doubt of their presence. Everything seemed to excite them because instead of talking they yelled with each small discovery. The tiniest shell or a palm frond in the surf drove them nuts. Throwing a Frisbee or a ball created excited yelps when they dove for them in the water or on the sands.

To the contrary, little girls were much quieter—most of the time. They went about building sand castles at the edge of the water. Those little ladies smiled with delight or they shaded their eyes with one hand across their brows and pointed to the sand creations with the others to parents who were sitting close by. Only when the water inched up and began to nibble away at the castles or when an evil brother did the same were those feminine voices raised in ire. Then, an ear-piercing scream that must have been akin to the ones let loose by the Sirens that caused men to crash ships upon the reefs was heard.

Amy and I spent a restful, pleasant week on the edge of the water of the Gulf of Mexico. I got plenty of sun and even managed to overdo it one day so that places that I can’t reach itch from sun poisoning. I also gained weight that hopefully will melt in the heat of the rest of the summer. I realized one more thing: going is nice, but arriving home is always a more wonderful feeling.

Beach Thoughts

2008-07-11T06:38:00.000-05:00

Amy and I traveled to Treasure Island in Florida recently to attend our nephew’s wedding. He and bride Abbie were married on the beach in a laid-back, Jimmy Buffet-like setting. I spent more time on the beach an ever before, several things there made impressions on me.
I love the beach, but I always have managed to scorch my hide with an almost second-degree burns. For some reason, this visit to the beach we discovered beach umbrellas and chairs. Suddenly, the sand of the shoreline were pleasant. Most days Amy and I spent no fewer than five hours under that umbrella. We chased the shade with our chairs most of the day, and when we returned to our room, neither of us was burned in the least by the son. That was good news to a guy who’s already had one cancerous spot removed from his neck and now has two others that need to be checked. I can’t understand why we never rented them before. Maybe umbrellas weren’t available at other beaches, or maybe our budgets on previous occasions were so lean that we couldn’t make the investment. I know from now on I’ll have an umbrella, even if I have to buy one and tote it from place to place. I’ll have the chairs too so that sand doesn’t cover fill every crevice of my body.
I looked at plenty of bathing suits during that week. The young folks had cut bodies that sported two-piece suits that emphasized every curve. That’s as it should be. However, I saw all too many swim suits on older folks that mesmerized me. That’s because I couldn’t believe the oldsters were wearing them. One ol’ girl looked to be well into her seventh decade. I eavesdropped on her conversations enough to determine her home was Germany. This Frau wore a black bikini. Her rounded belly was offset with drooping shoulders and overly long arms that failed with swing rhythmically with her walk. Her husband wore a suit that was popular the seventies. It was about the length of a pair of basketball shorts from the same period. The attire accented his stark white legs that were so skinny that he could have sued them for nonsupport. He protected his head with a hat that looked as if it were the property of a yodeler in the Alps. Another guy was still wearing the same size trunks that he wore during his high school years. He now wore them low enough to let his belly hang over the waistband. The saddest outfit, however, was worn by an older man, probably in his late sixties. He toured the sands in his Speedo. Sure, the guy was in decent shape, but not good enough to wear something like that. It’s for sure that folks should take others into consideration before they squeeze themselves in swimwear.
Something else became clear during my beach observations: the differences between boy and girl children at play. Boys are surprisingly louder. A few little guys around the ages of five to seven left not doubt of their presence. Everything seemed to excite them because instead of talking they yelled with each small discovery. The tiniest shell or a palm frond in the surf drove them nuts. Throwing a Frisbee or a ball created excited yelps when they dove for them in the water or on the sands.
To the contrary, little girls were much quieter—most of the time. They went about building sand castles at the edge of the water. Those little ladies smiled with delight or they shaded their eyes with one hand across their brows and pointed to the sand creations with the others to parents who were sitting close by. Only when the water inched up and began to nibble away at the castles or when an evil brother did the same were those feminine voices raised in ire. Then, an ear-piercing scream that must have been akin to the ones let loose by the Sirens that caused men to crash ships upon the reefs was heard.
Amy and I spent a restful, pleasant week on the edge of the water of the Gulf of Mexico. I got plenty of sun and even managed to overdo it one day so that places that I can’t reach itch from sun poisoning. I also gained weight that hopefully will melt in the heat of the rest of the summer. I realized one more thing: going is nice, but arriving home is always a more wonderful feeling.

Scary Times

2008-05-06T11:32:00.000-05:00

When we walked into the room, there she was. Monitors and IV’s hooked everywhere, and my little girl looked so pitiful. She was tired, as any woman who has been through labor understands. Still, it was Lacey, and to me that made it different. The good news was that Amy and I had it made to Nashville before the baby was born. The saying that God looks out for fools and grandparents who speed down I-40 at eighty-plus miles per hour proved to be true.

