THE COMMON IS SPECTACULAR!

Awarding Everything

2012-02-01T09:27:00.000-05:00

I suppose that nobody got the memo about it being all right to not award

every person who breathes an award of some kind. It happened again at the UT versus Auburn basketball game Saturday evening.

As best I recall, two of the incidents occurred during a timeout, or maybe it was during half time. At any rate, a long line of college students was marched out to midcourt. Announcer Jeff Jarnigan then informed folks that two national championship teams were about to be awarded plagues to recognize their achievements. The first were members of the wakeboard team. Yep, I said wakeboard team. Evidently, the event was part of the 2011 Alt Games held in San Diego and aired by CBS Sports. It must have been a real slow sports weekend. Other events in the games include flowboarding, skateboarding, and beach volleyball.

UT student participants lined up, and each received a plague and handshake from someone representing the university. The crowd politely applauded for ten seconds or so and then returned to conversations and concessions purchases.

The next group of students recognized were members of the collegiate national paintball championship team. This year 78 teams competed, but in the end, UT’s team had splattered the competition on its way to claiming the national title. These participants waved to the crowd as they accepted their awards, and again, only a few seconds of polite applause came from basketball fans.

Congratulations to the members of these two groups for their successes. I’m happy for them as they fared well against teams across the country. However, these clubs aren’t any more exceptional than are those which enter robot construction or alternative automobile competitions. There’s no need to march these guys out in front of a captive crowd and tell their stories. It’s done to kill time during the half and distract crowds who are more interested in going to restrooms and concession stands.

Before the game, a long line of elementary school children from Sequoyah Elementary School marched to center court. They were introduced and honored for being named as winners of the terms Character Counts award for their school. Each carried a certificate with that proclamation.

At half time, another large group of young people, probably 4-6 years of age, found their spots on markers on the court. Each carried a ball, and I thought they’d be one of those groups of whiz kids who can dribble and handle a ball. Wrong. These kids took their balls and held them over their heads; then they held them and jumped; next they passed them around their feet. Finally, they did dribble the balls, but that turned out to be a disaster. Kids lost control, and balls scooted across the floor. In fact, most of the action took place as they zipped across the floor in pursuit of escaped orbs. Folks clapped loudly for these little guys, but I never figured out why. More than likely the reason centered on the fact that they were young. Everybody loves little children.

Just because those people are on the floor doesn’t mean they are doing anything special. They weren’t! The kids struggled to hold on to a ball, not to mention the fact that they couldn’t bounce it two times in a row. Still, they were stuck in front of a crowd as if they were super athletes. Just because they tried, fans were expected to cheer them on and ooh and aah over their abilities.

This country has gone haywire. The prevailing thought is that everybody gets a trophy. At the same time, everybody gets to perform in front of a crowd, even if their abilities are negligible. I’ve viewed too many bad dance teams; I’ve listened to too many terrible performances of the national anthem; and I’ve seen too many groups of kids who’ve done wonderful things like picking up paper in their communities to collect money for some nonprofit. What I want to know is this: aren’t most of these things kids should do because they’re good citizen? Can’t kids just play games like baseball, football, and soccer simply for the fun of it? Why do they need a trophy?

No, I’m not picking on kids. I love them. I just don’t think we’re doing them any favors when we teach them that they get an award for doing anything? Enough is enough! Get it over it.

Gay Street and Orange Julius

2012-01-23T13:43:00.000-05:00

Not long ago, Amy and I took our first visit to the new open market on Lovell Road. Most of what I saw in booths amounted to what I call elegant junk. That was fine with me because I like nothing better than rummaging through stuff like that in hopes of finding some good deals on things not needed. Outside several vendors offered fruits, vegetables, and flowers, and one vendor sold frozen meats that he’d grown on his farm in middle Tennessee.

The best thing I discovered was in the food court. Orange Julius was being sold in one area, and I had to have one. The wait in line was longer than other places, but that’s what happens when something truly good is being prepared. And yes, the price was steep for the size of the drink. Still, on this occasion, I paid it without blinking an eye. The first slurp from the cup brought back plenty of memories from times gone by.

Trips to downtown Knoxville were big deals “back in the day.” Daddy drove Mother and us three boys to Westhaven, where we caught the bus for the last few miles. We exited in front of Woolworths on Gay Street, and that was the start line for a day of shopping.

Mother bought our clothes in a Penney’s or Sears downtown. We’d travel to Millers so that she could shop for material located in a department on an upper floor. Rich’s was the next stop, and when that store became Millers as well, we made trips to both places.

The entire time we crisscrossed Gay Street, with stops on Market Square for good measure, the three of us boys held out our hopes. Sometimes we dreamed of going to the movie while Mother shopped. That didn’t happen much because a tight budget held no money for such foolishness.

More often, we dutifully followed her in and out of stores without complaining too much. Our plan was to be so good that Momma would buy us something to eat. She was much wiser than we gave her credit for being; she knew the way to our good behavior was through our too big bellies.
Food always was a part of our trips. We would scoot into the Blue Circle on Wall Avenue and slide onto the stools at the counter. When we finished, all that remained were napkins, bits of fallen onions, and smears of ketchup.
Sometimes we’d wait for seats at Woolworth’s. The smell of the hamburgers cooking had us slobbering like Pavlov’s dogs, and when the food arrived, it disappeared in only a couple of minutes.

An extravagance was eating at S and W. It was a more formal than what were used to. The cafeteria line offered tempting dishes, but all of us ordered the same thing every time—fish. A black waiter in a white jacket would tote our trays to a table and then place the dishes in our places. While we gobbled fish covered with the best ever tartar sauce, mashed potatoes, and green beans, Mother rested. I don’t remember whether or not she ate, but it would have been like her to do without so we could enjoy ourselves.

We’d trek to the far end of Gay Street sometimes. Our clan passed homeless men and some con men selling pencils one time and another item the next, we hiked until reaching a small shop. There it was—the Orange Julius. Orders placed and cups in hand, our family hiked back down Gay Street for the last time of the day. Sometimes one of us would drink too fast and stop dead still on the sidewalk and grab his temples. “Brain freeze! Then we’d continue the walk to the bus stop.

The other day I drank that Orange Julius too fast and suffered for it as I had years ago. The memories of a time long passed were darkened with the realization that three of our five family members are gone. However, the time we spent together during the simplest of activities made huge impression on my life. Maybe the best thing I can do is to go back and drink another one for each of them.

Not a Fan Not a Follower

2012-01-18T07:30:00.003-05:00

The NFL played the first round of play off games this past weekend. A couple of games ended as predicted, but the other two were surprises. I can’t say that I was disappointed in either case. But like most folks, I have an opinion on the Tim Tebow phenomenon.

First, I admit that I’ve never been a Tebow fan. Much of that stems from the fact that the player and his Florida Gators beat my UT teams each year of his eligibility. We who bleed orange have suffered mightily at the hands of this quarterback and his talents as a college player. My negativity is the same reaction that many people throughout the country have in regard to Peyton Manning, the brightest star that’s shined on “the hill” in years.

Now that Tebow is in the NFL, his skills have proven to be less than stellar. Those who analyze talent state that he’s not one of the top quarterbacks in the league. Pundits criticize his passing form, and others say he’s more suited to play the game as a fullback or tight end. Such comments look down right ridiculous when games are completed with Tebow leading his team to a win, most often with game-ending drives.

My beef with this Denver hero has nothing to do with his skills as a quarterback, although I don’t think he’s that gifted. What irks me is the brouhaha over his “religion.” Tim Tebow has never hidden his religious feelings. In fact, he’s worn them on his sleeve at times. Still, that’s his business.

What brings my blood to an almost boiling point is the public display. Eye black with bible verses inked on it is one. Pointing toward the heavens is another. The third is kneeling in the end zone and offering prayer. Are any of these things bad? The answer is no. However, I question whether or not they are appropriate, and he should know the answer. In Matthew 6: 1-6 Jesus instructs his disciples not to pray in public where everyone can see them. Instead, he tells them to go to their closets and pray secretly to God. So, a silent prayer or “thank you” is all that’s needed. Anything more is done to call attention to the individual and his “supposed” goodness.

Then there’s all the talk about God throwing the touchdown passes for Tebow or God willing the quarterback’s winning and favoring the Denver Broncos. Former quarterback Fran Tarkenton, whose dad was a Pentacostal minister, said he prayed before games, but he doesn’t know if God cares about football games and their outcomes. If the good lord did, would he intervene to allow one team to win at the other’s expense? If so, is God a Bronco fan? If so, does that make the Denver team “God’s team?”

I applaud Tim Tebow and his faith. I take exception to his public displays that call attention to himself. I’d much prefer that he talk about the relationship in the pulpit of a church, not at a nationally televised football game. Doing so cheapens religion in that it commercializes it. God is more interested in individuals who focus on living a life of service and devotions. He’s not much interested in show-offs. Ease up, Tim!

To put it another way, God probably isn’t an ardent fan of football and probably doesn’t follow any team. He is more interested in more important things that go on in this world of His.

Proverbial Living

2012-01-12T11:42:00.004-05:00

The book of Proverbs, located in the Old Testament after the Psalms and before Ecclesiastes, is perhaps the best book for daily living. Every child used to hear about the wisdom of King Solomon, but before long, the demands of this life got in the way and the wisdom of the ages was locked away in the bible for Sunday school classes and sermon topics.

Our country faces many challenges in the years ahead. Most of us worry about the economy. Our fears over losing jobs are trumped by those for our children’s futures. Will they find jobs? Will their standard of living take a dramatic downturn from ours? Will the country lose its leadership role in the world?
When concerns about money, survival, and fairness come into conversation, remembering just a few of the proverbs can light the way that will help us to regain our equilibrium and standing. What they offer is little more than common sense, but in this day and time, even that is in short supply.
Proverbs 16: 8—“It is better to be poor and godly than rich and dishonest.”
Somehow, someway, things got turned around. Being rich is the most important thing to folks. The richer individuals become, the more money they want, and all too many of them are willing to get riches by hook or by crook. Yes, we all want to live comfortably, but many people have no desire to be filthy rich. For them, riches become cumbersome and weigh them down. Freedom comes with less money and a median income.
Ben Franklin tried to reinforce this proverb when he said, “He that is of the opinion money will do everything may well be suspected of doing everything for money.” He knew how corrupting money could be and warned folks of his day. Right now, we don’t have anyone to preach the message that riches too often lead to dishonesty. We must be careful how our fortunes are gained.
Proverbs 16: 11—“The Lord demands fairness in every business deal; he sets the standards.”
A quick glance at the newspapers gives plenty of examples of unfair business practices. Mortgage messes led to historically high numbers of foreclosures. Investment companies gambled with investors’ moneys on garbage bonds and schemes, and as a result, millions of people lost huge hunks of their savings. Some delayed retirement and returned to the work world, even though they’d faithfully saved for years to build a comfortable nest egg. How fair are these actions?
The lack of straight shooting can be found in everyday transactions. How about gas prices for instance? Prices move like rollercoasters on an almost daily basis. Most often, that means increases. Companies jacked up prices almost twenty cents over a recent weekend. The gas in the tanks in the ground didn’t cost them these new prices. So, oil companies took in windfall profits not due them.
Proverbs 16:19—“It is better to live humbly with the poor than to share plunder with the proud.”
Hmm. At the end of 2008, the US economy was almost in the tank. Panic spread as people lost jobs, savings, and homes. The return of the Great Depression seemed to be upon us. Yes, this country was on shaky ground, and fear overtook us.
All the while, other places, such as banks that lost billions, investment firms that fired employees and shut their doors, and major corporations handed out millions of dollars in bonuses. That confused and angered many of us as we tried to comprehend a system that rewards the top executives with enormous checks when so many Americans were hurting. Just the other night, new reports surfaced about how banks and investment companies were lamenting the cut of top bonuses to a mere $300,000 average. Is it just me, or does that seem wrong?
We’ve lost our rudder for living. Perhaps a visit to the common sense proverbs can help us find a guide for right living. If not, then the rich will gain while the middle class loses ground until its members become more like endured servants. We need to make sure that doesn't happen. It might be up to us to re-define what is right and wrong and equitable by reviewing the proverbs from ages past.

College Football Gripes

2012-01-04T17:22:00.001-05:00

The college football season is almost complete, something for which many UT fans are thankful. I’ve watched enough games to cross my eyes give me a giant-size headache. The season has caused me to develop a laundry list of complaints, none of which involves the Vols or Coach Dooley.

First, I’m disgusted with the scheduling of games. College football has forever been identified with Saturdays. Night games became more common, but they still were held on that traditional weekend day. Now, college teams play at least four days of the week. Smaller schools’ teams suit up for Tuesday and sometimes Wednesday night games. On Thursdays and some Fridays, big boy schools play games. Lots of times the stands aren’t filled because working folks have to get up for jobs the next morning. Of course, these different schedules are due to the money that they generate. No, it’s not for the schools or football programs; it’s for ESPN’s coffers. When a network pays out billions of dollars in college football contracts, it must create games for which ads can me sold.

Along the same vein, what gives with the bowl line-up? A bowl game used to be special. Now, mediocre teams pound each other with ineptitude in obscure games played on blue fields or in climates better suited for polar bears.

Games need to be scheduled sometime from the day after Christmas through New Years, with a possible exception for the national championship game. At the same time, no game should last until nearly 1:00 a.m. as some have this year. Folks on the west coast can more easily watch a game in the early evening than we on the other side of the country can at midnight and beyond.

I’m sick of the punk attitudes of some players. They make plays and then mouth at their opponents. Some of them stand over other players as if they are about to administer a “beat down.” It’s thug mentality.
What’s all the gesturing about? Some hotdogs thump their chests with both hands to signal that they alone are winning the games. Others take fists and pat themselves over the heart, while a few salute another team mate or the crowd. This “it’s all about me” attitude and the accompanying gestures prove that too many athletes are concerned more with self than team. Coaches should put an end to it.

The last complaint deals with radio talk show personalities. I’m not talking about established folks. No, I refer to the younger talking heads. One is a female who talks as if she knows everything but changes what she’s said when a co-host expresses a better point. Another has a smooth, rich voice which he uses to “dog” everything at UT—football, basketball, coaches and players. His partner is not much better and only occasionally makes a positive comment. All three of these individuals have an agenda that includes putting the football coach in the worst light. I’d dare say that the two males either never played football or were relegated to junior varsity teams.

Around here, the next big deal in sports is signing day. To hear some people talk, UT is a second class program with a poor recruiting class. Never mind that not a single player has suited up yet. Speculation is good, but all of it shouldn’t be assuming the worst. Of course, the seasoned veterans take a different approach, and if it weren’t for them, I’d never listen to a sports radio show.

Yep, I love college football. When Saturday morning rolls around in the fall, a cloudless sky and cool temperatures announce “It’s football time in Tennessee.” I just wish most every other day didn’t include a game. And I wish some players would play the game and quit being show-off punks. Last, I’d appreciate radio show hosts not acting as if they are the final word on a subject and wouldn’t stir up discontent as the tabloids do.

Whew! I feel much better now! Go UT !

Are Resolutions Worthwhile?

2011-12-29T09:17:00.001-05:00

It’s that time of year—the time to make a list of resolutions. They’re promises we make to ourselves about improving life in the coming year. Each New Year we write them down and display the lists at highly visible places to keep them fresh in our minds.

Resolutions usually address a person’s shortcomings. The most often cited one deals with weight loss. The holiday season that begins with Thanksgiving gives individuals too many opportunities to stuff their gullets and pack on the pounds. By the time New Years arrives, folks are exhausted from carrying those spare tires around and promise to get rid of the pounds.

Others promise to stop the use of profanity, give up smoking, or become better employees or parents. For some reason, we like making those kinds of commitments on the first day of the year—a new day and new lease on life. All is positive, and we can see in our minds how much better life will be as we live up to those resolutions for self-improvement.

The key to a successful resolution is work. A person has to be aware of the new promise he’s made, and then he must put forth plenty of effort to complete the steps that make that resolution a reality. Before long, the actions of a resolution become a habit, and at that point, a person has made the behavior a part of his every-day life. This applies to declarations to exercise more or to be better organized. In both cases, the individual sets at time each day to run, walk, or lift weights or to clean, file, and plan until it becomes second nature.

In the end, reality sets in. Most of us don’t last more than a few days in working on our resolutions. We have the best of intentions, just like the ones that line the road to hell. However, unlearning a behavior, especially one that rewards a person with some kind of pleasure, is difficult at best. No one wants to do without something he enjoys, so resolutions that are aimed at habits are often abandoned quickly. I can’t remember how many times I swore I’d quit smoking at the New Year, but when I finally gave up the habit, it was July. In high school I promised myself to study more and improve my grades. That lasted until the first day back in school. Then I decided that improving required too much energy and effort.

This year, I’m not making any resolutions. There are some things I’d like to accomplish, but I’m not setting them up so that failure leads to depression. Yeah, I’d like to drop twenty or thirty pounds, begin walking every day, set a time each day to write, and spend more time with others who need my help. If I reach these goals, I’ll be a healthier, lighter, and more contented person. If I don’t, I’ll still be okay.

Be careful what resolutions you set for the coming year. Don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s good to set goals, but after all, isn’t life supposed to be a pleasant journey? I, for one, can do without the heaps of guilt for falling short of expectations. Hang in there and have a Happy New Year

The Good and Bad of Christmas

2011-12-19T09:04:00.001-05:00

Christmas time is special at our house. At heart, I’m still a kid who gets excited. However, not everything is perfect during the holidays.

Most people have horror stories about shopping during the season. Some even set out on Black Friday to find wonderful deals. I’m not about to place one foot in a store on that day. Instead, I go before that infamous time, and on many occasions in the past, I have finished all my shopping well before Thanksgiving.

My primary job is to search out gifts for Amy. I made her cry on our first Christmas together—no a good cry—because I bought her hot curlers and some other “dorky” stuff. Hey, we’d just gotten married five days earlier, and I didn’t know “jack” about buying things for a woman. I did learn.
A couple of times I bought pieces of furniture to refinish, and she seemed pleased. Then I bought clothing for her. Sometimes I picked a winner, and sometimes the presents were duds. The good thing is that I always kept the receipt. Amy liked that because she could exchange presents and shop for items that she liked.

Now I ask for a list of things she wants. From that I make selections. Sometimes I deviate from the list and get something I think she’ll like. Again, the receipts are tucked away in case the gifts don’t pass muster. Overall, I’m successful in pleasing my wife at Christmas. The rest of the year, I’m not so sure.

Another task with which I am charged is finding items for “stocking stuffers” for the kids. I enjoy stalking stores like Dollar General, K-Mart, and Walgreens for atypical Christmas presents. De-Icer was a hit with all one year. A lint cleaner to use on refrigerators and other appliances became a useful tool, even though I bought them as gag gifts. Some of my selections have become the butts of jokes. It seems each year the kids pull out pairs of finger nail clippers, tire pressure gauges, and chap sticks. I’m always open to good suggestions for future stocking presents.

Of course, there are some things about Christmas that drive me crazy. The crowds are one. I don’t do well in them, and my nerves fray and temper grows short in traffic jams and rude persons who jump line or push through to reach their destinations. The only time I enjoy those crowds and places is when my shopping is complete. Then, the best entertainment for the weekend is sitting at the mall and watching folks go nuts trying to find gifts that are in short supply. I sit and smile at their panic and thank the good lord my shopping is completed.

The most stressful part of the process is wrapping presents. For the life of me, I can’t make beautiful packages. I never get the edges of the paper cut straight and always use too much paper for one present. Even though I use a half a container of tape, the gift still slips and slides inside its covering. It’s sexist to say this, but I think wrapping packages correctly is something that’s built into a woman’s genetic make-up and absent in men’s.

So, we’ll meet the kids on Christmas and exchange gifts. They’ll be pleased because Amy has again done a wonderful job. My poor wife will give me a fake smile and open pitifully wrapped boxes or items stuffed in gift bags. She can rest assured that I have receipts for everything in case I didn’t quite get the right thing or chose the wrong color. Still, it’s Christmas and a wonderful time for family and friends.

Have a good one!!!!

Easing into Age

2011-12-15T14:39:00.003-05:00

Age is a wonderful thing. No, I’m not talking about all those aches and

pains that accompany passing years, nor is forgetfulness a positive for those of us who are in the last third of our lives. However, some things are much better with age.

One of the benefits of growing older is retirement. I took mine early. Thirty years of teaching proved to be all I could stand, and reading and hearing from those still in the profession about the hoops through which they must jump, I have to thank God that He knows what’s best for me. I should add thanks to Amy that she’s willing to work so that I can be finished with the work world.

This life without having to answer an alarm every morning is special. My days consist of writing, covering a story or two, completing “honey-do’s,” and playing golf. The best thing of all is that I can say “no” to any of those if my mood doesn’t match their demands. I’m my own boss; well, Amy is actually the CEO of Rector, Inc., but no outside individual has power over my time and what I do with it. I highly recommend retirement to all who can find things to keep themselves busy. I always enjoyed my job, but I refused to let it become the center of my life. Some might say I’m too self-centered to let that happen.

Age also shows us who’s in charge. Just when I think I am the man I used to be, the years sneak into bed after a long day of yard work and clamp vices on calf and thigh muscles. My nights are often filled with fitful sleep as aches and pains come in waves. It’s then that the years announce that it’s all right to take a rest or two during chores. I’ve discovered that sometimes the harder chores require my calling for help.

Growing older also helps us to forget. Yes, I know putting an item away and then not being able to find it is maddening. That’s not what I’m talking about. Age helps us to forget to worry. Amy used to say that her mother lived a contented life during her last years, and the main cause was that she didn’t worry about a thing. Mary Alice lived for the moment, and she enjoyed her time with friends and family without concerning herself about the “small stuff” in life. Nobody can come up with a better way of living.

For years people knew my intensity about anything was exhausting and volatile. I had an opinion on everything and argued it whenever someone disagreed. My patience was easily worn thin, and righteous indignation rose over the slightest things.

Lately, my family has been shocked at how I’ve let some things that used to set me off pass. My daughter waits for me to explode with “moronic drivers” or traffic jams. Amy is shocked that I have developed more patience with folks I don’t necessarily like and for shows that I once refused to watch. Dallas is stunned that I tolerate some things that grandson Madden does, things that used to bring on spankings or, worse, verbal tirades.

What finally got through my thick skull is that I have only so much energy, and it is more quickly depleted now. I have to carefully choose my battles, so that means things that used to chap me are left alone. It’s good that age has mellowed me. Don’t get me wrong; I still can have a conniption if the situation demands it, and I have enough energy to outwork most of the younger folks around.

I coast a little more in this life now, and the reward is finding so much to enjoy and love. I’m okay with myself and in my years. Both are well worn enough to be comfortable like an old pair of shoes. I hope several more years are left to be laid back before I’m laid low.

Guarding Against Big Brother

2011-12-05T08:31:00.002-05:00

I wonder if most folks are as surprised as I am that individuals so quickly and freely give outside entities access to their lives. It is shocking how much they are willing to cede to “authority figures.

Recently, a column on traffic cameras appeared on my blog. It pooh-poohed the use of them and their ticketing drivers for turning right on red lights. I agree that laws are created to protect us. However, the one thing that machine enforcement of laws lacks is common sense. If a person turns right on a red light when no traffic is coming, is he or she breaking the law? Technically, the answer is yes, but with a little common sense, the answer is no. It’s a good bet that a policeman won’t issue a ticket under that circumstance.

To say that traffic cameras should snap photos of so-called violation and then have a company issue a ticket because it’s the law is giving in to something that just doesn’t seem okay. No, it’s not right that a machine should eyeball us and then make the decision as to whether we should or shouldn’t be punished.

After 9/11, our government passed the Patriot Act. One part included roving wiretaps. It allowed one wiretap authorization to cover multiple devices, eliminating the need for separate court authorizations for a suspect's cell phone, PC and Blackberry, and other things. Another allowed "Sneak and peek" search warrants, which let authorities search a home or business without immediately notifying the target of a probe.

Too many citizens panicked and agreed that such things be allowed to continue in this country. I’m not at all for that. I expect plenty of grief from others who disagree. Allowing any governmental department to illegally search my property or to invade my privacy just to keep tabs on me is unacceptable. Some would say those acts keep me safe. I say to you, the right to bear arms was included in our fabric during a time when the U.S. was in its infancy and subject to attack from England. Like this act, it no longer applies since we no longer are threatened by an opposing army and especially because our country has the most sophisticated and expensive defense on the planet, one that spends more that all other countries combined.

What we citizens must guard against is giving up control over our lives. Now, plenty of people carp about too much government control, but at the same time, they are all for allowing parts of the Patriot Act to become permanent. They say a person has nothing to worry about unless he is guilty of a crime. At present that might be true, but at some point in the future such laws can be used against all, innocent and guilty alike.

Our government at present is unable to come together to do anything that helps the citizens. The economy is in the tank, and the super committee in charge of making recommendations couldn’t agree on a lunch menu, not to mention on cuts in all areas of spending. Why in the name of sense would anyone give that incompetent government access to the personal parts of our lives? If we don’t wake up and question invasions of our privacy, then George Orwell’s “Big Brother” will arrive at our doorsteps before we realize it. It might already be too late.

I’m never going to argue with folks about possessing firearms, more specifically assault weapons because neither side will ever convince the other of its wrong thinking. However, let’s wake up and be alert to what laws actually do to our liberties and personal lives. It’s the duty of a diligent citizenry and the safeguard of freedom.

Fully Using Schools

2011-11-28T16:14:00.001-05:00

“What we have here is a failure to communicate.” That’s what Paul Newman’s Cool Hand Luke said, and it’s a fair assessment of the situation with which community organizations find themselves facing in their attempt to use Knox County Schools facilities.

The schools system is facing a reported $7 million shortfall in its 2012 budget. What’s new? Every year it’s the same old thing: “We don’t have enough money so it’s time to cut, cut, cut.” In past years that’s meant axing teachers, aides, and course offerings. What the heck; it’s just education.

So now, programs, nonprofits, and organizations of all kind will be in search of new homes before the budget is passed next summer. Scout troops are already scrambling to set up new digs for their get-togethers. Fledgling church groups will look elsewhere for meeting places, and hundreds, if not thousands, of kids will be locked out of gyms and other facilities that hosted recreational league activities.