Neither Amy nor I was emotionally out of control. Sure, we wanted to be present upon the arrival of our first grandchild, but for some reason a calm had grabbed hold of us. In fact, we discussed this, and I wondered if we were bad grandparents because of our even temperaments, but Amy answered with that look that screams “Goofball.”

That attitude was a good one to have. We were greeted with news that scared us stiff. At some point, Lacey’s blood pressure had spiked, and she had a strong contraction, all of which put her and the baby in distress. The nurse said she suffered what our generation knew as toxemia. When the event occurred, about ten people had rushed into the room and begun hooking up drips to the IV and shoving forms to be signed in Nick’s, face. Only two words can describe the situation----SCARY TIMES!

Lacey called the nurse back to the room to explain all that was occurring, and shortly the doctor came. The decision was made to perform a Caesarian section. Doing so would ease the distress on both mother and child. Waiting for Nature to run its course could have meant that the child would have been born as much as a day later. It was a “no-brainer” decision.

The nurses hurried us out and banished us to the waiting room with the promise that we’d get to be with Lacey after they got her ready for surgery. Computer, cameras, books, and cell phone in hands, we marched to our assigned area. Several calls were placed to family and friends. I settled down to check emails. In about forty-five minutes Amy and I wondered when we could see Lacey. She went to find an answer and hurried back. It seems that no one came to get us and when Amy went to check, the nurse informed her that Madden Joseph Chemsak was lying in the nursery.

We grabbed belongings and half-sprinted down the hall. The boy lay in all of his glory under a “French fry” light. He was squalling enough to alleviate concerns about his lungs. A couple of weeks early, he still weighed in at seven pounds, three ounces and stretched nineteen inches long. Much of his upset was caused by the attending nurse who busied herself by giving the child a couple of shots and taking his temperature rectally, something I told Amy was enough to make anyone mad.

Nick was with the boy and looked every bit the proud papa. Lacey hadn’t come out of surgery, and that bothered me. I was thrilled to have this new addition to our family, but nothing would be all right until my little girl came back for me to see and check. Probably another thirty minutes passed before she was wheeled back into the room, but we still couldn’t see her.

Finally, the nurse gave the go-ahead, and I made a dash to the door. I walked to the bedside, looked at my little girl, kissed her hand, and breathed a sigh of relief. She was tired and groggy. I didn’t care as long as she was okay.
For the next twenty-four hours, Lacey wasn’t allowed to have any visitors other than grandparents. The commotion of visitors tended to elevate her blood pressure. All she could have to eat were ice chips or Popsicle.

Worst of all, Lacey wasn’t allowed to hold Madden after she returned to her room. The staff was concerned about her health, and not until her doctor came did she get the go-ahead to hold the baby, but that was more than half a day after he was born.

We visited Lacey about noon the day after, and she, Nick, and Madden were together. Amy took a turn, and then I held the boy for a couple of minutes. What was most important to me was seeing Lacey and knowing that she was all right. I relaxed just a bit then. Those were scary times. After all, Lacey was the one I once held just moments after she was born. Knowing she was safe finally made the birth Madden a completely joyous occasion.

Biting the Hand that Feeds

2008-04-29T12:11:00.002-05:00

I love dogs. They are wonderful pets that seem to hold nothing but love for their owners. Throughout my years, I’ve had dogs, and they’ve all been good and gentle, at least to me. I’ve never been afraid of a dog either. My twin brother Jim was bitten by one when he was a boy, and since then, he’s always been nervous around strange dogs, an act in itself that causes a dog to bite.

I’ve always established a good relationship with the dogs we’ve had. For some reason, that ended with our current pet Snoop, a Jack Russell Terrier. As I’ve said before, Snoop was a birthday present the year before my son Dallas left for college. He was sure I needed someone or something to help me through the adjustment period of not having a “buddy” to hang out with. My objection fell on deaf ears.
Snoop came to us as a pup, and he was a lovable creature. Best of all, the dog was crate-trained already, so we lost little sleep with his whining and crying in a new surrounding. Snoop came to our house at the end of May, and in November of the same year, I had back surgery. That dog was by my side during the entire recovery period. His need for daily exercise helped me to walk as the doctor had instructed. At 2:00 p.m. every day, I sat down in my recliner. Next I placed a pillow on my stomach where the doctors had made an incision. Then I picked Snoop up and gingerly placed him on that pillow. For the next two hours, he and I slept. Snoop woke up when I did, and he stayed beside me as if he were protecting me from all evil.

Somewhere along the line, the circuits in his brain must have shorted. For the past few months, Snoop’s behavior has been hostile. He growls when I pet him, and he rarely ever sits with me. I’ve tried to discipline him in the way the “the dog whisperer” instructs, but all that has happened is that Snoop has become even more skittish and aggressive toward me.