What’s going on with Knox County Schools? It seems that this superintendent was hired for his background in juggling finances for Boston schools. His time in the classroom was limited. Instead, he’s been heavily involved with budgets and money and fitting the two together. That’s wonderful news that he’s so strong in that area, but here in Knoxville, his mantra seems to have been cut, tighten belts, and outsource. As Knoxvillians can tell him, outsourcing was done once before and proved to be a fiasco. Buildings were left dirty, supplies were few and far between, and workers were no longer loyal to the schools in which they worked.

This latest idea of charging for use of the building might not be bad if the charges were reasonable. What makes many folks scratch their heads is the question of costs. If the building is already opened at the end of a school day, exactly what are the outstanding costs incurred by letting groups use classrooms? Sending a scout troop a usage invoice for $1800 would be laughable if it weren’t so ridiculous.

Sure, recreational leagues that require daylong use of gyms or fields should help out with the costs incurred by the system. Lights and scoreboards gobble up energy, and it’s not fair for the system to absorb then entire bill.

What this is more about is a relationship between the school system and communities. It used to be that a schoolz wer the focal points of most communities, and they served as meeting places. Residents tied their allegiances to those schoolz and defended them. Today, PTA’s work to install playground equipment and make other improvements to schools. What’s going to happen if parents decide to no longer invest in a system that shuts its doors to all except those who can pay fees? By the way, will the system charge the government for using schools as polling places?

Another question is where will kids be gathering if not at schools? Opening the doors to buildings that sit idle much of the time could possibly serve communities and save children who might otherwise find trouble to occupy themselves.

The fact is that school systems, from time to time, need an increase in the money they take in. That means the tax rate needs to go up. Yes, it’s painful for folks in these tough economic times, but if we believe that education is of value, then we have to “pony up.” At the same time, groups have to be willing to contribute a little. If we work together, we’ll find that school buildings can be used without a financial strain on anyone.

From board evaluations, this superintendent is performing well. That means teachers are helping students to raise scores on test and meeting the statistical demands of administrators and others outside the classroom. However, he’s not doing so well in recognizing and understanding the “human element” of schools, communities, and education. I suppose no one taught that in finance courses. Just like businesses for Knox County Schools, it’s all about the bottom line.

Up Too Early or Too Late

2011-11-24T07:42:00.000-05:00

I’m constantly amazed by people. Just when I think I have them figured out, they show me how wrong I am.

On this Thanksgiving morning, I rolled out of bed after tossing and turning most of the night. The clock showed 6:10 when I finally rose, even though I’d seen every hour of the night before flashing on the dial.
Maybe I was too excited about the day and going to Cookeville to eat and spend time with Amy’s uncles and aunts and my kids and grandson. Maybe I was looking forward to having my wife back home. She’d spent the previous four days in Nashville. I envied her time with Madden, Lacey, and Nick, but circumstances dictated that I stay home. I hope Amy is as glad to see me, although I doubt she missed me much. She fairs better by herself than I do.
At any rate, I stumbled to the kitchen to make coffee and then sat down in my chair and stared at the computer screen that was already running. After checking email, I clicked into Facebook to see what folks had posted and even wrote a couple of lines. Then I noticed the times under folks’ posts. Some had typed things three hours ago and some four.

What the heck is going on? If people posted then, that means they were up and stirring at 3:00 a.m. or earlier. What are they doing up that early? Yes, it’s possible that they’ve not been in bed yet, which brings on another set of questions.

I used to be a night owl, but only on special occasions did I ever hang around until that early in the morning, or late at night, depending on how you look at it. Even in my twenties, staying up that long was difficult since I’d lost so much sleep during college years as I pulled all-nighters studying for exams. Something in my being just doesn’t allow my body to function or my eyes to focus that late.

On the other hand, what makes people get out of bed that early? I know some have to baste that turkey or begin preparing the Thanksgiving feast. I also remember those years when little ones cried out and awakened parents with demands for bottles or clean diapers. And, yes, some folks work night shifts and have their days turned upside down.

But what about all these others? I hope they aren’t affected by insomnia that robs them of sleep every night. Maybe some are so wrapped up in their careers that they have to hit the floor early to maintain an edge on competitors. What I hope is that none are in the throes of bad times that keep them worried and awake.

The only time any of us might be up in the middle of the night is Christmas. Children struggle to sleep the night before because they’re ramped up with excitement over the arrival of Santa Claus. They might slip into unconsciousness for a couple of hours, but somewhere around 4-5 a.m., they’ll wake up, run to the tree, and squeal with excitement over the presents under trees.

Parents will stay up into the wee hours of the night as they read instructions for toys that must be assembled. They’ll stress over not having all the pieces or having to find batteries in the middle of the night for toys that must operate in the morning. Exhausted, they’ll collapse in bed, but just as they doze off, bedroom doors will burst open, and begging voices will urge them to get up and see what Santa left.
No, I didn’t sleep well last night. I’ll make up for it sometime today. Somewhere there’s a couch that calls me to nap this afternoon. For those of you who are up early every morning/night, consider some medication or career changes. If you have little ones, you’re stuck, and I feel your pain. By the way, Happy Thanksgiving!

Camera Karma

2011-11-14T07:34:00.000-05:00

I fetched the paper the other morning, and my eyes were drawn to a front

page article: “Traffic Camera Vendor Sues City.” It’s not so amazing how the truth surfaces on so many things if we’re just patient.

American Traffic Solutions, Inc. filed suit in Chancery Court. The company says that Public Acts 425 is unconstitutional because it doesn’t allow for issuing of tickets for illegal right turns if the only evidence is traffic camera video. This company squawks about the unfairness of the law and over the contract violations by Knoxville.

It’s a funny thing to me that ATS manipulated the legislative process as it developed a business that monitors driving habits and mistakes of citizens. However, when a new law that goes against the company’s self-interest is enacted, its officials cry out over the injustices done to them. Hey ATS, karma’s a bitch!

I’ve been a victim of those cameras during a right turn. At Morrell Road, I pulled up to the light, looked to the left and saw nothing coming, and made the turn. SNAP! I received a citation and accompanying photo in the mail, and then I watched the video online. Yep, I sure did “roll” past the white line at the light. Yep, I did turn right. Nope, I didn’t endanger anyone. The truth is that not a single car was coming from the left nor did the right turn I made in any way present a danger to other motorists.

A further look into the situation indicates that these cameras are more about revenue than safety. Sure, some grinding wrecks have been prevented as motorists jam on the brakes to keep from going through red lights. However, I’m curious how many rear-end collisions have occurred because of such quick stops.

Knoxville has cameras at fourteen intersections throughout the city. Since the PA 425 was enacted, a NINETY percent DROP in citations has occurred, and Farragut’s citations have decreased by fifty percent. Hmm. That statistical evidence seems to indicate that the overwhelming majority of fines were levied for right turns that didn’t take into account the flow or traffic or the overall driving habits of victims.

So, now the vendor is filing suit to continue issuing citations where cameras were in place before the new law came into effect. Oh, I see, ATS wants to have its own exception to the rule so it can maintain revenues produced on the backs of Knoxville citizens. At the same time, they pooh-pooh any changes or exceptions in laws that benefit those who pay for their profits.

Yes, the roads need to be safe places on which we can travel. Folks who run red lights should be ticketed for putting theirs and others’ lives in danger. However, a system that monitors intersections must include a key component that American Traffic Solutions cameras and staff ignore. Common sense should be used in looking at the overall traffic situation, and if no dangers are present in a situation, then shutters should remain still. In the end, the traffic will flow much easier, and what looks like a form of George Orwell’s “Big Brother” won’t be squashing common folks.

As for American Traffic Solutions, stop whining. Your profit taking doesn’t supersede the laws that are enacted to protect the citizens of Tennessee. Like I said before, what goes around comes around.

Fall-Pro and Con

2011-11-07T08:46:00.000-05:00

The last week ushered in the coldest temperatures yet of the late fall. I suppose it’s about time since we’re fast approaching the middle of November. Still, it’s fall that drives me crazy sometimes.

For one thing, frost sneaks in during the early morning and hammers those plants that Amy has babied and fed and watered so faithfully since spring. With only one visit, blooms wither and turn brown, and it’s off to the mulch pile or burning area for them. Their ends are sad.

A couple of years ago we bought rain barrels to catch water from our gutters. The things can come in handy, but setting them up in spring is a pain and even worse is when cold weather demands that they be removed. The spigots on both barrels grudgingly give up the water inside, and it can take an hour or more to drain them. Then the downspouts for the gutters must be reattached. Failure to put these giant watering cans away can result in their splitting as the water inside freezes, and I sure don’t want my wife mad at my laziness.

So far this fall, I’ve worked with leaves four times. The yard is filled with trees, and while the maple trees cooperate by dumping their leaves all at once, hickory trees drop giant brown husk-like things that don’t easily grind. Then there are the oak trees. They never cooperate. Instead, they dribble leaves from the first cold snap. Each year I work with those stubborn dead things until January. Then, I give up and take care of the lingering ones when the mower reappears in early spring.

On the news I watched a story about some snobbish neighborhood whose residents had grown tired leaf blowers. They’d started a petition to ban the use of them because they produced too much noise. One woman, I think she once played Cat Woman on the old “Batman” television story, proclaimed that the use of blowers wasn’t necessary. This snarly old girl obviously has never worked in a yard filled with leaves. She probably hires a gardener to complete the work and to do it in a manner that wouldn’t disturb her entitled lifestyle.

I don’t hate the fall leaves. Reds and golds against a cloudless blue sky present a scene that proves that a higher power is in charge of things. In fact, maple tree leaves that turn those colors are mainstays of fall and the Thanksgiving season. They’re the ones that elementary school children apply with crayons to the art work in classrooms.

Just the other day, another fall event caught my attention. I pulled to the side of the road in our neighborhood and watched several turkeys as they picked at the ground of a yard. The appearance of wildlife in the fall searching for food always thrills me. Deer in the median along Interstate 75, while dangerous when they run in front of trucks and cars that zip by, are some of the grandest features that the area has to offer tourists on the way to Florida. For me, seeing those creatures is just another part of the cooling season’s approach.

As labor intensive as the fall is, it still beats the coming months of winter. When frigid temperatures trap me inside, I’ll long for the days when I spent time outside working on those jobs that sometimes irritate me so much. I’m actually grateful to be alive and healthy enough to enjoy the out-of-doors, regardless of how much work is involved. Besides, before long, spring and summer will arrive, and then I’ll again enjoy the seasons and work I love the most.

Frou-Frou Food and Drink

2011-10-31T06:33:00.003-05:00

People who know me will acknowledge the fact that I am a “simple” person. No, I’m not talking about mentally, although there might be some truth to that as well. Simple in this case means I live a rather common, day-to-day life that is void of extravagance. On those occasions when I do attend more upscale events than drinking a beer and eating wings with the boys, my attention is drawn to the things that are out of kilter with my normal life.

At a recent dinner for a non-profit organization close to Amy’s and my heart, I discovered how out of touch I am. The room in which the restaurant seated us had one wall of shelves filled with wine bottles. A few other bottles were open for guests as they arrived. What I didn’t find was a single bottle of beer. So, after a hasty retreat, I arrived at the main bar and ordered up a Miller Lite. The bartender asked if I wanted it in a glass, and I answered with a “no.”

Other guests in the room held stemmed wine glasses. My blue-labeled beer bottle stuck out like a sore thumb. It also shouted “redneck,” a possibly accurate description of the person holding the bottle. Amy was understanding about my beer toting because she knows I don’t do wine.
One of the attractions of the affair centered on a woman who is an expert in the field of wines. Our menu listed a different one for each course of the meal. This aficionado presented each wine and discussed the grapes peculiar to the drink, as well as the bouquet, place of origin, and other trivia. After one pronouncement about French wine and Oregon wine, a person seated at our table looked up and, with seriousness registered on his face, commented, “Who knew?” A smile crossed his face and the rest of us laughed too loud. It was more information than any of us cared to know. That was especially true for a beer-swigging guy like me.

In my high school and college years, on occasion I did sip the fruit of the vine. It came in a bottle with a screw-on lid. Boone’s Farm was the name, and instead of a good year, I looked to see what month the stuff had been made. On too many occasions, I drank too much and woke the next day with a mule kicking the inside of my skull. That’s enough make me swear off the stuff for good.

The meal was okay. I know I’m supposed to say that the food was excellent at such a fined restaurant, but hey, my favorite meal is a hamburger steak, mashed potatoes, and green peas.

The waiter set in front of me a piece of prime rib. I swear it kicked twice and quivered once right there on the plate. Immediately, I told him, “I can’t eat this. It’s too rare.” The guy looked at me and smiled but made no move. I suppose he’d never heard anyone speak ill about the restaurant’s food. I sat just as still and looked at him, waiting to see who blinked first. The man sitting beside me solved the problem by telling us he would exchange his cut for mine. I’m glad he did or I’d have had stopped at Krystal for a bagful of sliders on the way home. At least they’re cooked.

Amy requested that I wear a tie and coat for the occasion, and for her I’d do anything. I don’t wear a tie more than a half dozen times a year. The entire night my neck chafed from a shirt collar and tie pressing too tightly against my skin. Wearing a tie also makes a meal less enjoyable. Acid reflux already makes swallowing difficult, and the tie only exacerbates the problem. Yep, I’d rather wear a t-shirt for meals, and I’ll even put on a clean one if it’s required.

We returned home at about 10:00 p.m. For us, that’s late, so I hurried to my closet and changed back into a comfortable pair of sweat pants. The best parts of the evening were the laughter that I shared with those good people at the table and the time with Amy. As we rode home, part of our discussion touched on the next night’s supper. We decided on either Papa Murphy’s pizza or hotdogs and chili. The food suits me better and either “entrée” goes will with Miller Lite.

They Don't Care

2011-10-17T06:38:00.001-05:00

I’ve had it! I’m fed up to my receding hairline with the politics

that are being played at the expense of this country’s economic stability, not to mention survival of millions of Americans.
Right now, the jobless rate is stuck at 9.1%. That doesn’t include all those folks who have quit searching for employment. If they were included, the rate would skyrocketed. People have lost their jobs and homes. Now, some who lost their homes had bitten off more than they could chew because they tried to buy too much house with too little paycheck. Still, others, such as laid-off teachers, simply can’t meet their mortgage payments any longer. In this case, the stands from politicos both locally and nationally in support of education are nothing more than posturing when at the same time they yammer deep cuts to school budgets are being inflicted.
Our country has been in a nasty funk since 2008. The economy tanked, as did those of other countries across the globe. Part of our problem was debt. However, let’s be clear about one thing: a huge hunk of this debt is the result of a ten year “war” that has sucked the life bloods from soldiers and the economy. So, those ultra-conservatives who decry all the spending should decide if they’re in favor of suspending the war and bringing our troops home. Hmm, maybe that’s not such a bad idea since no end to the fracas is in sight.
The voting public is a fickle bunch. On the one hand, they’ve given President Obama a 44% approval rating, and a whopping 74.7% of those asked are unhappy with the direction of the country. However, 63% of those surveyed approve of the jobs program the president presented to Congress, who mostly along party lines, killed help for the middle class. At the same time, 64% agree the wealthiest citizens and corporations should take on the largest portions of the tax burden.
Congress has no intentions of setting aside differences so that the needs of the country can be addressed. The most liberal members demand that more money be spent, even though the nation can’t afford it. On the other side, the Tea Party representatives are against everything, and they would rather shut down the country than compromise. In either case, not much leadership is being shown.
It’s time to clean house. In case you haven’t noticed, they don’t care. The politicians are playing games with our country and its well being. Their actions remind me of little kids who get mad and won’t talk to each other. Of course, with grown-ups, spiteful actions accompany ill feelings. Ideologues are more interested in principle than reality. The rest of us can “go to hell in a hand basket” as far as they are concerned.
The US has plenty of problems, and all of us can share in the blame. The point is that we can get out from under the bad times, but only if we work together. The time for bickering is over. From now on, any public servant who chooses to stand in the way of recovery should be sent home where he or she can answer to the folks who vote.
If we don’t get our house in order, this country will continue its slide from a shining beacon on the hill to forty watt bulb that barely lights a single room. Politics should have no place in the rescue of America. Tell the morons in Washington to get out of the way of recovery or get run over.

Steve Jobs and Others Pass

2011-10-10T13:04:00.004-05:00

The “Today Show” began the other morning with almost eerie music. At the same time a picture of Steve Jobs appeared. The CEO of Apple died the day before. It was a sad time in some ways, but in other ways, the whole thing aggravated me. Yes, Steve Jobs changed the American culture, perhaps, more than any other modern day individual. After all, the brand name Apple rolls off the tongues of most everyone in this country. More astonishing, millions of us have iPods, iPads, and iPhones. They are the toys that most intrigue us, and for years we’ve paid out loads of cash to obtain them. I ordered my first iPhone yesterday after I dropped my Blackberry and shattered the screen. I wanted this new phone because it is much like the iPod I already own and has to be easier to use than the cursed phone with tiny buttons and an unfriendly roller. Jobs also offered thousands, maybe millions, employment. Not only are 47,000 workers at the Apple Corporation receiving paychecks but untold numbers also make livings by selling those products from the company. Even in tough economic times, millions of Apple products are sold, and because of the iPod, a whole new business exploded with the beginnings of iTunes. Jobs sent shockwaves through the educational world by proving that college isn’t necessarily the answer for every individual. He dropped out and then began building empires at Apple and Pixar, and at the time of his death, his total wealth is estimated to be $7 billion. He showed us all that drive, raw intelligence, and creativity can be developed outside the classroom. Thinking of life without such a great mind might make us wonder if new gadgets the same quality of those at Apple will be forthcoming. Who will pick up the slack? The answer is that this country produces plenty of geniuses, and surely one can be every bit as successful as Jobs. It must have been a slow news day for the networks. How else can the coverage of Jobs’ death be explained. Usually, somber music playing as photo of an individual, along with birth and death dates, fill the screen is reserved for national leaders. However, when the “Today” show began, Jobs’ face appeared and Matt Lauer spoke in an almost worshipping tone. I get the importance of the man’s passing, but was such a fuss justified? The fact is that approximately 70,000 people die each day. They succumb to various diseases, accidents, or wars. They leave families in pain, and many times those who are left behind have little or no financial support on which to live, not to mention to bury the deceased. The news never mentions the vast majority of those who have died unless they have done so at the hands of murderers or in high profile accidents. No, most of us who pass do so quietly. We aren’t mourned by the world, nor are we recognized by the media for our contributions to this world during our time here. Jobs’ passing is a loss for all of us. So are the deaths of all who are on this earth. All persons are products of a creator, and as such, they are special. We lose a piece of God each time an individual passes. The point is that no one, not Steve Jobs, not Elvis, not Abraham Lincoln, is more precious than another. We all stand on equal footing as children of the same father. So, no one’s passing should be deemed more of a loss than others. The fault for this isn’t Jobs’. It’s the way business sell papers or air television shows.

Women "Manning" Up

2011-10-03T08:30:00.001-05:00

Sitting in the waiting area of the surgery center in Oak Ridge, I watched a young couple across the lobby. Again, the differences in men and women zoomed into view, this time in the ways they approach business-like events.

At first, I didn’t realize the woman was accompanied by her partner since he was camped in the restroom. I tried the door to find it locked, and the ol’ boy took care of his business for no less than twenty-five minutes. Now, I believe that a person needs his space and privacy for some tasks, but not even I take that long in a restroom.

When he finally exited the facility, he ambled across the waiting area and dropped himself exhausted into a chair beside the young woman. He was so spent from his restroom venture that sitting up straight was out of the question. Instead, the young man half reclined and rested his shoulder on the arm of the adjacent chair. For the next half hour or more, he craned his neck to watch “Today.” A couple of times he nudged the girl with his elbow to make sure she heard what Matt Lauer said. Then he grunted in agreement to another comment. I’m not sure the guy could have made an important decision or performed a single task.

The woman sat with a small child, and I overheard her tell a nurse that the baby was fifteen days old. The surgery center isn’t necessarily the healthiest place for a newborn, but she must have not had anyone to baby-sit. She loaded up the child, carrier, purse, and some machine and moved to a room for a consultation. Again, I overheard the staff tell her that a second child who was having some kind of surgery would definitely experience pain and that the prescriptions should be filled as soon as possible.

She returned to her chair and retrieved a bottle to feed the infant. As she cradled and fed the little one, this young woman studied the scripts the nurse had handed her, and then with care filed them away in her purse. She would be responsible for having them filled, although her partner might drive her to the drugstore and sit in the car while she did so.

The couple later walked to a room where the second child lay. This little girl moaned and cried with pain. Nurses worked to make her comfortable, and the mom pitched in to help. The dad, however, sat on the foot of the bed and did nothing but make himself a nuisance. However, he never made a move to get out of the way, and I saw the woman glare at him a couple of times with a look of total disgust.

The entire scene reminded me of the many times I’ve failed to “man up” and take charge of situations. Amy assumed the mature person role and handled everything while I sat like an inanimate lump that was incapable of thinking. When she finished business, I followed her out the door like a third child.

My observations over the years convince me that, in general, most men act this way. We are either oblivious to what goes on around us or we are too lazy or immature to care. No matter, we, the beings that are stronger and larger, take one step back to allow the so-called “weaker sex” the room necessary to solve problems. It’s for sure that our family and its financial well being and health would have failed had it not been for the meticulous and logical actions of Amy.

When she awoke from the surgical procedure, I gave her a kiss, a hug, and a “thank you.” I even took charge and waited on her when she arrived home. I managed to have prescriptions filled without any help. Women have been “manning up” for a long time. Maybe it’s time we males did so a little more often. We’ll definitely look better to our wives and to others who might observe our actions.

Getting and Losing a Girlfriend

2011-09-27T06:28:00.001-05:00

The past weekend was one filled with emotions. They provided a rollercoaster ride for those who were involved and had Amy and me running in different directions.

Jake Mabe, writer for The Shopper, tied the knot on Saturday. He and bride Jennifer opted to exchange vows at The Museum of Appalachia. They sandwiched their vows in between UT football game weekends, and that made for a good turnout.

The couple exchanged rings and “I love you” at the base of the waterwheel on the mill at the museum. Rows of white chairs sat in the field, and Mason jars held brown and orange arrangements. A clear blue sky and cool temperatures kept guests comfortable. The setting was one that matched Jake’s unpretentious personality and love for history. The bride was beautiful, and her glowing smile warmed the hearts of all. Quick vows over, the throng moved to the banquet hall for food and festivities.

At First Christian Church, another couple enjoyed a wedding day. Julie Mayo, a member of the church, became the wife of Jonah Ruddy. The ceremony took place in the sanctuary. It’s one of the most beautiful places in Knoxville for a couple to begin life together. A pipe organ filled the setting with the majestic notes of special music for the occasion. What made it more special was the presence of so many folks who have been members of the church in years past and folks who have watched the bride grow up. Afterward, guests sat down to a wonderful meal in the fellowship hall.

In both cases, the young couples repeated their vows with excitement. They looked at each other with the sparks of new love. Both traveled to wonderfully romantic places for their honeymoons, and upon their return, they’ll set up new households where each will learn, possibly with some angst and flaring tempers, how to live with another person. That will include accepting the partner’s quirks and annoying habits. In the end, the hopes are that both couples will find years of happiness and love together.

On Friday, things weren’t so joyful. John Rutherford left a message on our phone. His wife June had fallen ill on Wednesday and continued to worsen throughout the next day. His call informed me that she’d suffered a massive stroke and wasn’t expected to live. As soon as I heard the message after arriving home, I took a quick shower and headed to the hospital. I found my good friend John sitting in the hallway with his nephew. He teared up and told me exactly what had happened.

For the next couple of hours we sat together and just talked about lots of things. John commented that it would be hard to lose June. They’ve been married for 59 years, the same number of years I’ve been on this earth. I thought about that, and it broke my heart, mostly because I know how I’d feel if something happened to Amy.

June passed just as Saturday appeared. That same bright day for two couples who were getting married looked gloomy and dark to a longtime husband. John made arrangements, and he held up as best as could be expected. He hated crying in front of people, but how could he keep his emotions in check when the love of his life was no longer there? I told him that no one would think less of him if he showed emotions.

Men, you need to make a short trip to wherever your girlfriend is sitting. Once there, give her a hug and tell her how important she is to you. Over the years, one of my biggest questions has been how I got lucky enough to be with a woman like Amy. We’ve had plenty of rough patches, but with some help, the good Lord above, and a deep, abiding love between us, our marriage has stood the test of time. The truth is that we love each other more now than we did during those first few days of marriage.

Amy is my girlfriend. I love her. June was John’s girlfriend, and he loved her, but now she’s gone. Let’s hope that several decades from now Jake and Jennifer and Jonah and Julie are still together and that the guys still consider their wives as “girlfriends.” Say a prayer for John Rutherford as you imagine how much he misses his girlfriend.

Empower and Enable My Ass

2011-09-20T06:55:00.002-05:00

I’ve held off as long as I can about this subject, but the common sense

behind it is so lacking that the time to spout off has arrived. My take on it will rub some folks the wrong way, but on this we’ll have to just disagree.

For too long now, our society has taken on “catch words.” They serve as nothing more than deflections for what is reality. One, for instance, is “empower.” According to the dictionary, the word means “to promote the self-actualization or influence of.” We hear it all the time. Some organization claims that its agenda “empowers” individuals to do something. Legislation is passed to “empower” some special interest group in its fight for their place in society.

Give me a break. Since when did individuals or groups need empowerment from the government? Over the course of years, they were empowered through the sweat created by their own efforts. The civil rights movement empowered itself by taking its message to the streets where common folks live.

The same is true of women’s suffrage. The stronger sex grew tired of being treated as second class citizens, so they took the fight for voting rights to the courthouses, community centers, and other public places. Then they demanded an equal voice in the choices made by this country, and guess what. Changes occurred and the vote was theirs.

The Vietnam War brought about never before seen waves of dissension. Citizens, as well as many veterans of that war, saw the injustices of it. They so believed in their cause that they organized and marched and protested until the war that the government wouldn’t let the troops win ended.

Now, all sorts of groups clamor for inclusion in society. They want equal footing with other well-established causes, organizations, or mores. However, advocates aren’t about to tackle the tasks on their own. No, they stand around and complain and whine and wait for some entity to “empower” them. They want it free of charge and without having to put any effort or sweat into make dreams reality.

And what is all this about “enabling.” The definition of “enable” is “to provide with the means or opportunity.” Again, those who want something want it for free. Individuals look to someone or something to “enable” them to act. How does that work? If I need money to pay the bills, why in the world would I look to some group to give me the means to earn money? Seems to me that the need to eat and pay bills is enough motivation to find a job. I don’t need anyone to provide me with the means or opportunity to search for employment. I sell myself to a boss, and through my own actions I enable myself to earn the money I need.

The term “enabler” has replaced teacher too many times in public schools. I always hated to be called one. I was a teacher. That meant standing in front of classes and explaining how to do something or interpreting some piece of literature. When I’d covered the skills, the time came for students to put into practice the skills that I taught. I didn’t enable anyone. Instead, my job was to provide the material or the skill. Whether a student took those things and applied them or sat idly by and earned failing marks was his or her decision. They “enabled” themselves by taking up what I taught and applying it.

Empower and enable my ass. The folks of this country need to stop looking outside themselves for power and motivation. Those things dwell within, and that’s where we all need to look if our hopes and dreams are to come to fruition. Ralph Waldo Emerson “empowered” all of us with one line: “Insist upon yourself; never imitate.” That’s good enough advice for me.

Waiting for a Healing

2011-09-12T15:39:00.000-05:00

I knew we were in trouble when she walked into the room and said, “Hello, my name is Peggy.” Our Sunday afternoon turned into a stop in hell.

Amy and I traveled to Athens, TN to eat lunch with Dallas. He wanted to spend time with his mother on her birthday weekend. Our visit with him at the Cracker Barrel followed a good morning at church and then a relaxing drive.

On the way home, Amy called the Summit Medical Walk-in Clinic in Farragut to set an appointment. Her left wrist was puffy and ached so much that she woke up from the pain during the night. I practiced medicine without a license and diagnosed the problem as being tendonitis, but she wanted to get a second opinion.

The employee who answered the phone set up an appointment at 3:45. That gave us plenty of time to drive back to Knoxville. In fact, we got there early (big surprise with me being involved) and walked through the door a half hour early. The place was crowded, but the attendant told Amy that individuals with appointments would be seen first. Not a single seat was empty, so I stood for awhile.

Most of the folks walking in snorted and coughed and wheezed. Whether they suffered from colds or allergies wasn’t clear. However, I wanted to hurry up and get out of the place before someone hacked on me a million germs attacked and laid me low. What I can’t figure out is why folks will lie around sick for a couple of days and finally look for help when the weekend comes.

One woman rose from her chair and asked the receptionist behind the glass how much longer would she have to wait? Her voice carried throughout the waiting area as she announced she was experiencing heart palpitations. DUH! If my heart is fluttering or beating so fast that it feels as if it might jump out of my chest, I’m not wasting time in a clinic. I’m headed for the closest ER.

A young mother entered and carried a little boy who appeared to be around five years old. She filled out papers and asked how long it would be. When the worker couldn’t give her a definitive answer, she snapped, “My son has had a fever of 104 for five hours.” It’s been a long time since our kids were little, but I’m sure I would have had either child somewhere much earlier if one had come down with a fever that high.

We sat, patiently I might add, as our 3:45 appointment melted into 4:00 and then 4:45. Finally, Amy was called back a few minutes before 5:00. After the nurse took vitals, the physician assistant entered and introduced herself as “Peggy.” She advised Amy to have an x-ray and said she’d have the nurse take one. More than fifteen minutes later, my wife asked the nurse about it, to which she responded that Peggy hadn’t told her. In all, we waited for forty-five minutes to have an x-ray taken, developed, and analyzed.

I admit by then I was HOT. We’d spent the entire afternoon in a crowded waiting area with no lights and no ventilation. For a brief time the receptionist opened the door that led to the rooms so that cooler air could circulate, but that didn’t last long.

A weekend clinic should be adequately staffed. Having someone to check patients in, one nurse, and a physician’s assistant seems to be running a facility on the cheap. Come on! At least a couple of nurses and examiners comprise and adequate minimum staff for serving people. It looks like Summit Medical is cutting costs without regard to service to patients.

When Amy and I finally escaped, it was almost 6:00, and we still had to find an open pharmacy to fill prescriptions. Once safely at home, we both reached for a soothing refreshment. Sipping and decompressing, we came to the decision that the next time we had a situation that required medical attention, a visit to the emergency room is our preference. The wait won’t be any longer than the one we had Sunday, and we’ll even get to see a physician.

Buffaloed by My Blackberry

2011-09-07T07:29:00.003-05:00

As my Blackberry pinged, a new message appeared. It announced that I could now have Blackberry Protect. Oh how I wish I had ignored that app.

Seeing the word “protect” led me to add the program to my phone. The information about Blackberry Protect states it is “a free application designed to help find a lost BlackBerry smartphone and keep the information on it secure. That was just what I needed. Without questioning, I downloaded and installed this cursed app. It didn’t take long for me to discover how stupid I’d been.

After rebooting my phone, I checked my information. One place I looked first was Lister, another app. It keeps lists of things that are typed into it and prioritizes them. Over the last year and a half, I’ve typed in no fewer than thirty titles and ideas for columns I planned to write.

When Lister came up, the screen was empty. I read a message that said no lists were available. Yep, everything that I typed into the app had disappeared. It had been zapped into some other dimension where my retrieving it was impossible.

Most folks are probably shaking their heads and thinking, “Why didn’t the moron have the list somewhere else?” That’s a good question for which I have an answer. I put those ideas on my phone as soon as they came to me. At this point in my life, ideas, appointments, and chores flash into my consciousness briefly before evaporating for all time. By typing them onto Lister, I was assured the “next great column” would be waiting for me when I sat down at the keyboard. Then I simply forgot to make a copy of the items.

So, here I am without a clue what those topics were. Oh, a couple returned to my mind, but for the most part, they taken flight. I should have known better. I’m no technical whiz anyway. Computers confound me, and on so many occasions I’ve run to my neighbor Mike Bremseth or to fellow teacher Brad Neal and begged them to save me from the blue screen of despair.

It’s the same way with my iPod. I’ve invested in a library of songs that bring entertainment and fond memories. However, not long ago I hit the wrong key, and an entire segment of them disappeared. I furrowed my brow, cursed, and spent three hours trying to rescue the music, all of it in vain.

I love my flat screen television and Bose speaker system and blu-ray player. But I can’t operate them. The simple act of loading a DVD and watching a movie overwhelms me. Amy or one of the kids, when they’re in town, has to take over the controls and get things running right.

On my night stand sits an alarm clock. It has no radio or CD player. On the back are dials that I can use to set the time and alarm. Simple? You bet your ass because I’m not smart enough to figure out the operations of anything higher level.

So, I sit here and grieve for the list of topics that I lost. My last hope is that someone who reads this can email me instructions on how to find those lost ideas. Whoever can will have earned my undying thanks. Until that happens, I’m going back to paper and pen for cataloging ideas. Things will be fine until I have to remember where I put the paper.

Jack in the Box Church

2011-08-29T15:12:00.000-05:00

A couple of Sundays ago I sat in a pew in the back of a church. During my childhood, Mother made us sit in the second row from the front, and because of that, I plant my fanny in the back of any church that I enter.

At the beginning of the service and throughout it, folks were up and out of the sanctuary. Some kids left alone; parents accompanied others; even adults made exits during that one hour session. The events left me flabbergasted and wondering what was going on.

Both children and young adults had trouble making through the hour without leaving. Perhaps the children suffer from some rare disease that doesn’t allow them to hold their water. That problem usually is one that afflicts us older men, and we seek medical help to alleviate the malady.

Maybe these people suffer from ADHD. According to some authorities, such a condition prevents individuals from staying plugged in for extended periods of time. Because they aren’t able to make it through an hour, these people rise in the middle of a service and leave. However, before long they reappear, usually with their heads bowed and smiles smeared across their faces.

More than likely, the younger generations have difficulty remaining in one place because of conditions of their worlds. That first includes television shows. A typical thirty minute show has twenty-two minutes of programming and eight minutes of advertising, most of it in thirty second slots. Viewers attention to a program is interrupted sixteen times in a half hour show. No wonder folks can’t sit still long.

Video games, computers, and communication equipment all offer highly addictive sources of entertainment. Other things like church, school, and even casual conversations with friends and family lack the “rush” of action, so young people lose interest in them quickly.

We who have several years behind us remember a different behavior in church. Jim and I survived church services, barely. We never spent time in the nursery. Instead, our parents plopped us down on the pew and dared us to misbehave.

Of course, sitting two little boys side by side is just asking for things to happen. People who used to sing in the choir remembered us as being two who looked for things to get into. We, on the other hand, slid down in the pew because we felt that those singers were staring at us.

On too many occasions, one of us had our “tickle boxes” turned over. That meant we swallowed and choked on laughs that, if loosed in the sanctuary, would have resulted in immediate and severe punishment. Sometimes, Daddy grabbed one of us and plunked us down on the other side of the pew.

One woman, Mrs. Gault, always caused us grief. We knew talking was forbidden, but this lady would sit beside us and yak. She’d offer peppermint lifesavers during prayer time. We’d shake our heads “no,” but the woman kept on until we took one to silence her, but then we worried about being in trouble for taking candy.

The biggest deterrent to our misbehavior was a one-line whisper: “You’ve had it when we get home.” That death sentence meant a spanking awaited us as soon as our feet crossed the threshold at home. Like so many times throughout our lives, we refrained from doing things because the thrill wasn’t worth the ensuing pain that was inflicted by a belt or switch or paddle.

These days, parents don’t keep children in check. Instead, they believe that children should be allowed to be freer spirits than we were allowed to be. That’s why they can’t sit still for an hour. Instead, they become jacks-in-the-boxes at any place that requires them to sit still for more than ten minutes. I wonder how they’ll do in college lectures. For now, I supposed the good lord will forgive them.

Backpacks and Nifty Notebooks

2011-08-15T11:27:00.002-05:00

At church this past Sunday the minister called all children and their pack backs and teachers armed with their grade books to the front and said prayers for a successful school year. It was a nice moment that softened the realization that summer’s end is here. It’s interesting to look at the difference in school supplies that kids need these days.

One kindergarten mom posted on Facebook the following: “[I] just bought 2 bottles of hand sanitizer, 2 rolls of paper towels, 6 boxes of Kleenex, 2 containers of Clorox wipes, 1 white t-shirt size adult S, 5 boxes of baby wipes, and every size of Ziploc baggie.”

Whew! What a sight to witness as little ones walk into their first day of school with a large cardboard box filled with supplies that promote good health. Glaringly absent were any items that might be used in subjects. Hey, the kids might not learn a single thing, but they’ll be able to fight off every germ that dares cross the classroom’s threshold.

Older students want a new pack back every year, even though last year’s model is still in one piece and sturdy enough for the abuse handed out by young people. The new models need enough room in the main compartment to haul an apartment of furniture. That’s because kids tote all sorts of “necessaries” for school, yes, things like water bottles, hand-held games, a bag filled with make-up, and lunch. Oh, books need to have a place since students never uses lockers to store them. Those young folks would rather risk permanent back injuries than to make a stop to exchange textbooks.

Several smaller compartments should be available on the outside areas of the pack. There kids stow electronic equipment. Hey, it’s a well-known fact that no student can survive without a cell phone. No one knows when an important phone call might come in, one that confirms a weekend date or a work schedule. And texting is a “must-do activity” for the younger generation. In addition, pockets to house iPods, electronic games, and chargers for them are needed.

How things have changed.

In a simpler time, kids had different wants for school. A Nifty Notebook served most needs. Some whose families were better off got Trapper Keepers, the envy of all other kids. A big pack of Blue Horse notebook paper, along with several new pencils, the big fat ones for first graders, and a couple of Bic pens rounded out supplies. A Pink Pearl eraser was considered an extra for which students were grateful.

Brown bags or metal boxes held lunches of peanut butter and jelly or bologna and Velveeta sandwiches. Some kids ate school lunches, and others begged for money for special meals during Thanksgiving and Christmas times. Students shared lockers and kept books and other school items in them, and somehow they managed to drop by them between classes without arriving tardy to classes.

School has changed plenty. Before, kids were excited to begin a new year. The summer kept them from seeing friends on a daily basis, and activities and transportation were limited. A sense of returning to “normal” accompanied the first days of classes. New supplies were few in number for most everyone, just like new clothes consisted only of a pair of jeans, a couple of shirts, and a pair of shoes.

Today, kids get all sorts of supplies, and too many are careless with them. At the end of each year, no fewer than twenty backpacks will be abandoned in lockers or classrooms. Students use technical gadgetry to aid their learning, a far cry from the days of using paper and pencil only.
Still, school returns just like the seasons. The roads are jammed with buses and mini-vans. Teachers await student arrivals with weeks of lesson plans. The new will wear off and excitement will wane the same as daylight hours of fall days. Classrooms that brought so much excitement just a few weeks earlier will offer torturous homework assignments. Students will long for the days of summer where no homework or bedtimes cramped their styles. Bathing suits and shorts will replace backpacks and Nifty Notebooks.

Krystal--The Real Economic Indicator

2011-08-05T07:03:00.000-05:00

I’m feeling rather punk. As if we didn’t know already how deep our nation’s economic woes were, the local paper drove the point home like a railroad spike to the skull. In case anyone missed the story, I’ll report it in a shortened version.

Krystal is looking to sell itself to a new owner. The corporate leaders say the company is “looking for a way to deliver an attractive exit for current shareholders who have been so supportive.”
Huh? What’s the deal with making things “comfortable” for shareholders? Although not a single share is in the Rector vault, I’m not at all comfortable. Looking to unload a company that represents one of the main food groups for southerners shouldn’t bring ease in anyone’s life. Krystal has 364 franchises in 11 states. Before long, a new owner will take over, and I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that they’ll start a wholesale shutdown of stores. Before long, finding a Krystal might be as difficult as finding a Blue Circle or Jiffy.

The selling of such a hallowed institution is indicative of the problems in the USA. The two founders, Rody Davenport, Jr. and J. Glenn Sherrill, opened the first store. Yes, that’s right; they set up shop in the middle of The Depression. The first customer walked in and ordered six Krystals and a cup of coffee and paid thirty-five cents. The restaurant gave folks who were down on their luck a chance to eat a filling meal at a fair price.
Fast forward nearly eighty years, and our country is so screwed up that a business that began in the worst economic situation of our history is on the auction block. More than 7000 employees are shaking in their boots as they worry over the company’s future and whether or not they’ll be out of a job soon.

Since my high school years, Krystal has been an important part of my life. On those nights when too much libation passed my lips, I’d often find myself sitting on a stool in a Krystal and ordering breakfast. Eggs and bacon and toast soaked up enough grease to clog every artery, but the thoughts of those foods late at night still make my mouth water.

As young adults, my two brothers and I would sit around the kitchen table at Mother’s house and talk until the early morning hours. Then we loaded into a car and drove to Clinton Highway where we’d buy two or three bags of Krystals and fries. Only after eating no fewer than half a dozen of them did we make our ways to bed.

I’ve passed my love for those gut bombs to son Dallas, and he often makes a stop at the Krystal less than a mile from his house (lucky dog). What’s more, the boy lives in Chattanooga, the home base for the company, as well as for another famous food company—Moonpie.

The past few years have brought about a change in my eating habits. Acid reflux dictates much of my diet. However, occasionally, I risk the malady and run out for a few little hamburgers. A nickel won’t buy one anymore; prices have risen to an average of seventy-nine cents for each of the little grease balls. A bowl of chili also sometimes finds its way in my bag of food. Before lying down for the night, I pop a Nexium and say a prayer that the rumbling volcano in my gut won’t erupt.

Yes, I’m plenty worried about the country and our economic well-being. If the creators of the original “slider” struggles in this environment, the light at the other end of the recession tunnel is no larger than a pinpoint. The time has come for our so-called leaders in the legislative branch to forget about partisan politics and ideology. Govern so that Americans have jobs and a fair shake. Make sure every individual pays his fair share in support of the government. That way, all of us will be able to afford a bag of Krystals if the restaurants are still open.

Couch Time

2011-07-27T16:10:00.001-05:00

Think back a few years, or in some cases a lifetime ago, to the times that you and your partner first got together. Can you still feel that adrenaline rush? What about the flip-flops your stomach took as you sat close or held hands? It all brings smiles to our faces and “aahs” to our mouths. Those were the best of times.

Too often, a few years later the closeness melts as life gets in the way. Like the proverbial “two ships that pass in the night,” couples float apart on the waters of work, child rearing, economic woes, and a hundred other demands. Before long, communications are trimmed to a couple of canned phrases, a peck on the cheek before leaving the house, or falling exhausted into a coma-like sleep.

When brief periods of rest come, each person retires to his and her recliner. A button is pushed on the remote, and both sit in hypnotic states with their thoughts wrapped tightly in their heads. Sometime, one or both silently rise and begin the evening rituals of preparing for bed.

I’ve decided that many of the problems that occur in marriage could be wiped away like the fog on the bathroom mirror with a little couch time. Yep, I say let’s go back to the old days when couples sat together on the couch, close, side-by-side. The man can put his arm around his honey, and she can take his hand and hold it. Maybe she’ll even decide to lay her head upon his chest, right in the position where he can smell the fragrance of her shampoo and feel the tickles of strands of hair across his nose.

An important part of this couch time is talking. Most of us have little time during the day to share thoughts and feelings with the person who should be our best friend. Sitting on the couch and scrunched up naturally leads to conversation. It might begin with nothing more than a “How was your day?” However, that one little question is the spark that ignites some of the most meaningful sharing that couples will ever experience.

It also re-establishes the connection that brought the two people together in the first place. What’s more, that talk time reminds us of the importance of our partners in our lives and how much we depend upon them each and every day.

Couch time also puts life in perspective. The whole world might seem to be going to hell in a hand basket, but when we rediscover our love and devotion to someone, the toughest of times are easier to take. It’s also much easier to take on the tough things in life when someone is standing beside us or “has our backs.”

All of us need a little time with our loves on the couch because our hopes are that the rest of our lives will be spent with those individuals. It’s like an annuity that we set up with our financial planner. Investing a little of ourselves in the relationship brings huge dividends down the road. When the times seem the roughest, we are able to withdraw some of that saved love that we banked through couch time.

Amy and I have been married for almost 37 years. My brother Jim and his wife Brenda celebrate their 40th anniversary in August. Amy and I have had good and bad times; we’ve overcome problems and obstacles that others would have declared are “the last straw.” Our survival is from, first by the grace of a loving God. Then it’s the result of hard work on our parts. As much as anything, we’ve made it through the years by talking to each other. No, we haven’t spent all the years curled up on the couch. Amy has her chair and so do I, although it reclines only when I pull the chain that releases the leg part. Still, we have our times when we sit together and just soak up the love that is offered. It’s a time of appreciation and thanks. Most of all, it’s a time when we reinforce the partnership that was established on the last day of fall in 1974.

I’d like to think that everyone who reads this will find a little couch time with his or her love. However, I’m a realist who knows it “ain’t about to happen.” So, my closing advice is to at least make a connection with the person who means most in life and share some time and feelings. And make sure you share by talking and listening to each other. The rewards are huge, especially when you share a little couch time.

What Other Storms Are Damaging Knox County Schools?

2011-07-15T07:06:00.001-05:00

The 2011-2012 school year is fast approaching. Does that seem impossible to anyone other than me? It’s the middle of July, and band camps and football teams are already practicing. School starts in some systems at the end of July and the rest during the first weeks of August. Whatever happened to the days when school opened after Labor Day? Lots of things have happened to make Knox County Schools unidentifiable to lots of us.

The system’s schools have turned, for the most part, from the traditional Three R’s. In their places sits the burning desire for students to score well on standardized tests. However, a child’s learning things that apply to real life situations is of secondary importance. The moronic program No Child Left Behind changed the rules of public education. In place of learning, the stuff of real education, are percentages—of achievement test scores, graduation rates, and overall school performance. Forget the contributing factors such as the value placed on education by parents, the socio-economic characteristics of the surrounding communities, or even the commitment of students to their education and their impact on focused areas. Too many school systems want graduation rates increased, even if it means passing students who haven’t completed work or learned a thing. It’s all about looking good on paper.

Knox County Schools, just like the rest around the country, jump through governmental hoops so that the funding continues to roll in. The funny part is that more and more demands are placed on the schools while less money is being expended to fund them. Instead of demanding that teachers be allowed to teach and that politicians keep their noses out of something about which they have little knowledge, systems and their administrators kowtow to federal government officials and become their lackeys.

The school system is also investing more and more time in professional growth and training days. The majority of teachers agree that the days are less than rewarding and the time would be better spent doing their jobs—TEACHING. However, if those sessions aren’t included, some central office staff members would have no job.

Another strange thing about Knox County Schools is the hiring practices, especially regarding principals and directors. Over the time that Supt. James McIntyre has been at the helm, many new hires have come from places outside Knox County or even the immediate area. Some individuals came to the system from Massachusetts; others have been cultivated from Nashville and Kentucky. Folks wonder why those long distance hires are necessary. These out-of-system people might be effective leaders, but surely the system already employs individuals who are qualified and capable of performing the duties of a principal or another administrative position.

The system’s penchant for moving principals around confounds many of us. In years gone-by, the leader of a school put down roots in the community and became an important individual to all. For those who were good leaders, parents and students identified with the principal and bought in to the direction of the school. Principals were moved when they failed to do a good job.

These days, school level administrators are moved like Methodist ministers. However, a minister is moved to meet the needs of a specific congregation. Principals seem to be shuffled to keep them from developing ties to the community. Is it a power play by the superintendent that keeps communities from developing a united front that proves advantageous for students and teachers?

The bottom line is that school doesn’t have the same appeal that it once did. That’s a sad fact. Public schools will continue to decline until they once again become the focal points of communities. That will happen when systems wise up about the social aspects of a group of people. They might also wake up and realize that education of children includes much more than test scores. I’m thankful that my tenure with Knox County Schools ended a few years ago. If it hadn’t, I might have been replaced for failing to meet percentages. Teaching kids what they needed was more important to me.

Just Let Me Watch the Game

2011-07-06T07:10:00.005-05:00

The past weekends were with good baseball, meaning the college world series games aired on ESPN. I enjoy watching those games, as well as a variety of college and professional sports. However, sometimes outside factors make the experience less than satisfactory.

For one, commercials drive me crazy. It’s not only the number of them that air but also the times that they appear. Built-in timeouts cut into the intensity of games. I wonder how upset a coach becomes when his team is launching a comeback or is dealing a deathblow to an opponent, only to have momentum thwarted by a string of commercials.

Equally annoying are the types of commercials that are aired. Really, how many different beer commercials are necessary? If a person refreshes himself with a cool one, he already knows which brand best suits his taste. Then the commercials for the erectile dysfunction burst on screens and show a couple holding hands as they sit side-by-side in bathtubs on a hillside overlooking a panoramic view of the countryside or ocean. Huh? How does that fit with testosterone-driven events like college or professional football?

I also hate it when networks announce a game time and I switch on the set to find a group of men talking. Pre-game stuff should be limited to ten minutes. That gives the old pros and media workers enough air time for recognition. For more time they should endorse one or more of the obnoxious products that are advertised during the game. Besides, too many of these guys are qualified only because they once played the game or worked in sports in some capacity at some stage in their lives. This weekend, one guy who did pre and post-game work on baseball actually played football in college. I’m not sure how that qualified him as an expert.

The thing that makes games least enjoyable is the analysis by commentators. These guys bump their gums about what should have happened or how something should have been done. They second-guess coaches and call out referees and umpires. Sometimes they even “dog” players who make errors on the field. Where do these guys get the idea that what they think trumps the folks who are involved in the contest? Many of them are former coaches who have been fired or retired. If these geniuses are so wonderful, why aren’t they still on the sidelines or in the dugouts? It’s because their times have past. It’s easy to second-guess someone, especially when a guy has nothing invested in the game.

Cute segments drive me nuts as well. Who really wants to spend time watching the mindless rants of a Lou Holtz locker room speech? Larry Merchant and Jim Lampley prate about boxers with their flowery descriptions and not-so-clever analogies. Neither of them could whip a third grader in a playground fight. And I’m over hearing “diaper dandies, PT, and Baby” from a coach who never had much success in the college or professional ranks. The man had a 78-30 record as coach of University of Detroit and a 34-60 record as head coach of the Detroit Pistons. His claim to fame at college was beating Marquette, the 1977 NCAA champions during a 21 game winning streak. Did the guys’ team beat any other opponents of note?

All I want to do is watch a game with as little interference as possible. Yes, that means having announcers who can identify players and call the play-by-play action. That’s all. The best thing they can do is hush and just let me watch the game. Is that too much for a sports fan to ask?

Father's Day Reflections

2011-06-27T16:13:00.002-05:00

The newspaper featured one story of a UT athlete and his dad and another told of a relationship between a father and son that strengthened through the automobiles they first bought. US Open winner Rory McIlroy greeted his dad on the eighteenth green with a hug and a “happy Father’s Day.” My son Dallas traveled from Chattanooga to spend some time with me, and we shared breakfast with Amy at I-Hop, where tables and booths were filled with dads and their families. Father’s Day is a wonderful day for us guys, but it brings about some serious thoughts.

I also turned the paper to the obituary section. Listed there are dads who’ve passed in the last few days. For their survivors, future Sundays in June will bring about emptiness and sadness. It’s the same for all of us who’ve lost a dad. Ours died in 1965 when Jim and I were thirteen. For the last forty six years, I’ve thought about that man hundreds of time and wondered what might have been if he’d lived to be older than fifty three.

Also in the obituary section are pictures and messages to lost dads. Some families need to express their undying love in form of tributes. The fact is that no accolades can bring back dads who have passed. It’s also true that with each year the pain of loss ebbs just a bit until living without such important people is bearable. Even today, many of us think of our dads and tell them they’re missed and wished they’d been parts of the greatest things in our lives.

Father’s Day is much different from that special day that honors mothers. For one thing, moms deserve a much more serious and grand celebration. They are the glue that holds families together through the roughest of times. The big presents are showered on them, again rightly so. I’ve seen a mother’s job, first as my own mother and then my wife Amy and daughter Lacey performed a grocery list of duties and chores each and every day. I’ve never wanted to swap places. So, making Mother’s Day a bit more extravagant is fine with me.