I’m the one who took this canine to obedience classes for two different sessions. We worked on those commands, and Snoop became quite good at obeying those them. Even when he is growling and bearing his teeth, he will sit and lie down on command. I also am the one over the years who’s taken this pup for his walks through the neighborhood. I’m the one who usually feeds him and gets his water. I arise in the middle of the night to let him out to do his business. What do I get for all the trouble? The dog has nipped at me and actually broken the skin a couple of times. More recently, he bit my finger and put a nasty gash on either side of the digit.No, I didn’t kill him, although I wanted to fling him across the room.
Some of the problem is that he has become my wife’s dog. She has had a couple of illnesses, and during that time Snoop has watched over her just as he did me. However, now I think he assumes Amy is his, and he protects her from me. He lies on her lap and rarely snarls at her. I keep telling Amy that she needs to be the one who breaks the dog’s aggressive actions toward me. I don’t think my wife is buying my explanation for the dog’s behavior.

So, what am I to do? The things I’ve seen the dog whisperer, Cesar Millan, do haven’t worked. I’ve tried to contact him, but the man is so popular that reaching him is impossible. I can’t find anyone in the area who uses the practices of Millan either. I hope that someone who reads this can come to our rescue. Otherwise, life is going to be a war at my house.

I’m not about to beat the dog for his behavior. I know that will only worsen the situation. I want my old buddy back but don’t know how to make that happen. Neither one of us is getting any younger; Snoop’s life expectancy is shorter than mine. I’ve got to find a way to snap him back to his old self. At the end of May Snoop and I will have even more time together, and I’d like to think that we can get along and guide each other into our older years.

Dance Class

2008-04-08T06:36:00.001-05:00

Moms and dads have ways, unintentional though they might be, of torturing their children. Most of those acts involve activities that parents are sure will benefit their little ones in later life. Most often the activities are ones that the adults missed out on when they were youngsters. My mother decided that her sons would be able participate in social events when they became young men, and as a result, my brothers Dal and Jim and I were forced to take dancing lessons as boys.

A woman in the community held a dance class for younger children in the community center on Wednesday nights. The first night that Jim and I attended, we wore our school clothes, jeans and shirts. The instructor met us at the door and informed us that our dress was inappropriate for the occasion. That didn’t bode well for Ball Camp boys wore dress clothes for church and funerals. We were a bit relieved to see at least a couple of friends already seated in the center. Evidently, our mothers had been talking and decided that their young men needed to be more refined; they wanted us to be proficient in at least one activity that didn’t require a ball. Our buddies had received the memo about proper attire, and they ragged us for a while.

The lessons began, and I was sure I’d fall on my face. Taking the right step at the right time was hard enough; doing so while facing a partner was darn near impossible. Girls always pick up dance steps quicker than boys, so they snickered at us boys in our awkwardness.

Boys sent on one side of the room; the girls were on the other side. On cue, males were to cross the room and ask girls to dance. A couple of the girls were favorites, and every one of us went for them. In fact, we left our chairs in a dead run, a sin to the instructor. More than once, I was sent back to my chair to wait until the rest of the boys chose a partner. Then I could take the one little girl who was chosen last. She was worse at dancing than any boy, and she lacked social skills. A three minute dance with her lasted an eternity.

During that dance class, we learned all the great dances: the waltz, fox trot, cha-cha, and bob. Over and over again, we practiced. None of us dared look into the girls’ eyes for fear that we’d stomp their toes. Girls’ hands were covered in sweat as boys held them during the dances. Our arms were around their waists, but we never got too close. If all of us worked hard and performed especially well, our instructor allowed us one song to which we could twist, the craze of that time period.

Maybe the worst part of dance class was the timing. Wednesday evenings were destroyed by these lessons. We had to come home from school and complete any homework for the next day. That meant no time for football or basketball games with the neighborhood guys. Those friends made sure to give us plenty of grief about the evening’s events. Supper was early, and then we had to dress properly; in other words, we would spend three hours completely uncomfortable.

The biggest sacrifice that we made concerned television programming. That year “The Beverly Hillbillies” first aired. The show was entertaining, and the biggest draw was Ellie Mae. During those weeks of dance lessons, we missed her beside the “cement pond” or in her cut-off denim shorts. In those days, VCR’s and DVD’s weren’t available to copy shows for later viewing. It was almost criminal to us kids.

Obviously, we survived the dance lessons. They actually came in handy later in life. I felt comfortable slowing dancing with girls at sock hops. In college, I managed to survive with ease a ball room dancing course. I wasn’t great, but I got an “A” out of the class. I’ve never been too afraid to hit the dance floor with my wife at parties. Still, I’m glad there wasn’t an advanced class offered. I learned enough to get along and not enough to make me want to compete on “Dancing with the Stars.” I also managed to eventually see Ellie Mae on plenty of episodes.