Dads are happy spending their day home with family. A burger or hotdog on the grill is exquisite cuisine for us, and with just a little luck, we can find a good baseball game to watch until a Sunday afternoon nap swallows us. I put a coat of polish on Dallas’ car before he aimed the vehicle toward a Chattanooga landing. For supper I ate a couple of bologna and cheese sandwiches and washed them down with a refreshing drink. The less fuss made, the happier dads are.

My last thought on this Father’s Day is a reflection. I know what I did as a dad when my children were small. Many of those acts weren’t the best I might have chosen. I regret some things I did, felt, and said. Now I wonder what, if anything, I might do differently if given the chance to have a “do-over.” After much consideration, I admit to myself that I probably would change little. I did the best I could at the time. Because my children are blessed with a wonderful mother and are watched over by a loving God, they’ve turned out to be good, solid, lovable individuals of whom I am proud. They serve as undeniable proof that even my worst parenting didn’t keep them from turning out right.

I am thankful for Father’s Day. I’m also thankful that I’ve been allowed to be around to watch my children grow and become the good folks that they are today. I still miss my dad but thank God that I have memories of him from so many years ago. Today is a time for celebration, not only of dads but also of family. Dads, continue to do the best you can and always give thanks for your blessings.

Tennessee Political Morons

2011-06-16T07:35:00.011-05:00

It’s been a while since I riled up friends and readers with something I’ve written. However, when I look at some of the work of the Tennessee legislature in its 2011 session, refraining from making comments on the absurdity of some of its bills becomes impossible.

The most embarrassing bill presented this past session came from Bo Watson, a Republican representing portions of Hamilton County. Bill 893, nicknamed the “anti-evolution” bill, would suggest “effective ways to present the science curriculum as it addresses scientific controversies.” Those topics include cloning, global warming, and yes, evolution. Watson might possibly have missed the news from Dayton, a nearby county, where the Scopes Monkey trial was held almost 100 years ago. That trial brought about the ground swell for the teaching of evolution even though fundamentalist tried to legislate the idea out of schools. Sen. Watson should get over it. Too many other problems in this world exist for him to be wasting the state’s time and money on an issue that was settled long ago.

Next came the most ridiculous bill, sponsored by another moron, Stacey Campfield. This individual is widely known for his propensity to bring to the floor absurd bills. This year’s version is unofficially known as the “Don’t Say Gay Bill,” which prohibits the teaching of homosexuality in the classroom. This publicity-seeking half wit doesn’t even know that homosexuality isn’t even taught in the grade school curriculum. Of course, this bill passed 5-4, and it brought national attention to Tennessee for all the wrong reasons. Hey, remember this nitwit is the same person who introduced legislation to replace taxes on food with taxes on pornography and requiring the state to issue death certificates for aborted fetuses. He is also the same person who was booted from a UT football game for allegedly being drunk and refusing to remove a Mexican mask from his face. He probably wore the thing to keep people from recognizing him and horse laughing him out of the stadium. Somehow, the people in his Knoxville district continue to send him to office where he makes a fool of himself and them as well.

The biggest faux pas of the year came when the legislature one-upped Wisconsin and killed teachers’ collective bargaining rights. Supposedly, teacher unions (TEA, NEA, etc.) were hurting students and the state’s educational system by representing teachers at the bargaining table. Nothing could be farther from the truth. In Knox County, the Knox County Education Association has been the recognized spokesman for teachers. Over the years, the organization has done little to help teachers. How could they have done otherwise? Teachers don’t have a right to strike, and without any kind of leverage to use, the KCEA told the school board what it wanted, the board said “no,” and KCEA said, “thank you so much.” That doesn’t sound like much of a threat to education.

The truth is that Tennessee ranks 46th in its spending per student and 41st in student achievement. However, local systems such as Knox County score much higher in achievement than the state. That doesn’t happen because of administrators or board members or union representatives. It’s a reality because teacher here do a tremendous job for some of the lowest pay of any system. Every time a raise for them is voted down, it shows how important education is to the people of Knoxville. Some of the state’s politicians want to run the schools, even if their ideas are archaic or harmful. It’s that old idea that “I know what to do about schools because I was a student.” Yeah, right!

In too many cases, we, the citizens of Tennessee, have elected clowns as our state’s leaders. They’ve shown their incompetence time and time again, but for some reason, we still ship them off to Nashville, where they waste time and resources with obnoxious legislative ideas that make our state and its people look like fools to the rest of the world. Hasn’t the time come for us to send them packing and to at least try to elect a senate and a house that care more about the state and its people than they care for party politics and self aggrandizing?

Curing a Nasty Cough

2011-06-07T20:59:00.000-05:00

It’s that time of year when pollen coats furniture, cars, and anything that stands still outside for more than a minute or so. Especially in East Tennessee, folks barely survive spring as they snort, sniff, cough, and hack from allergic reactions.
Grandson Madden spent his birthday with a fever, snotty nose, and fatigue as Mother Nature sprinkled a variety of things in the air. When he has a cold, doctors won’t prescribe anything to ease the symptoms. Instead, they tell parents to just let the thing run its course. Now, remember that those physicians aren’t going to spend the next several nights sitting up with the sick child as he or she coughs and struggles to catch a breath through a stuffy nose.
When our children suffered from allergies and bad colds, doctors showed better sense. They were careful not to overprescribe medications, but they did have the good sense to offer their small patients, and their parents at the same time, some small relief. Decongestants helped, as did doses of Tylenol. The best medicine that MD’s gave quieted coughs so that children could sleep and allow their bodies to remain strong enough to fight off those colds and allergy symptoms. On those occasions when nose drainage or mucus in the lungs turned green, prescriptions became necessary. For what seemed an eternity, Lacey and Dallas took “bubblegum” flavored medicine. Amoxicillin came to the rescue and zapped illnesses in short order. We celebrated when the kids crossed to the other side of illness into recovery and good health.
Long ago in another world without fear of giving medicine to children, parents used things passed down from generations before, and they worked well. Never mind that today those remedies might be looked upon with frowns. For instance, when an ear ache that felt as if spikes were being driven in to our brains hit, our parents had us stand close to them. They’d take a long slow drag from a cigarette and then blow the smoke into our ear canal. A cotton ball plugged the opening, and within a couple of minutes, the pain subsided. Stopped up noses opened after application of a cool, damp wash cloths or a rubbing of Vick’s on our upper lips. For chest colds, a glob of mentholated goo was rubbed onto our bodies. Its strong smell was matched in disgust only by the way pajamas stuck when it touched the stuff.
The worst of all medicines came when uncontrolled coughing hit. On one occasion, I swallowed a two-fingered scoop of Vicks. It worked well for a while, but eventually, the hacking returned. Daddy would hear us and go to work making a magic elixir. He’d blend honey, horehound candy, a touch of lemon, and several ounces of whiskey. Soon, he’d be standing by our beds with the concoction and a spoon. Even though we protested, he made us take a hardy dose of stuff. We held it in our mouths as long as possible before swallowing and feeling the fires of hell travel down our throats. Within minutes, the coughing stopped, and we drifted off to sleep.
These days doctors, lawyers, and politicians would scream abuse if parents used such barbaric remedies. Children would do as we did: hide under our blankets to squelch coughs so that the cure wouldn’t be offered. The fact is that those things did work, and none of us seemed to suffer. Today’s physicians and parents could learn a thing or two from past generations. If they did, children would receive treatment for their misery, and everyone in the family would sleep better.

A Penny's Worth of Thoughts

2011-05-16T09:17:00.004-05:00

We humans have busy minds. According to one scientific study, our brains process more than 3000 thoughts a day. I’m surprised by that fact because too many folks in this world don’t seem to come up with 3, not to mention 3000, thoughts a day. What the study fails to identify are the types of thoughts that are generated by us.

Parents would like for their teens to spend brain energy on educational pursuits. Yeah, right. Just like every generation that’s come before, teens are thinking of new ways to have fun. Every thought of preparing for the future is squeezed out and replaced by those regarding what party to attend on the coming weekend. Males produce earth-shaking thoughts on such things as cars, drinking beer, and sex. Girls, however, are more tuned into such things as make-up, hair styles, and boyfriends. Most teens never allow a serious thought get in the way of doing something fun or dangerous. It’s only when a crisis arises that teens produce serious thoughts. They then concentrate on excuses for the goof-ups they’ve made.

In many ways, we men think along the lines of little children. We spend time on developing things that will entertain us. For hours we can suspend all thoughts and sit in front of a television as games of football or baseball air. In other situations we think of how to best show our manliness. Sometimes that means hunting small animals and dragging them to the cave for food, or we engage in games of softball, football, or basketball against other aging men. The goal is to display our rugged spirits, even if it means risking gunshot wounds or heart attacks running down the court or around the bases. The majority of our thoughts are dedicated to figuring out way to keep out of trouble with our wives. No, that doesn’t mean our intentions are to perform every act that will keep them happy. Instead, we men cogitate about ways to put forth a minimum amount of effort while looking as if we are working like horses.

Women are the real thought producers in this world. They have no shortage of thoughts on how to help their families survive. Among them are the ones aimed at ensuring that children perform well in school, complete tasks at home, and maintain clean rooms and bodies. A large percentage of their thoughts are focused on the other children-husbands. Females devise ways to keep men in line and, in some cases, to make their lives a miserable as possible. If they have any energy or time left, the fairer sex might think about themselves, but for the most part, they are the most unselfish, other-directed beings around.

Of all the groups, politicians do the most thinking. That doesn’t mean they have any bright ideas though. These individuals that guide our nation are supposed to develop strategies to benefit the masses. In too many instances, they come up with plans that allow the disparities between rich and poor to widen. Some local legislators make careers thinking up absurd bills that are empty of everything other than publicity for themselves. Among them are such things as allowing professors and ministers to carry guns or banning any talk of homosexuality in hopes that it will go away. The only thing these folks do more than think is talk. When they do, their mindless chatter usually costs Americans money and energy.

I left out the group including young children. They are the group that probably produces the purest thoughts. Little guys like everything and everybody. It’s only when they’re exposed to adults that their thoughts are bent and perverted. Society tells us that we become more civilized through education. I’ve seen the messes humanity has made over the years, so perhaps all of us could benefit from maintaining a bit of childish innocence that isn’t colored with big people thoughts.

Tornado Tactics

2011-05-03T06:55:00.000-05:00

I spent several hours shuffling between my office, the den where the television is located, the back door, and the basement. Tornado warnings are something that I take seriously.

Twisters fascinate me. In fact, one of the top ten things on my bucket list is to chase storms in the mid-west during tornado season. I’d like to hook up with a seasoned pro who chases dark clouds and foreboding skies for a living. That way, his vehicle can take the beating from inclement weather, hail, and flying objects. I’ll take my camera a shoot pictures until the funnel cloud draws too close for comfort. Then I’ll cry like a baby and beg the guide to get us the hell out of there. Hey, I’m curious, not brave.

During my college years, I experienced the fear and stupidity of folks during a tornado warning on evening. Two funnel clouds bore down on the town of Cookeville. I was a head resident of a dorm, and my job included herding a five-floor building filled with male college students to the lowest level. The dorm staff, which consisted of one assistant and me, walked to the top fifth floor and began evacuating residents. Some carped about having to leave, but threats of being taken before the university housing director served as a sufficient prod.

After what seemed like hours, all the residents were on the bottom floor, and we instructed them in the proper procedures in the event that the tornado hit. After that, we opened the exit doors to allow the cooling air to circulate. Bringing that many young males together in such a cramped space produces a mixture of foul odors. We looked to the west and saw some fool standing on the roof of another dorm. Staff members encouraged him to climb down to safety, but he refused. Then he let loose one of the dumbest comments ever uttered: “I’ll come down as soon as I see the funnel cloud!” That would have been just a little too late. The goof ball eventually descended and met several furious and frightened folks.

The tornadoes jumped from one end of the town to the other and spared the university. Others, however, suffered loss of property and, on a couple of occasions, life. Stories of miracles and lives being spared spread throughout the town, and a large contingency of volunteers began the process of cleaning up those hard hit areas.

On one occasion since then, I hustled my family into our basement one night when storms were severe. They whined over my waking them up, but I insisted that we stayed in a safe place until the all-clear aired. My actions that night further solidified my reputation as someone who worried too much and over-reacted in situations.

The other day might well be another when I go too far. That’s all right because I’d rather be safe than blown to Kansas. The second wave of storms swept in, and again I gathered valuables and supplies to place in the basement. Preparations were complete for a trip to the basement if conditions warranted, and Snoop and I prepared to hangout until the sun shines again.

Candy Thief

2011-04-26T15:53:00.001-05:00

Every so often, my children feel compelled to torment me, and one of their favorite ways of doing so is to bring up my shortcomings from the past. Watching me squirm as they embellish stories from those times brings them untold amounts of joy. One of the favorite ribbings details my thieving ways, at least when it came to candy.

Probably my family members are the only ones who know of my weakness for sweets. I’d rather have a huge wedge of cake or slab of pie than healthier foods. My fondness for sweet things extends to candy bars as well. With any of these, I lose all sense of proportion. The fact is that I can eat an entire pie or bag of bite-size Baby Ruth’s in less than a day’s time.

My favorite holidays as a child were based on the sweets that might appear. Easter was good because chocolate eggs, jelly beans, and later, Reese’s eggs appeared in baskets on that Sunday morning. Christmas was wonderful because Mother would begin the six-week cycle of making pies, cakes, homemade candies, and Rice Krispie Squares.
My favorite day, however, turned out to be Halloween. It was the time when the gang of boys from Ball Camp and I could go door-to-door and beg for treats. We’d walk several miles on our quest for sugary delights. With rounds finished, I’d pour my loot on the bed, and like every kid that’s ever trick or treated, I’d separate items. I culled fruits and hard candy from the soft candy and popcorn balls and candy corn. For the next couple of days, I ate from the pile on a constant basis.

My children enjoyed the October experience as well. The difference was that they were more interested in collecting the stuff than in eating it. On Halloween night Lacey and Dallas would fall into bed exhausted, and within minutes, they were fast asleep. Then I made my move. I sneaked into their rooms and pilfered the choices pieces of their collections and convinced myself that it would go unnoticed. My assumption was wrong, especially after a couple of raids.

My children suspected that something was awry. They took their hoards and hid them. Lacey would put hers in a dresser drawer or under the bed. It was to no avail as her loving father uncovered the items and left the room for a place where he could safely munch on his prizes.

It was evident that Lacey had talked with her brother and warned him of my determined searches for candy. He plotted longer and came up with the perfect hiding place. It had to have been since I never found a single Hershey’s kiss from that time on. The little guy wouldn’t divulge the safe place either.

I was defeated and discontinued my night searches. Even then, the kids made jokes with their mother about how low I was for stealing candy from babies, and I agreed that my sins were many.

Only one thing gave me a moment’s satisfaction in this situation. Dallas never has cared for sweets, so he forgot about having placed the candy in a place I would never find. Sometime in November, a mouse appeared in his room. He was scared stiff of the thing and didn’t want it crawling into his bed some night. We captured the rodent and evicted it from our home. I continued searching his closet, the place where the rodent made its home. I found a bag of candy hidden in the recess of one corner. Little gifts that the mouse left made signaled its chomping on the stuff.

I was perturbed with my son. His hiding candy resulted in an infestation in the house. Worse still, he’d stowed away his candy and the mouse got it instead of me. Now I ask all: which is worse—my eating the candy of a mouse’s devouring it? Yes, I agree, it comes down to one rat or another.

I’ve never lived down pilfering the sweets my children gathered on Halloweens. However, over the years, I’ve grown immune to the teasing and joking at my expense. I still have a sweet tooth but, of late, have tried to limit my intake candy so that the doctor doesn’t fuss at me too much.

I love my kids and grandson. Madden’s parents watch his candy intake, and when I visit Nashville, they stash any treats he might have to keep me from getting to them. Yep, I’m guilty as accused as a candy thief.

Handwriting

2011-04-20T07:40:00.000-05:00

Sometimes in court cases, handwriting expert are called to testify. These professionals can determine whether or not a signature is real or a forgery. What’s more, they can tell much about the writer’s personality, including quirks. I don’t believe anyone could tell much about my handwritten words; he’d never be able to read them.

Handwriting is something I always wanted to master; instead, I butchered it. No matter how much effort I poured into the task, my letters never reached the top lines and the loops always peaked just a little flat or a hair shy of the middle line. Mrs. Longmire, my first grade teacher, was patient with me but never placed an “E” on my report card.

Second grade was a disaster. Mrs. Garrett ruled with an iron fist. Her students never wrote well because their hands shook with fear. As a left handed person, the instructions about writing never made sense. I’d slant my paper the way she instructed, but in no time she squawked at me for doing it wrong. “How,” I wondered, but no answer came. With the paper still incorrectly slanted, I tried to write the letters. But as most folks have seen, doing so leaves lefties curling their wrists clockwise like a coiling snake and trying to produce. My attempt was short-lived as “old grumpy” slapped my hand with her ruler. Frustration set in, and I prayed for the session to be over. Writing lessons improved only after Mrs. Garrett stepped in a hole during a fire drill and broke her ankle. She was out of school for several weeks, and the sub encouraged more than frightened students.

Some teacher eventually demonstrated the correct way to slant the paper, but by then it was too late. Yes, I slanted the paper, and I stopped curling my wrist when writing. However, too much practice time was lost. My handwriting was a mine field of mistakes and showed no signs of improvement.

A week or so before each school year began, I placed a stack of notebook paper on the table and worked on perfecting my letters. Dozens of sets of the abc’s filled the sheets, as did a hundred signatures. To my dismay, no two appeared close to the same.

Years later, college term papers were completed in handwriting, and luckily, no professor ever refused one because they were illegible. I know typing them would have helped, but I’d managed to earn an F in the high school class for a variety of reasons. Of course, taking notes in classes in no way aided the development of my penmanship. Most days after class, I returned to my room and tried to decipher the marks on the paper. Remembering the things an instructor said helped to read the mess in the spiral notebooks.

The computer has been my salvation. I finally conquered the “qwerty” keyboard enough to get recognizable words on the screen. In fact, my penmanship is limited to giving my signature on slips of paper after purchasing items, jotting down information from interviews, and scribbling a personal note at my desk.

It’s just as well that technology is coming to the rescue. In the last couple of years, my fingers have stiffened and now ache after extended periods of work. Gripping a pen is an uncomfortable, almost impossible task. The hieroglyphics on the page make no sense, and I don’t have my memory to rely on to recall what was said at the time I inked the scratches before me.

I admire people like my wife who can make art with a pen or pencil. She holds the instrument as if it were a baton and then conducts a full sheet a beautifully written words. It looks so easy. For me, it’s a struggle to mark anything on paper that resembles any letters or words. My arthritic hands make the chore that much more difficult. My last hope is that my toes will be able to do what my fingers have failed to do. If not, I might be putting words on the screen by pecking away at keys with my nose.

Will It Fly?

2011-04-04T06:55:00.000-05:00

In one more day, I’ll be sitting at Double Dogs Chow House with several boxes of books ready to sell. It’s the culmination of a long process. It’s titled Baseball Boys, and I’m sure that most people are tired of my talk about this venture. I understand; however, this is new territory for me, and huge hunks of time have been invested in the process. Plenty of concerns go with having put this book out. Will it fly?

First, I worry that about having unknowingly given away the rights to the book to some company. Yes, I read the “terms and conditions,” something most folks don’t do when they sign up for iTunes, Facebook, Twitter, etc. Now, I have a college education, actually two of them, and degrees from accredited universities. Still, I read the document and muddle through the language. It read like an insurance policy. While I think I have a grasp of the points, uncertainty still exists. My prayer is that misreading didn’t lead to giving away everything.

This is my child, my creation. I began the book in the winter of 2009 and wrote and rewrote. Sometimes the story got stuck like a car in the mud. No, the cause wasn’t writer’s block. I just wasn’t certain how I wanted the thing to come together. Like most books, the story line can travel any number of routes, and the writer has to make the decision as to what will happen to the characters. That also determines the genre of each book. In this case, a work of general fiction has been developed.

At any rate, this is my baby, and like all parents, I look at it through blurred vision. The adage that all babies are beautiful is a lie. Some are so hard on the eyes that they should be kept from public viewing until their heads round out and their faces begin to at least resemble those of humans. The same is true with books. For every good book, hundreds, if not thousands, of stinkers are written. I worry that I might be so blinded by parenthood that I deceive myself into thinking this book is good. How embarrassing that would be.

With that said, here’s my confession. I realize that mistakes are in the book. Sometimes ending letters or words have been omitted. Believe me when I say that I proofed the manuscript on three separate occasions. I didn’t catch these and apologize to all. Next time I’m going to hire another set of eyes to catch things.
Along with that is a concern that readers won’t like the book. Hey, it’s not going to reach the best seller list or be acclaimed by critics. It’s put out for public consumption in printed and ereader versions. Even the price of the book is reasonable when it’s compared to others on the market. If people don’t like it enough to pay a less than market price, then I’ve failed. Public opinion might be a fickle thing, but for an author, it can be the path to success or the tumble to failure. Waiting to find out what happens is nerve-racking.

I don’t want my work to embarrass the people about whom I care. The worst thing of all would be to have folks “dog” my work or abilities to family and friends. Many of my columns have talked about family members and friends, but never with the intent to embarrass them or make fun. I don’t want a poor product to become the butt of jokes that others might make to loved ones, nor do I want family and friends to feel forced to defend me or my work.

I daydream about this book becoming popular enough to be picked up by a publisher. Nothing could be much better than to have this baby of mine put onto paper and bound by some big company. I barely have enough to fund the printing myself, but I’d gladly allow someone else to foot the bill and pump out copies. That way a much bigger audience could have access to this book. Yes, it might also lead to a contract for another book in the future.

At this point, I am excited about putting my first work out in front of the public. I just hope that it’s warmly received. Heck, I’d take a lukewarm reception, anything but abject rejection. That has nothing to do with making fortunes. However, it has everything to do with feeling confident enough to put another book out. I’ll say my prayers and await my fate.

Then and Now

2011-03-20T19:56:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I awoke to sea breezes and sunny skies. Amy and I spent the afternoon on the beaches in Clearwater. By the end of they day, my skin was the color of a crab, even though my butt was planted securely in a chair under a beach umbrella. The entire time we spent in Florida, the temperatures hovered around the eighty degree mark.

Another morning I woke up at home around 8:00 a.m. and looked out on gray skies. My feet shuffled to the kitchen, and there I made a pot of coffee. My next chore fetching paper, and when I opened the door, wet, thick snow flakes greeted me. By the time I returned, my hair was wet and my shoulders carried snow back into the house. The weather hasn’t been unusual for good ‘ol East Tennessee, but it sure seems brutal after a week in the sunshine state.

At the end of 2010, gas prices were tolerable. Most places charged $2.50-$3.00 per gallon. We’d adjusted our budget to cover the cost. I kept thinking about my teen yeas and how fuel ran about thirty cents a gallon, except when gas wars between stations sent prices plummeting to as little as a quarter. Yes, in the “old days,” a guy could put gas in his car, take his date to a movie, and buy her something to eat with a five dollar bill.

The future looks as bleak as a winter’s day, and before long a fiver will buy one, yes ONE, gallon of gas. Amy and I will make it somehow. My worries are for my kids and my country. Paying such a high price wouldn’t be so painful if our leaders had made significant strides in developing alternative source of energy. The truth is they forgot about doing so when the last round of spiking prices eased. And don’t tell me the reason is because of Libya’s unrest when the country supplies only two percent of our fuel. Prices that shoot into orbit like spaceships occur overnight. Americans are smart enough to see that speculators are raping and pillaging the country and its citizens as they cause oil to rise.

In 2008 I called it quits after thirty years of teaching. When I left, kids were still kids; they became pains only when interfering helicopter moms and dads disturbed the glassy waters with waves of absurd demands. My reason for leaving the profession had more to do with my no longer being able to relate to teens than it did with time of service.

Now, the state politicians have villanized teachers and education. They aim to take away the rights of teachers and to put their fates in the hands of an elected school board that many times has no understanding of what goes on in classrooms. They want to take collective bargaining rights and replace them with the decisions of politically motivated board members and their whims or vendettas.
Only a few years ago, the US had two major political parties. Democrats and Republicans ran for office based on philosophical difference. Voters could listen to platforms by both and then decide which one best suited their views. Elections were held, and one side or the other won control of Congress. Disagreement was a part of the day-to-day operations of the government, but when the country faced real turmoil or threats, the elephants and donkeys banded together and put the United States first.

These days, politics has little to do with directing the country toward prosperity. Instead, both parties have adopted partisan views and express no desire to work for the common good. A new bunch, the Tea Party, has arrived with a dangerous extremism. These people seem intent upon crumbling the government. Their desire to end government spending and cut entitlements makes great rhetoric and produces sound-bites for the media. However, what supporters of this faction don’t seem to comprehend is that cutting government means cutting services. Are they willing to give up roads and schools and grants to favorite organizations? Will these people be so quick to scream for a cut in entitlements when their social security and Medicare payments are severely reduced or ended? I don’t think so.

What used to be sure looks a lot better than what is. That sounds like something an old fart would say; maybe that’s an accurate description. I’m more inclined to think that a few years ago common sense and common decency had a much greater hold in all areas of life. About the best we can hope for is that the extremism from all sides gets fifteen minutes of fame and then recedes into the deep, dark waters from which it came. That way, life might just be a bit easier to live.

The Panera Bread Personal Office

2011-03-14T07:32:00.001-05:00

I sat in a Panera Bread Store in Tampa not long ago. Amy was completing some last-minute cramming before a test on material she’d covered in a class. I got to tag along to enjoy sunny weather and warm temperatures for a few days. As the saying goes, if you’ve been in one Panera, you’ve been in them all.

All booths are filled first on any given day. People must like the coziness of the enclosure, as well as the padded seats. By and large, most of the booths are taken by people who are interested in talking. In Tampa, one man rattled on about a baseball camp. For a second I thought he might be someone affiliated with the teams in town for spring training since he spouted out statistics about one pitcher. In the next couple of sentences, he ratted himself out. This guy would be coaching a little league team in some recreational league. He was going to a mandatory camp that certifies coaches as qualified leaders of youth teams. I should have known it; all dads think of T-ball as if it were the stepping stone to a major league contract.

In an adjacent booth two more men carried on another conversation. Better said, one man yakked while the other listened. The talker went on incessantly as he prated about every area of his personal life. His voice whined about the struggles he encountered, and the man sounded as if he were the only person who’d ever had such a rough time of it. I assumed his worries didn’t include money since he was eating food and drinking coffee that is over-priced and not all that tasty. After a while, Amy asked if we could move outside. The yammering interfered with her studying.

Tables in the business are usually filled with those who are working. Groups of men in coats and ties and women in dresses and heels pull tables together and begin sales meetings. At smaller tables, one-on-one meetings between managers and employees drag on. At a couple job interviews are being held, and individuals in search of a job nervously answer questions while keeping their voices low enough to prevent others in close proximity from hearing. Some tables are occupied by singles. It’s fascinating to watch them enter and begin the search for a table close to an electrical outlet. After territories are staked and plugs are inserted, these folks sidle up to the counter to place orders. For the next few hours, they nurse cups of coffee and complete a day’s worth of work. All are smart business people for they’ve found offices that cost $1.79 plus tax (cup of coffee) each day in rent.

Another common ground for Panera stores deals with restrooms. Upon entering any of them, the mingling odors of urine and methane gas attack. Urinals are half-filled and in some stalls patrons have left creations for which they are so proud that flushing them away in unthinkable. Workers in charge of cleaning the facilities are derelict in their duties, but even when they are attentive, the smell indicates that floors have been swabbed with soured mops. The best way for customers to approach a restroom is to take a deep breath before entering, hurry through their business, and exit before passing out from the lack of oxygen.

I, too, am guilty of using Panera as a meeting place. On occasion, I’ve met individual for story interviews there. Usually during afternoons I meet with them for no more than forty-five minutes. That’s usually all it takes. Some people who are there when I arrive appear to have staked their claims to tables and booths since early morning. I much prefer to complete my business and move on to something else. My office at home is more comfortable than Panera, and it’s much quieter. The only distraction is letting the dog out a couple of times. I appreciate Panera and the service it provides; however, clean restrooms would do wonders for the business’ image. Maybe a sign might be placed that cautions talkers to maintain low voices so as not to annoy others.

Sittin' and Thinkin'

2011-03-01T14:50:00.000-05:00

Things have slowed in my work. The paper doesn’t want what I’m writing so much these days. New blood joined the staff, and my role has been cut in half. I hate the pay cut but suppose the other end of it is nice. More time is freed up for me to do stuff that I enjoy. Among those activities are reading, writing, and playing golf. Much of it is spent in what I call “sittin’ and thinkin’.”
The best sittin’ and thinkin’ is done in my office. My butt is plunked down in the office chair and for hours the wheels of my mind squeak as they turn around first one subject and then another. Breaks from the mental work occur when Snoop needs to go outside to chase a squirrel of to relieve himself or when I need to take a trip to the bathroom or get a drink or something to eat. I look up, and the day has disappeared. Sometimes the only way I know the time is when the sun streams through window and floods my desk to the point that I can’t see the computer screen or the desktop.
Over the years, my thinking sessions have spawned column topics, new stories, and novel plots. Some of those threads led to good pieces; some have been a waste of time. The desk at which I work is a sewing desk that Mother used for years. It’s wide and long and has drawers on either side that hold notebooks, papers, and copies of things I’ve completed. I’ve probably produced a number of writings equal to the number of things the Mother sewed. Her creations were more utilitarian, and they might well have been more valuable.
Hundreds of thoughts about my family have poured out in this office. I’ve worried about Amy when she was sick or upset. Lacey was on my mind when she was pregnant with Madden, as well as when she was in school and when she married Nick. Dallas stays front and center many times as I fret over his well being in life and love. The top of this desk has served as a prop for my arm as it’s held my head when I’m worrying, wondering, crying, or praying.
In the last couple of weeks, the rights of teachers have come under assault by a political faction that wants to end collective bargaining. I think about what this means to teachers in the state. To be honest, it has little effect since negotiations have been the school board offering a pittance and the teacher representatives snapping it up and saying “than you for your kindness.” Tenure is also being targeted with the idea of changing probationary periods from three to five years. I think that whether or not a person is a good teacher is discoverable in three years. The added two are just so school boards can throw their overly-inflated views of themselves around. In all of this, one side gets the good while teachers are again relegated to second class status in the work place.
I’m also concerned about the state’s attempt to limit the amount awarded for personal injury in negligence cases. A maximum of $750,000 is being proposed for injury or death. I’ve thought about that but can’t understand how person’s serious injuries or death at the hands of some a business owner’s or corporation’s being negligent can be worth so little. It sounds as if the rich guys have decided to put a price on human life and health as if they were a product they’ve developed.
Not all my sittin’ and thinkin’ is so serious. I’m wondering what happened to a UT basketball team that was supposed to have so much potential. The coaching was there, but the desire of players sure seemed to be lacking. I’d like to know if the Braves will be a good ball team this year, and I “study,” as my dad used to stay, about what’s going to happen to this country if our financial mess doesn’t clear up. I’d also like to know if the Democrats and Republicans will ever care more about the country than about their power. Along the same lines, I am curious when the Tea Party’s fifteen minutes will be up. I hope it’s soon. I think extremism on the right of left is dangerous to the stability of the country.
Yep, sometimes when I have too much time, my sittin’ and thinkin’ slides me into a pool of funk. At other times, that pondering gets the juices flowing and makes life more enjoyable. The summer’s coming, and I can’t wait to do my sittin’ and thinkin’ on the front porch.

Valentine's Day is Special

2011-02-14T07:10:00.002-05:00

Today is Valentine’s Day. Many people enjoy the day, especially the gentler, smarter sex. Others despise the day for all sorts of reasons. I’m fond of the special time it brought to my life.
Women love the day. It’s a time when their men, if they have walking around sense, shower them with gifts and praises. Flowers are always winners when they arrive at work places. Others see just how special the recipients are to loved ones, and there is no shortage of “oohs and aahs” from envious co-workers who wonder if they’ll be lucky enough to receive bouquets from their sweethearts. Cards from men express their love for these women, and a lucky few honeys are given bracelets and necklaces and other jewelry.
Hard core skeptics pooh-pooh Valentine’s Day. They declare it has nothing to do with love or relationships. No, to them, Valentine’s Day is a sinister plot hatched by florist and card companies. It’s a day for the masses to spend millions of dollars on items that will fade and wilt within days, and nothing will remain but memories which, in short time, will also fade away. These grumps chastise others for wasting money on frivolous things. For them, the day would be better spent at home as the little women cook suppers as they sit in their recliners and read the paper and watch the evening news.
Valentine’s Day is most special to children, more precisely those in elementary school. Some of my fondest memories of young love came on that special day. The purchasing of the right box of cards was important. They couldn’t be so sappy that my buddies would kid me about giving them out, but they needed to affectionate enough to woo girls in the class. The pack was a winner if one card was a bit bigger and sweeter than the rest. That one went to the girl that was special that year. I remember the names of some: Loretta Moore, Kay Nabors, Suzanne Fletcher, and Brenda Wright. They’d won my heart, and I wanted them to have special valentines that announced my feelings.
Prior to the parties that took place on those days, kids worked on bags in which others would place cards. Hearts and arrows covered the fronts of them, and along the top carefully written names sat just below the bags’ openings. More creative students added white paper lace around the edges. Less enthusiastic youngsters scribbled their names on bags with ink and found more interesting things to do.
We’d all watch as students delivered cards to those bags. The worst thing that could happen would be that a kid skipped someone else’s bag. That was an insult that wouldn’t soon be forgotten. We boys paid special attention to the girls on whom we were sweet. Hopes ran high that those females would slip in a bigger card. Absolute heaven came when we opened up a card from girls and found heart candies with special messages on them.
One year, some boys and I used the bags for goals as we shot paper wads at them. Mr. Stewart was our teacher and caught us misbehaving. For us he had a special valentine. We lined up and he swatted us with a paddle a few times. With every contact, our faces flushed and our bottoms warmed. A group of rowdy boys learned how sacred valentine bags were.
I hope Amy likes her valentine. She’s been my one and only for 36 years. Yep, she’s a trooper to have stuck with me. I love her and want to always make her happy. One thing’s for sure: she’s made Valentine’s Day a happy day for me for a long time.

Hard to Be Nice

2011-01-24T16:36:00.001-05:00

I suppose that part of the problem is my aging. Still another part might be my impatience with others people and how they handle tasks. Whatever the cause, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to be nice.

My son Dallas called the other night and announced he’d received a refund check from AT&T in the amount of $424.97. His excitement was tempered with concern that the company might have erroneously billed his account. He’s made the payments but the bill has remained in my name, and as such, AT&T wouldn’t release any information about the account. He asked me to find out the status and let him know.

I began the process at 8:30 a.m. My naïveté led me to believe that by calling early I could beat the crowd. The first sound I hear after punching in the number was a recording. Oh, how I hate those things. It instructed me to punch #1 if I spoke English. The order set my ire on a low boil, but that’s a topic for another day. After a few more commands, I was placed on hold for “the next available representative.”

Soon enough, a person in customer service came on the line and asked how she could help. I explained to her that we’d received the check and wanted to make sure that no charges had been placed against our account. Then I told her we wanted to return the check if we weren’t entitled to it.

It were as if I’d thrown a chain across transformers and knocked out electric service to an entire section of the country. The woman had no idea what to do. She put me on hold for a couple of minutes and then came back to transfer me to someone else. For several minutes I waited, and when the line was answered, it was another CSR, and I had to repeat the same information. By then I was getting just a tad miffed.

I was placed on hold again and then summarily cut off. Spikes in my blood pressure caused my breathing to become momentarily erratic. Determined to get answers, I called again. Yes, I had to endure the same recorded messages and CSR contacts. Eventually, I was sent to another department that oversaw accounts. I again explained the reason for my call. The individual put me on hold again. By then the droning music that played was injecting a dull pain in my head.

As the folks at AT&T ran in circles and tried to catch their tails, I wondered aloud what I was doing. Here a company that was too big to be efficient was sending me a refund check for something about which I knew nothing and I was trying to send it back. I blame my parents for that. They taught my brothers and me to do the right thing, and most of my life I’ve attempted to do so. However, this corporation had made a mistake and when I tried to help, the turned what I call “snippety.” They were irritated that I’d asked them for help to correct their mistake.

Before long, another individual came on the line, and, you guessed it, I had to go over the story again. I was doing the same thing over and over and getting the same results. That process is called something. The person asked if she could put me on hold, and I lost it.

“Hey, I just want to make sure my account hasn’t been billed the amount of this check. Please let me know if that’s happened. Otherwise, I don’t care, and I’m over this.”

She came back with we don’t know what the refund is but that it was a refund from a checking account that ended in the numbers 4416. Now we were getting somewhere. Neither Dallas nor Amy and I have an account ending in those digits. What I surmised had happened was that some employee had credited our account with that payment and since service had been turned off, AT&T was trying to refund us the money.

The company had no idea to whom the money belonged. They instructed me to return the check via mail. Yep, I had to pay the postage to return their mistake. By the end of the event, I’d wasted more than 1 ½ hours, developed a thundering headache, lost my temper, and cursed the phone company. I did the right thing, but damn, it’s hard to be nice!

Cell Phone in Public--Damn!

2011-01-04T08:32:00.000-05:00

I took my vehicle for an oil change the other day. Don’t give me a hard time because I don’t man up and do the job myself. I’ve screwed up enough times to know better than to work on a car. At any rate, I checked in and found a seat in the waiting room. Most folks sunk themselves down into the lobby furniture and either looked out the window or watched ESPN on the television on the wall. One couple, however, decided to spend their times revealing too much of their personal lives to the rest of us. When they weren’t hugged up, the two of them were jabbering on cell phones. They were annoying.

For most of the time, the male sat on the corner of the couch and talked to his friend. His language was crude, at best, and he talked with no regard to anyone else in the room. Miss Pleasant had no better vocabulary; the two of them cursed freely and dropped several “F bombs,” much to the displeasure of two women sitting in one corner of the room and to the disgust of males there.

The girl soon rose to take a smoke break. As soon as she exited, her boyfriend began a tirade about her. In rather unpleasant terms, he carped about her being a control freak who demanded too much from him. At one point, he referred to her as a garden tool, a “hoe,” and questioned why he even bothered staying with her. The rest of his conversation dealt with sharing drugs, dealing with women, and giving away a dog. They also griped about people who came in after them and left before. Never mind that those folks had earlier appointments or different types of work done.

I’ve grown weary of dealing with people and their cell phone conversations. In grocery stores folks walk the aisles and chat away while pulling items from the shelves. On too many occasions I’ve spoken to someone who passed and said something to me, only to realize that she had that Bluetooth piece stuck in her ear and was yakking with a friend. Then the individual has the gall to look at me as if I’m some pervert who is trying to hit on her.

In checkout lines, people infuriate others when they yammer on their cell phones while trying to complete transactions. They try to empty carts, retrieve a fistful of coupons, and pay for groceries with their attention divided between that task at hand and the latest gossip being shared. These cell phone addicts are rude to cashiers as they are too caught up with phone talk to answer questions with anything but nods or shakes of their heads.

On the road, cell phone use brings on drivers’ ire. Motorists stick phones in their ears and lose all driving skills. Cars poke along in passing lanes, and most often, the driver is blabbing on the phone. When these people have a phone in hand, they ignore such useless things as turning on signal lights or looking in mirrors before changing lanes. Their below limit speeds result in long lines of cars behind them, but these morons are oblivious to what their phone calls are doing to traffic flow.

Yes, cell phones are modern advancements that have made our lives better. Teens out for the evening have contact with parents, or maybe it’s that parents have contact with teens. If an emergency arises, individuals can punch a few buttons and help will be on the way. I get all of that. What I don’t get are folks who pull out phones to talk as they are backing out of their driveways. What conversations can be that important?

Someone asked me the other day what we did before cell phones. I told them we talked face-to-face or spent time with ourselves and our thoughts. Maybe the problem is too many people don’t like themselves enough to be alone. That’s sad.

Technology is a wonderful and necessary part of our lives. However, when it comes to cell phones, I long for the earlier times of rotary dial phones and party lines and face-to-face conversations between family and friends. Go ahead; call me old fashion. I’ll confess to it.

Christmas Nice

2010-12-21T16:57:00.001-05:00

It’s that time of year again. Christmas is around the corner, a fact that is surprising to lots of folks. We blinked our eyes and a whole year passed. I never mind too much because this time brings out the best in people, me included.

Is it my imagination or do kids get just a little sweeter around Christmas? I stopped by the library to take a picture of children creating items at craft tables. When I exited the car, a little girl with dirty blonde and a pink outfit was standing on the sidewalk as she waited for her mom. I took two steps by her and she said, “Hi.” Her voice must be close to that of an angel. I turned, smiled, and returned the greeting, all the while feeling the warm fires of the season glowing.

Grandson Madden is just a bit sweeter at this time of year. He’s talking constantly, just as his mother and grandfather have done all their lives. The boy is at that point in life where he looks at folks in their eyes as he speaks. These days, what also come with that look are buckets filled with sweetness. The boy even garnered enough courage to climb is the round, red-suited man’s lap and tell him what he wanted for Christmas.

The retails sales forces are especially nice the last shopping days. Selling products might insure their jobs for the next year, something that is important during such tempestuous times. They are more willing to help customers and give the time and attention that ring up sales.

Many customers are in a much kinder mood as well. They don’t mind so much standing in a checkout line of a department store. Smiles and warm wishes are passed out to strangers who would normally receive a cold shoulder and laser stare. On some occasions, an individual might allow an elderly individual with only a couple of items to cut line and check out in front. We shoppers aren’t so worried about money or bills or our lives circling the bowl before they go down the hole. For just a little while, we enjoy each day and find some good in others who shop and sell. Of course, when the bills come in January mail, those once happy moods will melt like winter’s snow in the rain.

Christmas certainly brings out the better person in me. I find that patience, which is usually in short supply in my life, is more plentiful. That means I can stand in line a little longer to wait my turn. Finding a parking space in a mall lot isn’t easy, but I just shake my head, laugh, and drive to the outer reaches of the county where I can park my car and then walk ten minutes to the front entrance.

Where my Christmas spirit is most evident is on the Interstate. I drove to Nashville recently, and during the whole trip, close to two-hundred miles, I never once cursed another driver nor did I flip any other motorist off. I drove the speed limit during the trip unless I was caught in the passing lane and needed to step on it to get out of the way of others behind me. When the coast was clear, I moved to the right lane and graciously allowed speeders to zip by me.

Christmas season makes us want to be nicer; maybe it’s because for at least a few weeks we remember what miraculous thing happened on that date. What is unfortunate is that most of us will go back to our former obnoxious, intolerant selves after Christmas is passed but still in the rear view mirrors. We could use work on keeping the nice side showing a little longer. Doing so takes lots of practice and awareness. Maybe I’ll try harder. It couldn’t hurt.

I Miss My Wedding Ring

2010-12-20T13:51:00.000-05:00

Today is special for Amy and me. It’s our 36th wedding anniversary. Yep, I wonder too why she’s stayed with me all these years; she surely married way beneath herself, and she’s too pretty to have married a frog like me. Anyhow, we’ve been married a long time. I’m glad my wife is with me. I looked at the a bare digit on my left hand the other day and realized that I miss my wedding ring.

My first ring took a beating. It never came off my finger. I wore it to mow the yard, split wood, and dig holes. Even when Dallas and Lacey practiced ball in the yard or on a field, I hit grounders and threw batting practice with that ring on my finger. Over the years, the rough treatment put nicks and scratches on the ring.

Amy bought me another wedding ring for Christmas one year. She took the old one and had the jeweler to melt it and then make a piece of jewelry for herself. The new ring was much more comfortable. It had rounded edges that kept the ring from digging into the flesh of my finger and hand. By the time I got that ring, I was accustomed to wearing a ring, and when I took it off for any reason, my finger was naked. Something about not having that ring on felt strange and out of place.

Like the first ring, I wore the new one at all times. It too had a few scratches on it, but no nicks had been cut into the ring. By then I’d learned to wear gloves to prevent too much abuse to it.

A few years ago, the joints in my ring finger began to lock. The problem worsened until I had to use my right hand to straighten the finger when I grasped something. Before long, my finger began to swell, and my ring began to squeeze the circulation from it. With a wheel barrow of regret, I removed my wedding ring and placed in a jewelry box. A couple of weeks ago, I retrieved it and handed it to Amy. I told her to take it somewhere and trade it in for a piece she liked.

I miss that ring. After so many years, it felt natural. Sometimes I’d turn it on my finger as I contemplated something of importance. And yes, it was a true symbol of a marriage that’s survived the test of time. Each of those scratches and nicks in the first ring were symbols of the sometimes rocky road Amy and I traveled. It’s true that a couple needs at least five years of work to smooth the wrinkles from a marriage. Most of the time it was I who “screwed up,” but Amy was patient enough until I got things right.

The second ring was a symbol as well. Its edges were rounded and that made the ring more comfortable on the finger. The years wore away the rough edges of our marriage as well. We’ve learned lessons about living together. I am still working on patience, and Amy still works on tolerance (of me). What we both agree on is that we love each other more now than we did on that December 20th evening in Cookeville when we exchanged vows. It’s also a deeper, more profound love than in our youth.

So, I’ll be naked-fingered when we celebrate this year’s anniversary, but maybe by the next anniversary I’ll have a third ring. Surgery fixed the problems I had with my finger, so a new one might slip on as comfortably as the other two. It’s for sure that another ring will have its share of symbolism. Even if I don’t have a ring, I’ll still have my bride. For that I am most grateful.

A Clean Man Zone

2010-11-30T16:43:00.001-05:00

During Madden’s last visit, he lay down for a nap and had an accident. Our washing machine was too small to wash the soiled comforter, so I “manned” up and volunteered to take the thing to the laundry mat. This is the second time I’ve performed this chore, but it’s not something to do on a regular basis.

When I arrived, the place was empty except for the woman who worked the desk. She greeted me and asked if I needed any help. Of course I needed help. She explained to me that I should use only a quarter cap of detergent since the machine produced a lot of suds. I remembered my first trip and how I used an entire capful of the stuff. The suds began overflowing, and had it not been for the attendant that day, I’d have made a mess. She brought out her personal bottle of fabric softener (I’d not brought any) and poured it into the machine. The suds ebbed almost immediately, and the day was saved.

I crammed the comforter into the machine and fed it $4.25 in quarters. I suppose that such high prices could account these days for so many people wearing clothes soiled with stains and smelling like old bowling shoes. Next I found the most comfortable seat in the place, an end couch cushion that had a sunken spot from too many behinds and wrinkles like a wadded cotton shirt. My Kindle kept me company for the next couple of hours as the washer ran through its cycles and then the dryer, which swallowed another $2.00 in quarters, did its job.

Before long, other customers dropped in. First was an older man in a red sweat suit. His hefty paunch separated his top from the pants and looked like a gaping mouth. Another man entered quickly, set his loaded basket down and made a b-line for the restroom. He planned to be in there for a lengthy period because he had a novel in tow.

One by one, customers toting laundry baskets or stuffed bags entered the establishment. What surprised me most was the fact that everyone who walked through the door was a man. In no time, thirteen men had joined me. These guys were pros at laundry and politely declined the offers of help from the clerk. I marveled at how they separated articles into piles and dispatched them with speedy efficiency into machines. Most of them had their own stash of quarters and loaded up machines, pushed buttons, and added detergent and softener without giving the acts a second thought.

Two women entered the laundry mat, but for some reason they looked out of place. It’s a funny observation because for years the job of washing dirty clothes had been left for women to do. No commercial was ever made where a son brings home from college a load of laundry for Dad to complete.

Now, men are invading what was once sacred female territory. I don’t imagine there’s much complaining coming from women. Their jobs have changed over the years. Many of them are now the major source of income for families. Husbands are secondary earners. That might be the reason the numbers were tilted toward men during my visit.

Men are spotted more often in lots of places once thought to be habitats for women. We are pushing grocery carts, lugging clothes to the cleaners, and even chaperoning day trips at children’s schools. Some of us have been wielding a vacuum cleaner wand, mop, and dust rag for years. I wonder if our male ancestors are looking down and shaking their heads at the change. I hope not. It’s a different world, and it takes both husband and wife to complete a long list of chores. Sharing the load is fine; I just hope we men don’t permanently take over clothes washing, grocery shopping, and other tasks, not unless women are prepared to take over such jobs as mowing the lawn, washing the car, and hauling the garbage.

Guys used to meet up at the bar for a drink and the company of friends. Now they share stories and jokes while they fold drawers, towels, and t-shirts. Some changes just don’t seem right to me, but hey, I’m from a different time.

Blackberry Hell

2010-11-22T07:42:00.000-05:00

Not long ago, I decided that a new cell phone was in order. No, nothing was wrong with the one I was carrying, but commercial campaigns had me aching for a “smartphone.” The results of that ownership have put me in Blackberry Hell.

Part of the problem is that I’m a functioning illiterate when it comes to using technology. I live on the cusp of a new world that is dominated by all sorts of gadgets—cell phones, pocket computers, GPS systems—and don’t understand even their basic functions. Some of my problem is that I fight these new “advancements” tooth and nail. For instance, my sense of direction and my ability to read are good enough to get me to places toward which I am traveling. Okay, I’ll admit that on every trip Amy and I have made that I navigate our car to the worst sections of the cities, but at least I had enough sense to get us to the location to begin with. I’ve yelled at and cursed the voice that comes over a GPS system and tells me to “turn left” when I want to go right. Then the darn thing repeats “recalculating” half a dozen times.

I’d like to torture the individual who came up with the idea of texting. In the first place, “texting” is a new word in our vocabulary. I hate making up new words that go with our inventions and actions. At any rate, I try to text on the phone. One of the selling features of the Blackberry is the QWERTY layout. That’s all well and good, but the buttons are smaller than bumps on a gnat’s ass, and I’m forever hitting the wrong key. Messages come out saying, “I widh yiou were hrer,” instead of “I wish you were here.” My children are always texting me, and I poke at keys, backspace, delete, and poke again to get out a readable line. Before I can blink, they’ve replied with paragraphs. How’s that happen? I don’t see the need to text. If I have something to say, I can just call the kids on this cell phone I have. Isn’t that why it was invented? Some people text each other across the room. Why the hell are they doing that?

On too many occasions folks have rung me up to say they were answering my call. I tell them I didn’t contact them, but they insist that I have. The answer to the mystery is pocket dialing. Carrying my phone in my pants pocket leads to that act. It also led to my accidentally locking the keyboard one Saturday. I didn’t have a clue how to unlock the thing and checked the owner’s manual and sites online. Discussions about hitting the “*A” key were written, but nothing happened. In a desperate attempt to figure out the problem, I began pushing things and discovered one on top of the phone that was the golden key.

I downloaded an “app” that helps me keep lists of things since my memory is failing. On one were no less than 25 writing topics. I plugged my phone into my computer to sync it, and when the process was finished, that list had vaporized. My searches on the phone and computer have proven fruitless, so now I’m left wondering what those items were and if they’ll ever be recovered.

The problem with all of us is that we feel the need to be connected at all times. I want to be able to have a phone in case of emergencies and it’s neat to be able to talk with friends and family on the same plan without being charged any kind of fees. I also want to check my email at any time since messages come in about new stories and changes of meeting times and places when I’m away from my computer. What this connectivity steals is peace. None of us rest any more. Kids sit down and immediately begin texting, listening to music, or watching television—all from their cell phones.

Perhaps the biggest problem I have with my new phone is it is smart, smarter than I am at least. Competition against other humans is how folks have lived most of the years before. That meant individuals matching wits or physical abilities. I’m neither ready nor able to compete with a handful of chips and SIMS and megabytes and circuits that are programmed to do everything. Maybe the best move is to go back to a phone that makes calls and nothing else. Maybe I could handle that.

Ghosts at Church

2010-11-16T12:49:00.002-05:00

We walked into the sanctuary after greetings from several members. The pews were padded, a good thing for someone with a fanny as flat as a fritter. A quick glance at the morning’s bulletin failed to reveal any hymns that I knew, but the Gloria Patri and Doxology were old friends. Little did I know this church held as many ghosts as a haunted house at Halloween.

I turned my attention to the front, and the second from the front pew drew my attention. That’s the same one where our family sat each Sunday for years. Daddy died in 1965 and never got the chance see the completion of the church’s new building. Jim, Mother, and I occupied that seat, and Dal, who was away at college, and his wife Brenda joined us on occasion. Mother ached for Daddy. Only in the last little bit have I come to understand her plight. She was only 49 when her husband died. He left her with three sons and not enough money with which to feel comfortable. She took care of him through the roughest parts lung cancer in April until August 31, the day she became a widow.

So, it was in that pew that she silently wept. I’m sure she took turns talking to God and asking for strength and talking to Daddy to chastise him for leaving too soon and to mourn his absence. That pew became Edna Rector’s personal prayer bench.

Daddy was there as well. The pianist played “Sweet Hour of Prayer” during the congregational time of prayer and reflection. The flood waters of the past swept me back to the kitchen in our home. Daddy was sitting at the table with a pack of Winston’s and a green mug filled with coffee as thick as maple syrup. As smoke wreathed his head, this man who worried about not having enough money and who was sick for many years before his cancer knocked him to his knees “figured” in a pocket spiral notebook and sang that song.”

This is the same sanctuary where both Dal and Little Brenda and Jim and Big Brenda marched down the aisle toward matrimony. The four of them were 19 when those weddings took place. Dal’s death ended his marriage, but Jim and Brenda are in their 39th year together. Mother sat in her pew and smiled and then cried as both couple exchanged vows.

A child walked to the front to light the altar candles and extinguished them at the end of the service. Katherine, the minister, began her message with “The Lord be with you,” to which the congregation responded, “And also with you.” Those things echoed parts of the services at First Christian Church, the place where we had attended and raised our children. My family and plenty of others mourn the passing of that great church.

Other spirits were present. Katherine talked about the power of God with which all people connect. Amy and I could feel that connection as we sat there. Something just seemed right. The sermon was one that touched the hearts of congregants. A mom in front of us dabbed her eyes with a Kleenex. Sniffing that accompanies leaky eyes came from other sections of the church. The minister had hit a homerun with her sermon and delivery, but they combined with something else. A strength, a joy, a peace—whatever folks might call it—a sense of God’s presence struck at the hearts of every person there.

I’ve known Beaver Ridge Methodist Church all my life. I was baptized, became a member, and shared celebrations and losses there. My mind recalls hundreds of memories at that place. Now, it appears that the spirits from individuals who have played major roles in my life sometimes dwell there. More than likely, the spirits are memories. However, any church that houses the spirit of the Lord like this one is a good place to be sitting come Sunday morning.

Not Many Needed to Have A Church

2010-11-08T16:37:00.000-05:00

This is a short piece that becomes part 1 of a discussion about church.

In Matthew 18:20, Jesus said, “Where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.” It was his way of describing to us exactly what “church” is about. Monday night I spent church time with three friends, Ron, Scott, and Tony. For a couple of hours, we held services at Rafferty’s. We sat around the table, something important to all members of the Christian Church Disciples of Christ, and there we basked in the light of friendship.

All of us are members of First Christian Church, located at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Gay Street. The last few months have been nothing short of agony for us as we’ve watched it slowly become emaciated and linger on the edge of death. We no longer go to the church because witnessing that slow death is too depressing to bear.

That doesn’t mean that we don’t share time with each other. Every so often, one guy or another puts out the call for a “man’s meeting,” the code words for a get together at a designated establishment. The date is decided, and we meet somewhere around 7:00 p.m. The first order of business is ordering frosty, cold mugs of our favorite beer, and then we place orders for hamburgers, wings, sandwiches, and desserts.

Over that food, we discuss all the important things in life: family, work, church and whichever sport that is in season. The four of us sometimes agree to disagree, but we always respect each other. Ron and Scott have young children, and questions come about them. The stories of their exploits entertain Tony and me, who have grown children and grandchildren who are as young as the ones about whom we are hearing.

On three separate occasions, I answered the question of how Dallas was doing. Those three men always are concerned with him and his status. I suppose it’s because they watched him grow and spent time with him in church activities and on mission trips. They always make me promise that I will tell him hello and inform him that they care about him and how he is doing.

We’re all searching for new church homes at this point. The decision to do so isn’t something that any of us wanted to do but knew was inevitable. At some point all will find a new church to call home, and we will be involved in new denominations. We’re leaving behind a church where we celebrated our own or our children’s weddings, baptisms, and memberships. We’ve also celebrated the lives of many members who have passed.

The future is uncertain as far as what churches the four of us will choose. What remains a constant is that we will remain close friends who will continue to break bread together and to join in being church several times a year. No Christian can ask more than that.

Surviving Together

2010-10-31T21:02:00.000-05:00

I woke up as sore as a stubbed toe. Somehow, I pulled a muscle in my lower back; at least I hoped it was a muscle instead of something worse, which wouldn’t be out of the ordinary given my past medical record.

That’s not the only thing that was sore when I hit the floor sometime around 6:30 a.m. That day, brother Jim was scheduled to undergo a heart catheter procedure. His doctor had decided that a peek was necessary to make his heart could take a licking and keep on ticking. To say I was concerned would have been an understatement.

Jim and I have been through all sorts of things together, many of them tough. When we were still babies, chicken pox visited our house, and both of us were covered in splotches. Mother said that we squalled for days as the yucky welts erupted, itched, and finally disappeared. The only upside to the situation was that we were too young to scratch them, thereby keeping away some of the nasty scars that older children had when they clawed away for relief.

When we were still pre-school age, the mumps settled in our house. Jim and I awoke with “chipmunk cheeks.” What I remember most about the illness was that it zapped our strength and made swallowing food almost impossible. Unfortunately, Mother came down with a case at the same time. She took to her bed and felt too bad to much care if her brood survived.

Jim and I shared the measles. Whew! They knocked us for loops as fevers spiked and red dots covered every part of our bodies. We missed a week of school and didn’t regain our energy for awhile, but eventually, we were back. Our parents told us watching television while we were infected could damage our eyes. That worsened our condition by adding boredom to the mix.

We went through the illnesses of others. When we were thirteen, it was Daddy, who had several doctors give him differing diagnoses before learning that he had lung cancer. From April until August 31, he hung on through the ravages of the disease. Mother was diagnosed with the same thing and spent a year battling, only to finally be consumed by the cancer. Jim and I watched as the same damn stuff ate up our brother Dal, who had served as our surrogate dad and real-life hero. A couple of weeks after he turned 54, Dal quit fighting and found relief.

Jim and I have tended to nurse each other through other health problems. He visited me and did things around the house when I had back surgery. I played taxi and drove him to physical therapy after his knee replacement surgery. Both of us try much too hard to be helpful when an injury or illness rears its ugly head; that’s what brothers, especially twins, do for each other.

Jim was all right. However, any time a person has his heart checked, plenty of things can be found. Amy had this same procedure, and a blockage that required a stint was discovered. The good thing was that taking a look prevented a serious condition from worsening. In the end, the doctor pronounced Jim fit with the heart of a teenager. He told Brenda the bad news was that she’d have to live another thirty years with Jim.

I worry about Jim because he’s the last family member I have left. He’s also my lifelong best buddy. He needs to be okay for his family and for me. He told me there was no reason to be at the hospital during the procedure, but I told him to be quiet. I arrived, sat with Brenda, and when the doctor said all was well, I left for home knowing that we’d survived another event together.

Watching Out for Each Other

2010-10-21T07:56:00.001-05:00

I woke up with a sore back. Somehow, I managed to pull a muscle in my lower back; I hope it’s a muscle instead of something worse, which wouldn’t be out of the ordinary given my past medical record.

That’s not the only thing that was sore when I hit the floor sometime around 6:30 a.m. Today, brother Jim is scheduled to undergo a heart catheter procedure. His doctor has decided that a peek is necessary to make sure all is okay with his ticker. To say I’m concerned is an understatement.

Jim and I have been through all sorts of things together, many of them tough. When we were still babies, chicken pox visited our house, and both of us were covered in sores. Mother said that we squalled for days as the places erupted, itched, and finally disappeared. The only upside to the situation was that we were too young to scratch the places, thereby keeping away some of the nasty scars that older children had when they clawed away for relief.

When we were still pre-school age, the mumps settled in our house. Jim and I awoke with “chipmunk cheeks.” What I remember most about the illness was that it zapped our strength and made swallowing food almost impossible. Unfortunately, Mother came down with a case at the same time, and she was a much sicker individual.
Jim and I shared the measles. Whew! They knocked us for loops as fevers spiked and red dots covered every part of our bodies. We missed a week of school and didn’t regain our energy for awhile, but eventually, we were back.

We went through the illnesses of others. When we were thirteen, it was Daddy, who had several doctors give him diagnoses before learning that he had lung cancer. From April until August 31, he hung on through the ravages of the disease. Mother was diagnosed with the same thing and spent a year battling, only to finally be consumed by the cancer. Jim and I watched as the same damn stuff ate up our brother Dal, who had served as our surrogate dad and real-life hero. A couple of weeks after he turned 54, Dal quit fighting and found relief.

Jim and I have tended to nurse each other through other health problems. He visited me and did things around the house when I had back surgery. I played taxi and drove him to physical therapy after his knee surgery. Both of us try much too hard to be helpful when an injury or illness rears its ugly head; that’s what brothers, especially twins, do for each other.

I’m sure Jim will be all right. However, any time a person has his heart checked, plenty of things can be found. Amy had this same procedure, and a blockage that required a stint was discovered. The good thing is that taking a look can prevent a serious condition from worsening. It also might prevent a heart attack or worse.

I worry about Jim because he’s the last member of our family that I have left. He’s also my lifelong best buddy. He needs to be okay for his family and for me. He told me there was no reason to be at the hospital during the procedure, but I told him to be quiet. I’ll be there with his wife Brenda,and when the doctor says all’s well, I’ll go home and know that we’ve survived another event together.

Who Needs Safety Equipment?

2010-10-12T12:41:00.001-05:00

Amy says we’re a safer nation these days. I say we’re too cautious. Americans are afraid of everything, so much so that we’ve quit some activities. That’s not quite how things were in the 60’s and before.

Children today ride bikes just as we did. However, they are outfitted with all sorts of safety equipment: helmets, reflectors, rear view mirrors—accessories to protect young’uns from being hurt. Our bikes were regular ones. Only the richest kids had three speed bikes. Most bikes went only as fast as two pumping legs could propel them. Just riding bored us, so in no time at all we were practicing riding without using our hands or we were jumping bikes from ramps constructed with blocks and two-by-fours.

We had our share of accidents. On one occasion before I was big enough to ride a bike, one of the neighborhood boys sat me on the frame in front of the seat and rode me around the yard one and a half times. Then my bare toes were caught in the front wheel spokes. Yikes, it hurt, but I didn’t die from it. Neither did we succumb to other wrecks when we hit things or when dogs chased us. Sure we left plenty of hide along the asphalt paths where our knees and shins and bottoms slid, and sure, we shed plenty of tears when those unfortunate things occurred. The cure for all that was merthiolate or mecurochrome. Those products burned like the fires of hell, but they healed abrasions and cuts on all us boys. Having the orange-red medicine on a scrape was a badge of courage.

One thing’s for sure: we didn’t wear helmets. Back then, getting to most places meant kids rode bikes. Jim and I logged plenty of miles on trips to Hardin Valley, Karns, and Ball Camp. All the while, we never wore a helmet, unless we had one for football and were going to a back yard game. Some of us took a couple of blows to the head, something others might say accounts for our abnormal behavior. I’ve also known some guys who were separated from their bikes by riding into a clothes line at dusk. Still, not a single one of us had a helmet.

Skate boarders and in-line skaters spend hundreds of dollars on equipment that will keep them safe. When we were ten or eleven, Jim and I got skateboards for Christmas. Yes, they had them back that far. The ones we got were made of a piece of wood with a rounded nose and square back. Metal wheels like the ones on old skates were placed in pairs in front and back. Right outside my front door today is where we began our rides. The course took us down the hill to the cul-de-sac or, if we were daring enough, around the turn to another street.

Those metal wheels didn’t turn particularly well, and they were susceptible to object on the road’s surface. The smallest rock or even an acorn could stop the wheels from turning, thereby launching the rider forward. With luck the person could hit the road running. Otherwise, it was again time to paint body parts with medicines. My older brother broke his Christmas watch riding one of our boards; I never felt sorrier for him than when he did that.

What we didn’t have were helmets, knee and elbow pads, and gloves. Sure, we would have been safer, but being covered with those items took some of the adventure from the whole thing. Of course, we were smarter than today’s kids because none of us ever tried to ride a board down a hand rail or along the edge of a brick wall, nor did we try to complete tricks like jumping from the board, spinning it, and then again landing on it.

Wood Floors

2010-10-04T13:19:00.001-05:00

We’re having new flooring put in our place in Nashville. The existing stuff is a mish-mash of laminate, vinyl, and parquet. The combination was horrible looking, and each was a different type of floor covering. Problems like this never surfaced in our house when I was a kid. Mother and Daddy made choices that lasted.

The family home was covered with oak flooring. The boards were thick and hard as rocks, a fact that became obvious years later when holes were cut to insert vents for an HVAC unit. The contractor burned up a circular saw in the process, cursed the floors, and said he’d never seen any wood that solid.

Jim and I knew all about that floor. When we were kids, all that heated the house was a Warm Morning Coal Stove. The floors were ice cold, a fact that caused us to skitter across them as we reached the stove located in the living where we dressed for the morning. These days, my family makes fun of my refusal to go barefooted. One of a number of reasons I’m not a “shoeless Joe” is that I developed a habit of wearing shoes because of those cold oak boards.

The flooring was a source of pride for my parents. Mother spent hours on her hands and knees as she cleaned and waxed them. When she finished, they glowed as sun passed through the windows and reflected off them. One old story had Mother in the middle of cleaning the floors when Jim and I came in the house. Allegedly, our shoes were covered with mud, and the muck from our steps spread across the floors she’d just worked on. Supposedly, she sat back on her bottom and cried over the hard work that had been ruined in seconds by two grimy little boys. I’d more tend to believe that she sprang to her feet and rained down swats to two little bottoms. That sounds more like the mother I remember.

The hallway was a launch pad for us. It ran from a tile foyer to the basement door. We had some fun getting a head start and then sliding the length of the hall. I sometimes worried about picking up a splinter, but not enough to stop the sliding. One hazard of the game was not being able to stop soon enough and then slamming into the basement door. Another was veering off course and crashing into one of the walls. They were plaster with swirls and ridges and as solid as concrete. A run-in with them led to bumps, bruises, and abrasions.

The discovery of termite infestation sent up alarms. Daddy had exterminators spray and survey the damage, which was minimal, and the problem was fixed. One place was noticeable and always bothered Mother. It wasn’t evident to most people, but she knew exactly where it was and what its shape was. One of the few objects that she held pride was marred, and it ate at her.

In later years, Mother covered the oak floors with carpet to keep the house and her cold feet a bit warmer. After she passed, Rick and June bought the house, and they had the floors resurfaced. They came back to life after lying dormant for so long and again brought light and life to that old house.

Wood flooring is the rage again, but many folks of earlier generations already knew how sturdy and beautiful they were. Of course, today’s world needs to be careful over choices that they make so that trees aren’t harvested and lead to irreparable harm to the environment. Engineered flooring can replace wood floors, and they are beautiful. Still, I’m not sure they have the same character or staying power as wood does. My wish is that anyone who installs them makes as many memories on them as we did as kids.

I Was Wrong--He Wasn't Old

2010-09-20T08:27:00.001-05:00

I sometimes wonder if most people are like me. What I mean is do they go along with their lives and at points get broadsided when the truth hits. I know it’s happened to me bunches of time, and I got whacked again just the other day.

For some reason beyond my understanding, I was thinking about my dad. Maybe it was because he died on August 31, 1965. It was an event that stunned all of us in the family in such a way that the scars never quite fade. Years of smoking cigarettes, along with working in a paper mill that mixed a concoction of poisonous chemicals in its processing cardboard, eventually caused the cancer that developed in his lungs.

Daddy was 53 when he died. His mom, who survived him, said he was always a serious person and had expressed the belief that his life would end early. To me, Daddy seemed ancient during that part of my life with him. He worked hard and figured all the time how to stretch tool little money across too much month.

Over the years, Dallas Rector, Sr. smiled to little, he laughed too infrequently, and he never relaxed. We boys were scared of our dad. We loved him, but we feared him. I don’t know why because he rarely raised a hand to us; that was left for Mother to do. Still, he was the man of the house, and perhaps his serious manner led us to believe that he wasn’t someone with whom we wanted to “get sideways.” His growl was much worse than his bite.

The epiphany that came to me recently is that my dad died a young man. He was just past 50. People of his generation have lived into their 70’s and 80’s regularly, and some have reached 90-plus. So, the man we called Daddy was just finishing half his life when he died.

I began to wonder what things went through his mind when he realized that his life was being cut so short. Did he think about what would become of this sons, one 17 and two 13? What plans had he made for this life that was so cut short. Did he have dreams for the future and what were they?

I’m 58, and while my body often feels every day that I’ve lived, my mind continues to tell me that I’m a person in my mid-twenties. I carry more pounds than the doctors say is healthy, and my strength is less than it once was. Still, I approach life every day as if no limit on it existed. I’ve completed one career as a teacher for 30 years, and now I’m on to another one as a newspaper reporter of sorts and author. My title of Dad has been supplemented with an additional one as “P” by grandson Madden. I look forward to the next big thing to come in my life.

I’m now 5 years older than my dad was, and with a little luck, I’ve still got plenty of years left. On the other hand, life is a fragile thing, and sometimes a roll of the dice comes up craps. What I know today that I didn’t for most of my life is that Daddy was a young man who met his end too soon. He lost out on dreams and children and grandchildren and Mother.

Life is a blessing. I’m trying to understand that each day needs to be lived to the fullest. That means not lying down in bed and wishing that I’d done something. Too many times, I carp about the terrible things in my life, and then I remember that lots of people never had the chance to be on this earth as long as I’ve been here. I’m not about to reach perfection, but living life with more appreciation and energy and excitement is something that I hope to do from now on. It’s the best way to remember my dad.

An Unwelcomed Holiday

2010-09-13T13:05:00.000-05:00

Well, Labor Day, which seems to be a strange name for a holiday when so many people are off, has come and gone. At any rate, folks were busy holding cookouts, sun burning themselves one last time, and attempting to set off fireworks without igniting parched yards or blowing off body parts. For lots of reasons, Labor Day isn’t my favorite special day of they year.

The first Monday in September marks the end of too many things. In fashion, women are supposed to stop wearing white shoes or sandals. I never understood that rule. If a pair of shoes is comfortable, why shouldn’t a female wear them? Is Mother Nature going to pitch a fit or injure the offending party? No, it’s more that some group sits around a table and dictates what is deemed as appropriate clothing for folks.

For some reason, Labor Day is the last day public pools are opened. The explanation used to be that the Tuesday after the holiday was the first day of the school year. I get that, but plenty of adults aren’t sitting in classes. September still has plenty of days with temperatures in the upper 80’s and even 90’s. So, wouldn’t it make sense to leave the pools open at least for another couple of weeks? Of course, that would be going against the long standing traditions.

Labor Day marks the official end of fun for kids. Life returns to the normal grind. School takes back students and swamps them with homework, projects, and evening programs. Children cope with that and the dozens of activities in which they are involved. Parents work all day and then spend the evening ferrying the kids to practices and finding time to fit in an evening meal. Just thinking about the routine makes folks tired.

I have my own reasons for not being fond of Labor Day. For one thing, summer is my favorite season. Bring on the heat like the southeast has experienced this year. I like working outside in sweltering temperatures and a broiling sun. Previous generations worked in those conditions and thrived in them. Pouring sweat has to be good for the body; it removes impurities, and hard work in hot weather probably kept parents and grandparents healthier than present-day folks.

The arrival of Labor Day always points out that falling leaves are on the way. Now, as much as I enjoy mowing the yard, I hate mowing leaves. It’s a job that begins in September and ends in January. I work grinding up the leaves in my yard and then labor in the neighbors’ yards before their bushels of reds and yellows blow across the street. For all the effort I’m rewarded with a sinus infection from the dust and leaf mold.

As much as anything, this fall holiday signals the dwindling daylight and cooler temperatures. I’m a person who suffers from sunlight deprivation, and the shorter days keep me hunting for the light that is so welcomed during the summer months. Too, I get cold and stay cold during the fall and winter months. Knowing before long I’ll be bundled up in layers of clothes is depressing. Sometimes bedtime comes early and is the only remedy to cold feet. YUK!

At times, I just worry that I won’t see another summer. Life is a fragile thing, and none of us is guaranteed a single moment. I’m not sure I lived each day to its fullest this warm weather season, and I’d hate to think there’d be no chance to make amends the following summer. Mother used to dread the onset of cold, shorter days. She wanted to see plants bloom and the sun warm the earth. I guess I’m my mother’s son.

Labor Day is a day off for millions, and they celebrate the free time. However, when they think about the changes that are coming, the holiday isn’t necessarily one toward which we should look forward.

A Different Kind of Scout

2010-09-06T06:38:00.001-05:00

Back in earlier times, boys looked for things to do. Lots of us joined Cub Scouts in dens located in the leaders’ living rooms. There, we’d read our scout books and think about ways to complete projects in order to receive arrows, badges, and new titles. We liked being together, wearing uniforms, and trying new things. At some age, the guys moved on the Webelos. I suppose it was designed for boys too old for Cub Scouts and too young for the next step. At some point, a boy could complete the requirements and become a Boy Scout. That’s the way it was supposed to be.

In our community, Jack Chambers was the Boy Scout leader. I don’t recall his being married; he spent a great deal of time with the boys in the troop. Many of us had never completed any requirements for joining, but Jack never let technicalities get in the way. The same held true for Explorers.

My older brother Dal was a real Boy Scout. He went on several adventures with Jack and other scouts. They hiked and camped. Jack brought Dal home from one trip and informed Mother that he’d received a gash on his stomach. It seems that someone didn’t hold a strand of barbed wired while he was crossing a fence, and one of the barbs stuck and ripped Dal’s flesh. The cut was deep, but not too big. For the rest of his life, that scar showed, a true merit badge of scouts.

On one occasion, Jack took Jim and me with the bigger boys to swim. When we arrived, others informed us that we had to jump from a train trestle to the water below. My fear of heights kicked in, and I balked at taking the plunge. To this day, I don’t remember whether or not I ever jumped. Doing so would have pleased Jack, and that was what all the guys tried to do.
Jim and I skipped Boy Scouts. Instead, we moved on to Explorers the same year we started high school, even though we had no idea what the group was. I did know it was an organization for older guys and that Jack Chambers was the leader. That made it all right.

Many of the same boys who’d been Cub Scouts were members of the unofficial Explorer group. We attended weekly meetings. They usually were held at Jack’s house on Friday or Saturday evenings. Oh, we worked hard on projects. They included smoking cigarettes and drinking beer or liquor. Some guys might have even learned the fine art of smoking dope, but neither Jim nor I took part in the last one.

We boys would bum rides with older guys, hitch hike, or walk to Jack’s house. It was sparsely furnished with items that appeared to have seen their better days. For entire evenings we sat in the house as we drank and smoked. Those of us who didn’t like the taste of alcohol held our breaths as we guzzled the stuff.

On more than one occasion, I attended a meeting and discovered that Jack wasn’t there. Evidently, he’d left a key some place, and the other guys knew its location. We let ourselves in and began the session. Jack’s only instructions were that we clean the place up when we left and didn’t create a disturbance. All of us stayed inside while we enjoyed our vices.

My son Dallas made it in Cub Scouts about six months before he was tired of it. He didn’t enjoy the projects and wished to spend his time with other pursuits. If he’d had a leader like Jack Chambers, Dallas might have joined Boy Scouts and Explorers. I’m thankful that didn’t happen. I also realize that the boys who hung out at Jack’s house lived charmed lives because none of us was arrested or injured. The good lord does look out for children and fools.

Homemade Ice Cream

2010-08-30T14:41:00.000-05:00

A nightly ritual of eating ice cream is something that I need to stop. Doing so doesn’t help in the battle to lose weight in which I only half-heartedly engage. Giving up a cup of Blue Bell homemade vanilla ice cream is hard, especially when the stuff tastes as close to homemade ice cream as any on the market. Besides, I’ve always had a weakness for freezer ice cream.

Years ago, many of my relatives had birthdays that fell during the month of June. For that reason, Mother used to have a get together at our house each year. On a determined date, she would invite the Rector and Balch clans to the house. Back then, three of the four grandparents were alive, as well as uncles and aunts, and we gathered for plenty of home cooked side dishes and some kind of meat. It was all washed down with a large class of sweet tea or milk.

Adults chased the shade with Adirondack chairs in tow while we kids played softball games, tag, or hide-and-seek. Mother would yell Dinner, and the crowd would circle around the table to load plates and then return outdoors to eat. For the next twenty minutes silence reigned as we stuffed green beans, new potatoes, and corn on the cob in our mouths.

Afterward, adults settled and previous chattering gave way to more subdued conversation. No doubt, several adults with filled stomachs longed for naps. We kids, gobbled the food on our plates and hurried back to interrupted games or turns riding bikes in the yard.

Before long, Daddy brought out a green wooden bucket with a crank on the top. Mother came from the kitchen with a cylindrical silver container that she placed in the middle of the bucket. Daddy, attached the crank, poured in ice and rock salt, and began turning the handle that moved freely and easy. Adults took turns cranking the handle, and the longer they did, the more difficult making a revolution became. More ice and salt were poured in the bucket. At some point, weight was applied to the top of the bucket to stop its movement. That meant one of us kids had to sit on it, and even though a towel was placed on the top, our bottoms still numbed from the cold.

Mother would pronounce the concoction ready, and when the lid was removed, we peered at a container filled with dessert. Everyone received a dish of the stuff, and with a little luck, seconds were available. Ooh’s and aah’s greeted every bite of the stuff. The end of a perfect day was punctuated with home-made ice cream.

I didn’t have much of that ice cream for several years, but then Amy and I fell in love and got married. Summer trips to Cookeville to visit her Mother and Poppa were fun. He enjoyed cooking hamburgers on the grill, and we’d eat meals outside on the covered patio. Sometimes Amy’s Uncle Walter and Aunt Mildred would join us. The women prepared the rest of the food in the kitchen as one male manned the grill the other two kept him company.

With meals finished, Poppa and I smoked cigarettes to cap off our food. When he’d waited as long as possible, Ike would go inside and bring out a white bucket with an attached electrical cord. He’d plug it up and place it in a wash tub; for the next half hour we listened to the motor whine louder as the mixture thickened. The best part was when things stopped.

Poppa would unplug the machine and remove the container of ice cream. My love for home-made vanilla ice cream was matched by his. We’d fill our bowls to the top and spoon it in our mouths so fast that our hands could barely be seen. Suddenly, Ike would set his bowl down on the ground, bend at the waist, and grab his head. Brain freeze! For the next couple of minutes, he’d sat incapacitated. Then he’d shake his head, look up with a sheepish grin, and begin spooning the ice cream in again.

I never eat Blue Bell ice cream that I don’t recall those good times with loved ones who have been gone too long. My son Dallas is addicted to home-made ice cream as well, so maybe soon we can enjoy a bowl together and hope to avoid that freezing pain that shoots through our heads when we eat it too fast.

Sad First Days of School

2010-08-16T11:14:00.001-05:00

With day cares and children activities so prevalent now, kids don’t find anything special about the first day of school. For those of us who are just a bit older, that date was something that brought plenty of excitement. We’d get to see our friends after a long summer. The excitement of discovering who our teachers for the year would be was another big part of that first day. However, on a couple of occasions, that opening session was filled with pain and fear.

The beginning of first grade wasn’t particularly exciting for me. For the first time in my young life, Jim and I were separated for more than just a few minutes. He was in Mrs. McNew’s class, and I’d landed in Mrs. Longmire’s room. The place was filled with boys and girls, but I didn’t know any of them. My desk was in the back, and there I tried to shrink from sight. It was an impossible task; no one could miss the burr haircut on a head that looked to big for the shoulder upon which it sat. During that first day of formal education the reality about my “buck teeth” also sunk in.

My nerves were shot by milk break. Names of some kids in the class were called. They left for a while and returned back red, swollen eyes and tear-streaked faces. From the sobbing and murmurings of other students, I heard a word that sent panic and fear through me—SHOTS. Some children had failed to get the required inoculations for beginning school, so they were sent to a room where compliance could be completed. My worry was that my name would be called and I’d be marched to the line where a giant needle would be stuck in my arm. At the end of the day, I sprinted from the room to find Mother, who was teaching an upper grade, and she assured me that I had all my shots.

Ball Camp Elementary School housed students in grades 1-8. By the time my class had reached the final year, we’d experienced the burning of part of the school. Our sixth grade year was spent in a converted hardware store, and during the following year we lined up during breaks outside a large outhouse with one side for boys and another for girls. That last year, the school was reconstructed, and we were the first class to reign over it.

That first day of school that eighth grade year was more than a relief. Daddy had been diagnosed with lung cancer during the spring, and the summer saw him travel between the hospital and home. Our home was a sad one that was unusually quiet. Jim and I refused to believe that our dad would die and tried to do things to ease the burden that Mother already felt.

I was placed in Mrs. Slusher’s class and Jim in Mrs. Taylor’s. My excitement about the school year was tempered with a healthy dose of fear of the meanest teacher in Ball Camp. Still, it was the first day, and eighth graders changed classes, so we had to survive her for only a short period of time. On that first day, Mrs. Slusher instructed us to take out the grammar books she’d assigned and begin work.

Only about ten minutes into that morning class, Mr. Fowler, my sixth grade teacher, appeared at the door and asked to speak to Mrs. Slusher. She stepped into the hall and then came back in. She called my name and asked me to step outside. A bit scared and confused, I did as instructed. When I exited, I looked down the hall and saw Mother. She was crying, and I knew—Daddy died. I walked back into the room to get my things and felt the stares from the curious faces of my classmates.

Most of my first days have been wonderful times that I recall fondly. Those two occasions were exceptions—big ones—but exceptions all the same. It’s a shame that school isn’t an exciting place to kids these days. Those of us with a few years remember those first days as ones complete with new clothes, shoes, and school supplies. I almost wish I could go back myself. There’s still plenty to learn.

Garden Hose League

2010-08-09T09:13:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I wonder just how smart we parents are. With the best of intentions we do things for our children, all under the belief that they are receiving the best possible things from us.

Center stage in this is our determination to involve them in organized recreational activities. Kids are members of leagues—football, baseball, basketball, soccer, gymnastics, and a hundred others. Every mom and dad is going to make sure that Little Johnny and Sweet Susie are involved with teams that will allow them to flourish.

Some of us have determined that our kids will excel in a sport, so they need to be on open league teams. They’re the ones that travel all over hell’s half acre in search of weekend tournaments. Parents spend fortunes on motel rooms, bats, bags, gloves, and an assortment of equipment so their children have every advantage. Sports that aren’t in season offer camps, so no one escapes the cash drain or a vacationless summer.

I was as guilty as any parent about pushing my kids into organized sports. I spent too much time and effort coaching teams on which they played, even though my athletic gifts are few, if any. It’s because of my mistakes that I urge parents to unite in an effort to create a new youth sporting experiment---the garden hose leagues.

Actually, this isn’t something new. It was the primary means of games for kids a generation ago. When I was a child, our yard was the setting for football games. On any particular afternoon during the week, a gang of elementary school aged boys could be found in the “lower lot.” In the fall, we played football. Most of the time, the games were tackle. Touch football was for sissies.

Several times a game, play was halted as boys clutched legs, arms, and heads that had been bumped, banged, or bruised. Tears were sometimes shed until the sting of an injuries passed, and then the stricken were back in the game and giving as good as they got.

Usually, a fight broke out between two boys. They’d exchange insults and pushes until one threw a punch. Windmill fists filled the air until the fight went to the ground. After some grappling, the two separated and hurled more barbs, and on occasion, a boy might utter a profanity. We all knew that the next school day the two combatants would be friends again.

Summer time brought the same group of boys to the yard. This time, we played softball as small kids and baseball when we’d reached ten or eleven. We’d set out the bases for the game—slabs of marble that lined flowerbeds or made walks. Teams were chosen after captains’ hands climbed the neck of a bat to see who went first. For the game we’d have one, maybe two, balls, a couple of wooden bats, and no catcher equipment. Boys shared gloves with those who didn’t own one.

Baseball games weren’t usually interrupted with fights. Sure, teams exchanged insults or argued whether or not a batter was out at second base. However, we sometimes halted a game to look for a ball that had been hit into the woods. With luck, we’d find it and renew the contest. If not, the game would be called. When Amy and I built our house, I found some of those old baseballs as I cleaned undergrowth from the area.

Regardless of the type of game, one thing was a constant. We boys would play hard and end up covered with dirt, grass, sweat. Breaks were held, and all of us lined up to get a drink. I’d turn on the water, and each guy would slurp water from the end of the garden hose. No Gatorade or sports drink was available. Neither were energy bars or other goofy snacks that parents brought. Oh, another thing for sure is that not one of us got a trophy because we participated.

The games we played were every bit as competitive as those of today’s league.
Parents need to form Garden Hose Leagues in communities everywhere. It’s time that kids got back to playing for the fun of it. Neighborhood groups of boys and girls can play football or baseball or soccer or basketball at someone’s house. They’ll get plenty of exercise, make plenty of friends, and enjoy being young and pressure-free, and all it will cost parents is the price of a garden hose and some water.

I've Still Got It!

2010-08-02T09:56:00.001-05:00

I’ve still got it. Yep, I’m knocking on the door of 60; in fact, I’m close enough to kick it in. That’s all right because I’ve still got it.

What I’m talking about still having is the ability to work like a dog throughout the day. I did it again the other day. When I got out of bed, nothing pressing was on my agenda. It looked as if the day would be one to spend in the air conditioning and pecking on the keyboard or reading a book on my Kindle. By 9:00 a.m. things had changed.

I decided to work part of the morning in my tool shed. Things had been thrown in there to the point that the 10 X 12 space was so crowded that only a narrow pathway was left. I moved my Pathfinder from under the attached car shed and began lugging everything out and placing the stuff on the asphalt.

Only about thirty minutes into the job, I spied my neighbor mowing her yard. She’s in her 80” and has no business, in my opinion, to be fighting a lawn mower. The shed clean up was put on hold. I walked over to her house and told her to hop off the mower. For the next couple of hours, I mowed. It’d been a while since the yard was mowed because the heat had burned up most lawns. However, her yard, like mine, has Bermuda grass, and the hotter the temperatures, the more that kind of grass grows.

After finishing the yard, I returned to the tool shed and continued emptying the place. Brother Jim had called me a couple of times, and I’d returned them until finally we made contact. He needed some help tearing down a structure attached to the side of his house. I drove to his house, and we began taking off siding and separating 2 X 4’s. We removed every nail from the boards and sheets of siding. The pieces that Jim planned to trash we ripped into several sections with a circular saw. With the job finished, I made the trip home.

For the next couple of hours I got stuff out of the building, separate things, placed them into containers, and culled bunches of junk. I moved several items into the basement where they’d be handier. Then I cleaned the floors by using a blower to get rid of the cricket poop that was covering the concrete.

By the time I’d finished, my clothes were wet from the sweat that poured in 90-plus degree temperatures. I took a quick shower and put on clean clothes. Dallas, his girlfriend Diana, and her mom were coming for supper, so I took out the vacuum and quickly cleaned the floors and dusted the furniture. At about 4:00, everything was finished. I retreated to my office to do just a little work, which included this piece.

Yep, I’ve still got it. I can go all day. Tell you what else I’ll have. There’s a sore back that will keep me up half the night. I can’t forget hips that ache or feet that throb. Oh yeah, I don’t won’t to leave out a stiff neck. I’ll be sore in no less than a dozen places for the rest of the day. Some Aleve for my aching back and neck will help. Sometime during the night my calf muscles will cramp, and I’ll jump from the bed and try desperately to unknot them. My hope for tomorrow is that the rain will fall so I won’t be able to tackle any more jobs. I might still have it, but it’s in a much smaller supply and more difficult to muster than as in years before. Perhaps I should learn to use my “I still have it” in moderation so that the well doesn’t permanently run dry.

Summer Night's Song

2010-07-26T16:30:00.000-05:00

The temperature is in the upper 80’s even though it’s after 8:00 p.m. My laptop immediately began to “sweat” when I removed it from the house and to the porch, so much so that I had to get a paper towel to wipe it down. The humidity must be near 100%, but it doesn’t deter Amy or me from spending at least part of every evening on our porch.

One thing we like about sitting out here is the sound of insects. It’s July, and that means the lightning bugs have disappeared and been replaced by the cicadas. Their song is hypnotic. The tone is what I think an alien craft might sound like. I’ve not seen these little creatures, but they make enough racket to let all of God’s children know they’re alive and well. Most of them start on their own, but in no time they’ve fallen into a pulsating rhythm.

As kids, we’d hear the cicadas as we lay at the foot of our beds and turned our ears toward the open window. Our hopes were that the constant song would mesmerize us until we forgot about how breeze-starved the house was and finally nodded off to sleep. The woods at the back of the house were thick with a choir of insects, and the trees in the front yard held another group of performers.

One week each August our family and the Burns family made a week-long journey to King Cottages. We’d swim in the icy cold river all day long and sometimes at night. That cabin had a huge screened porch on the back, and we’d gather out there in the evenings to talk, play Rook, or read (only during desperate times). As the effects of too much sun and swimming kicked in, we kids would settle. It was then that we listened to the cicadas. Accompanied by the sound to of the rushing mountain waters that flowed not more than one hundred feet away, they sang to the Smoky Mountains and thrilled audiences.

Mother loved the cicadas as well. At home, she sat in a bench swing under a big maple tree in the back yard. She’d throw her legs lengthwise along the swing, put her right arm on the back, and slowly move backward and forward in her favorite ride. Mother didn’t say much during those times; I figure she was praying or talking to Daddy, who’d left her too early to take care of three boys. Sometimes she would lean her head on the arm and fall asleep until the wee hours of the night. When she woke, the cicadas would still be singing.

Nature’s musicians would be singing on the last night of summer before school. Falling asleep was hard, whether it was the night before elementary or high school, college, or, yes, even teaching. Excitement of a new year mixed with sadness over the loss of summer and the freedom it had given. Those songs continued through the first weeks of football season as well.

Now Amy and I sit on our porch and listen each night. The cicadas are still singing in the trees at the edge of my childhood yard. Now, those oaks, sweet gums, maples, and pines make up our side yard and the scenery on which we look. A little sweat or stickiness is a small price to pay to be able to hear the song of a summer night.

Amy and I travel to bed reluctantly. We’d love to open our bedroom window ever so slightly in order to hear the cicadas as we fall asleep. However, allergies, a dog who parks at the sound of a gnat fart, and our dependence on air conditioning prevent us from throwing open the sash. Never to worry, the cicadas seem to sense our quandary and decide to sing just a little louder.

I hope that I make it to heaven when my time ends. I also hope that the place is filled with lightning bugs, croaking frogs, and most of all, singing cicadas.

Feels Like Temperatures

2010-07-20T06:01:00.000-05:00

Several years ago, Lewis Grizzard used to make fun of television folks that covered the weather. He’d discuss color weather radar and how blips were nothing more than “ground clutter.” Grizzard suggested that a weather dog be used instead. The dog was sent outside; if it came in wet, rain was falling. If the dog didn’t come back, Grizzard said it was windy. These days, I’ve got another gripe for meteorologists. It’s about “feels like weather.”

Amy and I spent a few days at Myrtle Beach, SC not long ago. Rain fell on the afternoon that we arrived, but then clear skies arrived for the rest of the time. In fact, the sun broke through with vengeance. When we got up in the mornings, temperatures already were hovering around 80. At the hottest parts, those numbers had gone up to the mid-90’s or higher. However, that was no problem with an umbrella, beach chairs, the Atlantic Ocean, a pool, and room air conditioning.

What confused me was what the television guys referred to as the heat index. According to them, the temperature might have been 95, but the “feel like” temperature was 110. Huh? I don’t get it. If the thermometer reads, 95, then it feels like that. Okay, maybe the humidity is high so that the air needs to be cut with a knife. Perhaps the humidity is low and 95 degrees isn’t so sweltering. In either case, 95 is 95, not 110.

In a time before all homes had air conditioning, we weren’t ever cautioned about the heat index. No one ever said, “Be careful because it feels like 120 degrees although the real temperature is only a toasty 98.” Our parents told us to find some shade and take it easy. At night we lay under a window and prayed for a breeze to cool us. One large box fan was used to cool the entire house. If we ever fell asleep, the perspiration on the sheets cooled us a bit.

It’s the same thing in winter. The temperature is never simply the number on the thermometer. The wind chill has to be calculated in order to give a correct reading. That always drops things at least a couple degrees. Supposedly, the wind makes the temperatures lower because it feels different on our skins. I hate to sound like a broken record, but 20 degrees is 20 degrees. Wind just makes the conditions more miserable.

In the “old days,” we never heard about wind chill temperatures. Oh, it was plenty cold, but on blustery days, a “brass monkey” alert was issued between friends, and everyone knew what that meant. We put on plenty of layers of clothing before going out to play in the snow, we drank hot chocolate, and the entire family huddled around the warm morning stove that burned hunks of coal. One of the greatest days in our family’s life came when Jim and I were seven or eight. Daddy had a basement dug so that a coal-burning furnace could be installed. Our house was warm, even though we arose each morning, grabbed a Kleenex, and blew the pitch dust from our noses. Sure, occasionally smoke escaped through the floor registers and left a haze in the house. The house was dry, so much in fact, that headaches sometimes arose with the morning sun.

Modern technology gives us new toys to redefine most every condition. Heat indexes and wind chills are a couple of examples. I ignore that stuff for the most part. It’s cold outside or it’s hot. I have the thermometer that once hung in our kitchen. It hangs over the desk in my office. I read the numbers to find out how cool or hot it is. The rest of the analyses of condition are for younger folks. The truth is that I still go outside and work or run errands without much concern about the “feels like” temperatures.

BED

2010-07-12T06:18:00.001-05:00

BED—it’s simply one of the most popular places for creatures. Wild animals construct them in their lairs and nests. My dog Snoop took over a laundry basket in which Amy had placed an old comforter that had been washed. Some unfortunate husbands who’ve managed to get themselves sideways with spouses discover that couches must serve as places where they can lay down their weary and guilty heads.

Two beds were in the room that Jim and I shared. As toddlers, Jim manipulated the side of his until it slid down and then came to my rescue. Later, we had twin beds that were hand-me-downs from parents and their families and friends. Jim and I spent plenty of memorable times lying on those beds. We sweated through the steamy summer nights as we hoped to catch the whisper of a breeze through the window. Restless nights were spent in anticipation of Christmas mornings. We lay in our beds as the measles and mumps and the temperatures that accompanied them tormented our rotund bodies. Mattresses caught the tears that came the first night we tried to sleep after Daddy died.

I had a room to myself the second semester of my freshman year of college. Jim returned home to marry Brenda. My first act was to scoot the two twin bed frames and wire them together. One guy was sent as a possible roommate but decided against it when he saw that one large bed. The mattresses were thin and lumpy, and sometimes they slid away from each other. Still, it was good to have as much room as I wanted during the night.

Four years later, Amy and I were married, and again, I shared a bedroom. The full-sized mattress didn’t offer much room for us, but we learned to sleep together. Somehow we managed to find a rhythm so that when I turned over, Amy did so as well; when Amy crossed the middle of the bed with feet or bottom or pillow, I’d slide her back across the imaginary divide.

At some point, our bed frame was the same that Mother and Daddy had begun housekeeping in the 1940’s. Mother passed on to us the entire bedroom suite. I remember as a little boy waking up some nights after a bad dream. I’d leave Jim asleep and pad my way to my parents’ room. Then I’d ask to sleep with them. Daddy would help me get in the bed, and I’d lie down between them and feel safe. My own kids spent nights in that same bed. Some mornings we’d all lie in that bed and snuggle before beginning the day.

A few years ago, Amy and I moved up to a queen-sized bed. I’d wanted a king-sized one, but the bedroom wasn’t large enough to accommodate it and the rest of our furniture. Because my back was bad, I thought that we needed an extra firm mattress. For years Amy and I struggle with sleep and woke up with bodies that were sore in every joint. I slept with a pillow between my knees since my sophomore year in high school. It was then that I broke my ankle and wore the first of what would be six casts over the years. The pillow took the pressure off of my bony knees.

At some point, Amy put her foot down (instead of in my behind) and demanded that we get a new mattress. She found the perfect one. It has a pillow top that makes the bed even more comfortable. We now sleep more deeply. Best of all is the feel of that bed after a long, hard day. Sinking into it is almost as good as soaking in a Jacuzzi. Each side is molded to fit the curves and crevices of our bodies, and after we find the right spot, both of us quickly fade into unconsciousness

I’ve told Amy that we won’t ever sleep in separate beds. I’m too used to her lying on the right side of the bed. When we are separated for any reason, the nights are long and sleep is fitful. I’m a light sleeper, and she’s a deep one. I hit the floor at least a couple of times to let the dog out and to make those trips to the bathroom. To return to the bed and have Amy lying there beside me is comforting.

Sometimes we sleep so hard that we have to get up to get some rest. We go about our days, Amy going to her office and me pecking at the keyboard. At the end of each cycle, it’s nice to know that we can snuggle again and drift off to pleasant dreams in a comfortable bed.

Vacation Groups

2010-06-28T15:47:00.000-05:00

A week at the beach is a good way to forget everything in life. Amy and I discovered umbrella and chair rentals a couple of years ago, and they’ve allowed us to spend hours reading, listening to iPods, taking short dips into the ocean, and, best of all, watching people.

Everyone knows that the beaches across America are loaded with young people. I’m talking about those who are in their teens or early twenties. Girls are have clad in things they call bathing suits. I spied one girl who had only a small piece of material in the back of her suit; her bare cheeks were pale and exposed. I told Amy I’d have killed her if she’d worn something like that.

I laughed to myself at the courting games that went on with the younger people. A bunch of boys would strut up to a gaggle of girls and eventually one female spoke for the group. They’d all turn to walk down the beach. I wondered how they would pair up later. More than likely girls and boys alike would spy new individuals to conquer the next day.

Another large group of beach visitors consist of people in my generation. Folks appear on the beach, and the main characteristics are protruding bellies and perkiless breasts. Unfortunately, some in this group fail to realize these facts. Too many grandmas wear bikinis. Some papaws wear Speedos. Either of these is a definite fashion faux pas, as well as being hard on the eyes of others.

Younger dads are easily identified. They are loaded down with a ton of items that the family needs for a day at the beach. Chairs, toys, umbrellas, and coolers are tucked under arms and dangling from fingers. These men take the little ones into the water to play and pick them up when waves slam into little bodies. Dads scoop their children up, slap them on backs to clear lungs, and then tell the little guys that they are fine. Dads are also the ones who leave the beach with skin that’s burned to a crisp. They have foregone sunscreen either because they’re too tough or believe previous exposure to the sun will keep them from burning. By the way, the worst place on the body for that sun to fry is the tops of feet. It ruins the rest of the vacation because the men can’t go in the sun and they can’t stand any footwear to touch their blistered skin.

The grandest group on the beach is the one consisting of moms with small children. They all wear the look of weariness throughout the so-called vacation week. These heroines get to pack for the trip for every individual in the family, including the dad. At the rented condo, they cook meals, tidy up the place, and wash clothes. I sat beside one mom who soothed her little one with Spanish lullabies; her time in the sun or water was limited. The only rest moms get is the few minutes when dads have the kids in the water and the time between bedtime for children and their slipping into unconsciousness. Too often, moms’ work continues at the beach as they take care of little children and big ones in the form of dads.

By the time vacation is over, moms are barely hanging on until they can get back home. When the kids go back to school and dads go back to work, perhaps these wonderful females can sneak a few minutes of rest to recover from vacation.

Amy and I enjoyed our time on the beach. I wished Lacey and Dallas were little again so that the four of us could have another week at the ocean. I’m not sure if my wife had the same wish. Amy might miss her “babies,” but I’m sure this vacation was much more restful with adult children.

Hotdogs

2010-06-21T11:28:00.002-05:00

A friend sent me a line to suggest that I write something about hotdogs. She had no idea that I am an aficionado when it comes to that particular food.

When Jim and I were too young to attend school, we stayed home with Mother. She worked as a seamstress for several women, and one of the hardest parts of the job was dealing with two hungry children. On more than one occasion, I recall her answering our cries for food by reaching into the refrigerator and pulling out a hotdog from the package. She’d half the weenie and hand the pieces to us. Jim and I jammed them into our mouths and walked away satisfied for at least a little while. The thoughts of eating a cold hotdog makes my skin crawl, but then I remember that Jim and I also would eat a half a stick of margarine—no guilt, no shame, no conscience.

During our high school years, Earl’s Market was just up the road from the school. Earl supplied the teenaged boys with smokes when they couldn’t afford a whole pack. Three for a dime would get us through. What the proprietor offered that was more popular than anything were hotdogs. They were skinny little things. Earl slapped them on a short bun on top of a bed of mustard. He smothered them with chili and onions. People bought them by the hundreds every day.

When a part of Karns High School was destroyed by fire, students and faculty no longer had a cafeteria. They had to bring lunches from home. Countless stories were told about kids and teachers sneaking off campus to buy a bag filled with Earl’s dogs. Those items became as much a part of high school memories as did ball games, proms, and graduations.

Meals were sometime lean during college, at least after Dal and Brenda moved to Nashville, and I was left to fend for myself. I ate plenty of bologna and cheese sandwiches and washed them down with tea. However, sometimes I bought a special treat from the sandwich machine. A thick piece of light bread that passed as a bun wrapped a hotdog that was covered with relish. I’d tear the cellophane in which the food was packaged. I could have warmed it up, but the concoction tasted better cold. It was a treat to which I looked forward.

For a few years I coached football at Doyle High School. I was a freshman coach and a spotter for the varsity on Friday nights. Fortunately, the teams the school fielded had plenty of success. When we won a game, Jim Pryor, Mike Wheatley, and I would make our ways down Chapman Highway to Smoky Mountain Market. There we were given free hotdogs as rewards for winning. On those occasions when we fell in defeat, I’d still make the trip for a hotdog to soothe the pain of losing. My nephew wrote and sang the jingle for Smoky Mountain back then. I still hear Steve singing “Smoky Mountain…Market” and can recall how good those little hotdogs tasted.

Ask doctors about those dogs, and they’ll tell you that they’re “heart attacks in a sack.” No doubt, good hotdogs have little nutritional value. However, sometimes we need something that tastes good, whether it might clog an artery or skyrocket HDL, LDL, and EIEIO levels. When I’m eating a hotdog like those I’ve mentioned, my concern is focused on not dropping chili down the front of my shirt, not whether what effects are on my health.

These days, I eat hotdogs at EZ Stop on Oak Ridge Highway. They are good impersonations of those hotdogs from Earl’s and Smoky Mountain Market. I leave off the onions, first because the odor lingers for days on my breath and second because acid reflux is so bad that even Nexium can’t blount an onion’s effects. I hope that when I pass from this world that I go to heaven. I also hope that God allows us to enjoy the foods that we so much enjoy in this life. If so, I’ll have plenty of chili dogs there, and they’ll be smothered with chili and onions too.

Staying Put

2010-06-15T14:29:00.001-05:00

I enjoy watching “House Hunters” on HGTV. It’s interesting to see what kinds of housing are available for folks. Most of all, it’s amazing how much or little people can get for their money these days. What I don’t understand is the compunction to move from one place to the next.

Amy and I set down roots here in Ball Camp in 1978. I grew up in this community, and we rented a place after we got married in 1974. She asked if we could move back to the community after a couple of years in South Knoxville. Mother gave us enough land to build a house with the promise that we didn’t wear a path from our house to hers. She made one herself after Lacey was born.

The first project for building this place we call home was to clear the land. It was overgrown with scrub brushes, honeysuckle, and poison ivy. I crawled from the edge of the road and cleaned a place where the house would stand. On one occasion Jim came to help me. In no time, he’d gotten into a yellow jacket nest, and they covered the inside of his jean legs. He stripped his pants off, but not before several of the critters had stung him.

The completed house had two bedrooms and two bathrooms. In all, the place was 1250 square feet. It was plenty of room for Amy and me. We spent time on the small screened porch and deck when the weather allowed, and the rest of the time we watched television in the great room and ate in the kitchen. The little abode had enough room when Lacey arrived in 1981. Our house had officially turned into a home.

When Amy was pregnant with Dallas, we made plans to add onto our house. We converted our bedroom into one for the coming baby and added a huge bedroom and bathroom with an unfinished basement under it. A 600 square foot bedroom was more like a suite. Amy watched the new addition go up as her stomach grew. In February 1985 she gave birth to our son. On the same day, I came home from the hospital to supervise the pouring of a concrete floor in the basement.

Our home was wonderful, and we again added to it when the kids got older. We remodeled the kitchen, divided our bedroom so that Dallas would have a larger room, and added a family room. Amy wanted Lacey and Dallas to have a place where they could bring friends. That 400 square foot room became the place were the family has spent the majority of together time over the years. The screened porch was enclosed and became Amy’s office.

Our last addition was the porch. It covers a total of 900 square feet. The part on the end of the house is screened. Only the family room rivals the porch in popularity. Looking out from the screened section into the woods is similar to the scenery at a mountain cabin. During warm weather, it’s nice to open the door in the morning and listen to the birds, the passing cars, and the neighborhood roosters.

We’ve stayed put for 32 years. No, our house isn’t the sleekest around. It has flaws outside and inside. Still, memories linger in every corner of this place we call home. Our children still like to come home. I understand that. The house three hundred feet away is the only one in which I lived as a child. I only need to close my eyes and recall thousands of things that happened over the years. I plan to spend the rest of my days here. It’s comfortable, it’s familiar, and most of all, it’s home.

Old Friends

2010-06-07T18:01:00.001-05:00

It was a good week. I celebrated another birthday, 58 in all, and the fact that I’m that old still amazes me. How can my body be that old when my wife tells me I have the mind of a child? Oh well, that’s another story. Along with receiving so many best wishes from folks, I had the chance to spend a little time with the two best friends that I’ve ever had. Neither is a family member, but each is as special as one.

Brother Jim is preparing for the construction of a new out building at his home. First, however, he needed to rid himself of the old one that sat in the way. He had considered tearing it apart, but the hoarder in me cried “foul,” so I told Jim I’d take the building. His demand was that the mover of the thing wouldn’t destroy his yard in the process. I had no concerns about that. A call to Billy Hayes put all worries to rest. He brought a wrecker to Jim’s weaved it through obstacles, pulled it onto the bed of the rollback, and left. Perhaps one branch was snapped from a shrub, but no ruts were left.

Billy and I used to spend huge amounts of time together in the summers. We coached baseball teams for what seemed to be eons. Over those years, we re-lived games and plays that our teams, in general, and our sons, specifically, made. At the same time, we shared frustrations we had about baseball, work, and family. Tow men can’t sit under a carport for hours at a time as they discuss some of the most important things in life without coming out on the other side as friends.

Billy has done so many favors for me over the years. I wish I could say I’ve done the same, but anyone who knows me is aware of my lack of skill in most things. Oh, I’ve helped here and there when his children needed tutoring for school. I’ve ferried William to some games when Billy was working too late to get him at home and arrive at the ball park on time. Regardless of whose done what for the other, we have remained good friends. Now our time together is short and sporadic. However, we pick up right where we left off at the last visit. Our friendship is still tightly knitted.

On the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend. Doug Meister and his wife Diane stopped over on their ways back to Louisville, KY after a week at the beach in North Carolina. We sat around the screened porch, ate some barbeque, and toured the changes that had taken place in Knoxville over the years since Doug left nearly twenty years ago.

Doug and I became friends at church. He was the associate pastor. We played softball together for years. A hard as it is for some to believe, we had a good team that won its fair share of games. Doug and I developed a friendship because of our common interests. Too, we both liked to engage in deep discussions about serious topics. We could drink a beer and debate religious, political, social, or sport topics. Our friendship began with sport, but it thrived in more laid back way. Where Billy and I exercised muscles as we coached, Doug and I performed mental gymnastics.

Both friends have been important in the lives of my children, especially Dallas. Doug baptized Dallas; Billy coached him in baseball. Doug developed programs that helped to develop Lacey’s faith; Billy fixed mangled parts of her wrecked cars. My two children are better people for having known my friends.

Yep, the past week has been a good one. I had the chance to spend time with the two best friends I have outside my immediate family members. We didn’t renew friendships; they were always there. Instead, we stirred the embers to allow the flames to burn brightly once again. Seeing Billy and Doug was good, two blessings for the week.

Thanks!

2010-05-31T06:51:00.004-05:00

This is just a side note. To all of those of you who sent birthday wishes, I want to say thank you. Most of them came via Facebook. Now, I'm not overly involved in that social network. I've never begun a farm and I don't play other games. Only a limited number of causes stir me into joining. However, I'm astounded at the connections I've established with so many people whom I've not seen in a long time. Many are former students. Others are old friends and family members.

The birthday wishes might not be important to the ones who sent them. To me, they are precious. I am grateful that you took time from your busy days to send a quick line. Doing so reinforces my belief that people are still loving, caring, and thoughtful, even though their lives are more hectic than generations in the past.

Thanks for making me feel special. I am blessed to have had the opportunity to meet so many individuals over the course of my life. I am lucky to have so many wonderful family members. I hope that I can in some way make each of you feel equally loved and valuable.

The Truth about Honey-Do's

2010-05-31T06:30:00.002-05:00

A friend asked if I knew the origin of Honey Do’s. He indicated that his spouse has a long list of them for him that continues to grow. We men know all about those kinds of requests.

A quick search of the web gave a definition that seemed appropriate. Honey do’s are chores assigned by one’s mate (usually wife). This list normally includes household chores or errands that typically are assigned at the most inopportune moments.

For some reason, our stronger, smarter, and all-around superior female counterparts catalog the work they want us to do just when we are most interested in other activities such as football games, vacations, and especially weekends. Women have developed a sixth sense that kicks in whenever a man has plans for something he enjoys. Without a doubt, as soon as a man slips off his shoes and assumes a parallel position to the couch cushions, a voice cuts through the air and pierces a his eardrum. With it is a request, actually a thinly veiled demand, for the male to complete a task.

Oh, a man can attempt to ignore the demands of his mate. He can act as if he didn’t hear the beckoning of his bride. He might lie still in hopes that she will discover him asleep and then quietly exit the room to allow him to rest. Some men might sneak out the closest exit and plead ignorance to the fact that she was sending out the latest orders. Those men who’ve lost their minds completely might tell their wives to cool it and that they will complete tasks when they’re good and ready.

Failure to comply with or complete assigned chores leads to a variety of punishments. An angry woman is something most men avoid. “When Momma’s not happy, nobody’s happy.” The silent treatment comes and is accompanied by a coldness that covers the entire home with ice. Along with her not talking comes the treating a man as if he doesn’t exist. He becomes no more than a piece of furniture that receives an occasional dusting.

Perhaps not completing honey do’s hurts a woman’s feelings. Not much is harder to repair than wounded emotions. It leads to apologizing, whether or not a man thinks he’s been in the wrong. Sometimes it can take days or even weeks before the queen of the home recovers from such perceived wrong done to her. By that time, the king of the castle is exhausted from efforts to regain the favor of his lady.

We all know that a man dreads most of all the withholding of affections by his woman. The truth be told, it’s because of those charms that men acquiesce to the demands of females. We are not much more evolved from earlier male creatures when it comes to that. For her attention and love, a man will jump through hoops. It’s that plain and simple and basic.

So men don’t fight or resist. Instead, we grumble under our breaths or wait until a safe distance from the house to curse and throw fits. All the while, we complete the honey-do list, one task after another. Men are the physically stronger sex. Women are the intellectually superior sex. They make the lists, and we use the muscle to accomplish the work. Things won’t change any time soon, so men need to accept their roles and inability to change the situation. Me, I’ve got to cut this off right now because the wife just yelled through the house for me to take some scraps and throw them over the fence. After that, I have to change some light bulbs, clean a mirror, sweep the porch, go to the store for a couple of things…

What? Me Read?

2010-05-24T11:47:00.001-05:00

Some people might be shocked to know that I wasn’t the best of students in high school. Others who knew me back in those days have been shocked to discover that I taught high school English for thirty years. Sometimes I’m amazed that I taught, especially when I consider the reading I did in my younger years.

I’ve always been a slow reader. I contribute part of that fact to a borderline OCD condition. I always found it impossible to skip even a single “a,” “an,” or “the.” Doing so seemed to be cheating. Even when I tried to skip words, I eventually go back to where I’d started to re-read the passage.

I recall SRA reading classes in eighth grade. Part of the training in it was to learning how to skim. I took another course for speeding up my reading in college, but it didn’t work either. I never got the hang of skimming. Probably my ADHD characteristics kicked in. Before I knew it had happened, my mind would be wondering, and I’d failed to comprehend even a single idea that the words before me had presented.

As a younger person, I found reading to be boring. Rarely did I find materials that I enjoyed. Reading also meant that I had to sit still, something that drove me nuts. What was more appealing to me was being outside playing. Being active beat the heck out of allowing my mind to take me to imaginary places and situations.
In elementary school, I remember reading only a couple of books. One was polished off during a rainy vacation week in the mountains. The title escapes me, but the storyline dealt with people riding on a bus to somewhere. The second book I remember was Big Red. Yep, it was the book about an Irish Setter. Disney later came out with a movie based on the book. I loved that book because dogs were, and still are, my favorite animals. I wrote a glowing report on that book and handed it in with pride.

In high school, I managed to tackle a few more books and plays. I read Romeo and Juliet and Julius Ceasar. In junior English, I read more than I’d ever done before. Mrs. Anderson was a good looking teacher whom I wanted to impress, so I pushed through the books. Rebecca was all right, but reading it cemented my dislike for historical romances. The Scarlet Letter made no sense at the time, and the wording was an absolute nightmare for a country boy from East Tennessee. One of my favorite books of all time was A Separate Peace. It spoke to me and other teen boys who weren’t athletic or popular. Lord of the Flies also caught my fancy; I identified with the character Piggy because of my weight but probably was more like Ralph. Other books I muddle through included classics like The Great Gatsby and Catcher in the Rye. While I got the story line, I never understood the main characters and their whining about life.

I college, I never read anything that wasn’t assigned. Part of the reason was that I had no time. The other was I was more interested in trying to find female companionship. Until my last year when I met Amy, I’d been as well off plopping my fanny in a chair and reading War and Peace and other so-called great books; I sure didn’t spend any time with females those first three years.

I graduated from college and became a high school English teacher. Before long, I was teaching composition classes. That entailed reading as many as ninety student essays each week. That was in addition to the materials from textbooks. For years, I read NOTHING for pleasure. I chose, instead, to rest my weary eyes from all the strain of trying to read the chicken scratching and grammatical mistake-laced sentences of my charges.

These days, things have changed. I’ve enjoyed reading. I pick up a book, and if it grabs my interest in the first few pages, I tackle it and don’t put it down until I’ve completed it. Most times I can’t give the title or author of a book I’ve read. I don’t care what either is. If I like the book, I read it; if not, I chuck it. I read for entertainment, not necessarily for knowledge.

Now I have a Kindle, and it makes reading even better. It’s especially nice not to fight holding back pages. Most of all, I appreciate being able to increase the font size to accommodate my tired eyes. My consumption of reading material has swelled with the device. Maybe I read so much more now because I can sit still for longer periods of time. I don’t have a great desire to run the roads as I did as a teen. With age come changes in interests, that and a reduction in energy. Reading is less strenuous.

Honeysuckle Memories

2010-05-17T14:57:00.002-05:00

I noticed it on Sunday afternoon. Then it was just a faint scent that was so slight it didn’t cause much of a stir. Even as late as Wednesday afternoon, the fragrance was light. However, Thursday morning when I walked to the mailbox for the paper, the air was syrupy with the sweet smell of honeysuckle blooms. If I’d been asleep for months, upon awakening I would know that it was mid-May because of that particular nature’s perfume. It’s one that sparks so many memories from my childhood.

Honeysuckle vines were always thick in the woods behind our house. They were healthy and began producing that sweetness during spring. Getting up in daylight and then smelling the honeysuckle made going to school easier. It reminded us kids that the days were numbered before summer vacation. Softball games during recess and school field days were events we knew would be held during those last days of school. The smell of honeysuckle acted as a drug that made concentration on school work difficult. It called us to come, play, and forget about English tests and science projects.

Mother always held a year-end party for her students during this time of year. Back in the good ol’ days, the kids would walk from Ball Camp School to our house, a journey of a mile or more, and then they’d play in our yard, which was large enough to accommodate a game of softball, as well as allow those who didn’t participate to have room to roam. Mother would have food prepared for the class, and the rest of the afternoon and early evening was spent in play and fellowship. Sometimes Daddy would ferry kids home when their parents couldn’t pick them up.

That honeysuckle sometimes was present during painful times in life. Daddy suffered the effects of cancer in its last stages during that time of year. He traveled back and forth from Ft. Sanders Hospital and home. Jim and I tried to cause as little commotion as possible so that he could rest as we kept our naïve belief that Daddy could get better. Mother lived the very last weeks of her life during the same time of year. She kept the curtain and window open so she could see the blooming mock orange shrub and smell the mixture of its essence and that of honeysuckle. By the end of August and the first of June, both parents were gone.

Most of all, May and honeysuckle bring to mind celebrations. Jim and I recall the smell so much because we spent so much time outside as kids. On our birthdays we received new ball gloves, a baseball, and a bat. For hours we stood in the front yard and threw baseball. Some of that time was spent chasing errant throws or digging the ball out of tangles of thorns in rambler rosebushes. I recall my eighteenth birthday. I’d worked the afternoon cleaning the red trim around the Burger King where I worked. I came off the roof burned to a crisp. As I drove down Ball Camp Pike, the honeysuckle was thick in the air. I pulled into the driveway to discover Mother had planned a surprise birthday party for Jim and me. It was also during the time of honeysuckle that graduations from high school and college occurred. Those were times spent with family and friends.

Somehow, some way, I’ve blinked my eyes and time has flown. I sometimes wonder how I got to be this old. My frame of mind is much the same that it was when I was in my twenties. The smell of honeysuckle is still thick in May. However, I’m gaining on sixty, and it just doesn’t seem possible. I suppose the honeysuckle has again used its power to trick me. It’s for sure that whenever I smell it in the air that I shed years as a snake sheds is skin. In honeysuckle May, I become a boy again and inhale the joys of memory with the sweetness in the air.

Mall Muscle

2010-05-10T05:55:00.000-05:00

Amy’s employer, Y12 Credit Union, held an employee’s day Saturday. For those who wanted to make the drive, free admission to Dollywood was offered to workers and their families. Amy and I wrapped the afternoon get together at the theme park with two, yes two, visits to Tanger Outlet Mall in Pigeon Forge. Again, I was amazed by my wife specifically and women in general as I watched the action.

Women might be the strongest of all living things on this planet. No one could convince me otherwise after seeing them in action at such large complexes. As soon as the car is stopped, women make b-lines for their first destinations. Of course, they have to get all the necessary gear for the day’s work. Pocketbooks the sizes of small luggage are draped around their arms. Jackets, umbrellas, and assorted papers are part of the equipment. Then this so-called weaker sex sets out a day filled with walking miles on concrete, asphalt, and marble surfaces. Some add bags filled with purchases to the things that they tote over the journey.

We men pour our attention to one thing at a time. Women are able to multi-task. Perhaps it’s out of necessity, but I’m always blown away at them when they shop. A female can shop in a store, talk on a cell phone, and read a list at the same time. I saw so many women handle their chores at the mall while tending to little ones in strollers. Some had those papoose sacks around their necks and soothed a small child with pats from one hand while thumbing through racks in search of the right size or color of an article with the other. A woman can try on a pair of shoes and hand a screaming child a bottle or sippy cup without missing a beat. She can tuck a cell phone in the crook of her neck and chat as she punches in the security numbers of her debit card to complete a purchase. Some care for elderly parents or friends and complete their shopping as they patiently make sure the older ones are having good times but aren’t edging toward exhaustion.

What might me be the most admirable quality of a woman as she ventures out on a shopping trip is her thriftiness. Outlet malls are places where prices are already reduced. Men find items they want a pay the stated prices. Women are always looking for ways to save even the smallest amounts. They arrived armed at stores with coupon books or clippings from papers that offer reduced prices. Amy had a booklet, but she also had her AAA card in hand to receive an extra 10% off already slashed and discounted prices. Women also pack foods and drinks so that they don’t waste money on those items that are usually so expensive in malls. Kids can be seen with sandwich bags of Cheerios, fruit roll-ups, boxed drinks. They’ll starve instead of plunking down money for a sandwich. Their only treats usually are cups of coffee or bottles of water.

Back at the car after hours of shopping, our amazing women load minivans and trunks with their loot and jump behind the wheel for the trip back home. Lost in her thoughts, Amy sat beside me as if she’d done nothing all day. On the other hand, I was “stoved up” from a day filled with walking all over Dollywood once and Tanger Outlet twice. My desire was to reach home, get a cool drink, and recover. Amy arrived at home, straightened up the kitchen, and washed a load of clothes. Guys, we play our games and imagine that ours is the hardest road. Our women work jobs, tend to need children and husbands, and still manage to tackle marathons at outlet malls. Look at them and stand in awe.

Wonderful Mothers

2010-05-07T07:22:00.000-05:00

Sunday is Mother’s Day. It’s a special time for all children, but I figure it means more to males. After all, the psychologists say we have attachments to our mothers that are more intense than those of the stronger, female population. The day is one about which I’ve always been excited. I enjoyed giving tribute to my mother and to the mother of my children.

Mother never made a fuss about the day. As children, we got up on Mother’s Day Sunday and dressed for church. Her garden had rambler rose bushes with red and white flowers. She’d go outside to get red ones for us and, after her mother passed, a white one for herself. She pinned them to our shirts, and we wore them proudly.

At church, the minister honored mothers with his praises, reminded us of the love Mary had for Jesus, and led us in the singing of “Faith of our Mothers.” We sat as a family on that pew. After Daddy died, we boys sat with Mother on the pew a was second from the front. On too many occasions, Mother spent at least part of the service with tears in her eyes as she missed her mother and the husband with whom she’d had three sons.

In earlier times, Mother returned home from church, changed her clothes, and cooked Sunday dinner. Remember, “dinner” is something that people in the South eat on Sundays and holidays. Supper is the evening meal that they share the rest of the time. Lunch is the meal that comes around noon. At any rate, Mother spent the next few hours of this special day working like a hired hand. For her, the best part of Mother’s Day came after we ate. She spent most of the afternoon reading the Sunday paper and napping in her chair.

As we reached our teens, we ate our Mother’s Day meal at the Copper Kettle. Of course, we boys weren’t working, so Mother paid the tab. I guess it was enough for her just not having to work over a hot stove.

The last year she was alive, Mother was too sick to cook anything. Instead, we gathered at her house and cooked hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill. Mother was worried that we weren’t having a proper meal, but we assured her that spending time together was more important than what we ate. She was gone a month later.

Amy deserves any treasure that I can give her. She gave life to a beautiful baby girl and then to a strapping son. She’s worked to be a good mother all these years and too often fretted that she’s not done a good enough job. Then she sees the accomplishments of Lacey and Dallas and knows that she’s not done so bad. What delights her more than anything is to see some of her personal traits showing up in her children. I’m quick to point out those things.

I sometimes struggle with finding gifts for Amy on Mother’s Day. Most years I spend lots of time trying to find the perfect gift. Of course, I keep receipts, just in case Amy wants to return an item. Other years, I know the best thing I can give Amy is a gift certificate so that she can pick out favorite items. The one thing that’s certain is that nothing I can give her can ever equal the love she’s given our two children and me..

On Sunday, we might go out to eat, or we might come home, eat a sandwich, and thumb through the paper. I might leave her alone to take a nap as well. Whatever it is, I want the day to be special for her. My wife is a wonderful woman and loving mother. Yeah, I know I don’t deserve her, but the Lord knows I need her.

For you moms, just remember that your little boys and grown men husbands adore you. We hope in some way to be able to prove ourselves worthy of all you’ve given. You are God’s best creation.

"Duck Drowner"

2010-05-04T06:22:00.004-05:00

I was awakened from my Sunday morning snooze by something that sounded like the shower running. I supposed that Amy had decided to get up early to get a shower. I sat up to discover that the shower sound was, in fact, rain falling outside our bedroom window.

Amy and I traveled to middle Tennessee this weekend to celebrate grandson Madden’s second birthday. We kept him in Knoxville the week before and were to take him home during that weekend. However, the weather was supposed to be severe, so we stayed in Knoxville and traveled west on Sunday, dropped him off, and drove home. I’d have forgone this trip, but missing the only grandchild’s birthday would have been an almost unforgivable sin.

Our trip to Nashville on Friday was made in beautiful weather. We arose Saturday to steady rainfall. Madden’s birthday party was held inside, and he pouted a little about not being able play with his new toys outside. I watched the continuing “ark floater” fall and the backyard turn into a swift flowing creek. The party was a success, in spite of guests being trapped indoors.

Sunday morning, I sat on our covered balcony and watched the storms attack Nashville. Television weather prognosticators warned of wind shears. I discovered they were talking about winds that ripped across the area and drove sheets of rain. At home, we’ve had shears and down drafts, but I’ve always considered them the precursors of tornadoes.

I watched from our second floor condo as downspouts poured gallons of water out past the splash plates and onto the grass. Small streams rushed toward the asphalted drives and carried with them mulch from landscaped areas. Water stood on the road at the entrance and eventually covered both lanes.

Before long, it was apparent that the rain was going to be dangerous in amounts. Swollen creeks looked much more like raging rivers. On one stretch of I-24, a slew of cars and trucks were under water. A mobile home floated by, hung up on a car caught and in the waters, and sank as a second vehicle rammed into it. The structure crumpled before our eyes, and the video was shown nationally before long.

Lacey and Nick live in Bellevue, the community hit hardest by the flooding. Their house is on a hill, and they felt safe. However, by mid-Sunday morning, the waters had begun to creep up their yard, and when it stopped, the flood was no more than fifteen feet from the small fenced area around their house. Amy and I fretted most of the day as we were unable to reach Lacey’s house to check on her, Nick, and Madden. To our surprise, our daughter showed up about 2:00 p.m. She’s enough like her dad to get restless when she’s confined in any place too long. Lacey found a route that was above the waters and then made a b-line to our place. We hugged, and smiles crossed our faces. Then we traveled back to her house for a few hours of togetherness.

By the time the rain subsided, Nashville had reported more than fifteen inches of rain, although in plenty of places the total was recorded as between eighteen and twenty inches. Even the first number is more than the greatest recorded amount for a month in Nashville.

Amy and I had made up our minds to brave the torrential rains and strike out for Knoxville. In the next minute, the news reported that one section of I-40 in the downtown area was closed due to flooding. We were stuck. At last report the section that closed sometime around 8:00 a.m. was still closed at 10:00 p.m. Traffic was backed up for miles. One individual set out for work at one television station at 10:00 a.m. and at 2:00 p.m. was still sitting in traffic on the same Interstate.

On Monday morning, Amy and I once got on the road toward home. We hoped that the roads would have cleared enough for us to make the trip. At least for a few weekends, I plan on being safe and secure in Knoxville. I don’t want to see another “duck drowner” for a while.

Sounds from the Back Seat

2010-04-26T06:12:00.000-05:00

Our grandson Madden came for a visit recently. His parents took a short trip to New York to celebrate their anniversary and visit with friends. Amy met Nick on the west side of Cookeville and ferried Madden back to Knoxville. We ate breakfast at Hardees the following morning and then knocked around places that Madden might enjoy. His presence in the back seat sure brought back some memories of the times when his mom and uncle were that age.

First, car seats are much easier to work with these days. Of course, it helps to have a four-door vehicle. When Lacey was small, I drove a Datsun 310 hatch back. Securing her in that car seat was possible only after performing half a dozen contortionist moves. I’m pretty sure that the back and neck surgeries I’ve endured are partly the result of stuffing my kids into car seats that were located in such cramped quarters.

I recall Lacey sitting in her seat located in the middle of the back seat. That allowed me easy viewing of her through the rear view mirror. Sometimes, I could hear her breathing change as she relaxed and fell asleep. Her peacefulness was reassuring, and I would look to see her little head propped on the side of her seat.

Over the course of a few years, Lacey would sing as she rode. As she looked straight ahead, her angelic voice filled the small interior of the vehicle. Her favorite song was Neil Diamond’s “Forever in Blue Jeans.” I can close my eyes and still hear her singing.

The most horrific sounds from that back seat came on Sunday evenings when we returned home from a weekend in Cookeville to visit grand parents. Lacey had a sixth sense that kicked in every time we were still several miles from home. She’d sleep as soon as we left Cookeville, but upon awakening, she let us know the rest of the trip would be pure hell. She didn’t just cry; my daughter squalled. Her shrieks and sobs drove like spikes into the base of my spine. By the time the car pulled into our driveway, Amy and I were both shell-shocked and exhausted. We wanted nothing more than for Lacey to go to bed so we could flop in our chairs and try to regain our composure.

Dallas was a much better traveler. He loved to ride in the car. His time was spent looking out the window, jabbering baby talk to no one in particular, and sleeping. Oh, a couple of times the boy had been confined long enough and would fuss, but nothing like his sister.

I most remember Dallas riding in the back seat of my Pathfinder one Sunday afternoon as he and I drove home from a baseball tournament from Kingsport. My mother was in the final stages of lung cancer, and Dallas began talking about her. It was during that trip that I broke the news to him that his Mamaw wouldn’t get better and that before long she would pass. He lay down in the back seat and sobbed. I could hear him as he tried to choke back the tears. My heart broke at the same time his did. It was painful for both of us.

On a couple of occasions I remember the squeals from two children I was trying to flog while driving the car at the same time. One of our favorite family stories involves Amy and the kids. She was taking them shopping for Easter outfits. Their fussing and fighting with each other had drawn warnings from her. When Amy couldn’t take any more, she swerved the car into a subdivision street. Immediately, apologies and begging for one more chance came from both children, but they knew it was too late. Amy threw the car into park, removed her thin-soled sandal from her foot, and swatted Lacey and Dallas on the bottom. They got back in the car, and all that was heard the rest of the trip was the blubbering of two chastised children.

Madden is a joy to have around for a few days. He is a wonderful little boy. What’s more, he brings back the memories of two children who now are adults and who, in one case, now listen to the same kinds of things that Amy and I did so many years ago.

The Masters

2010-04-20T14:55:00.003-05:00

This is a piece that I wrote for the paper. It only made in one edition, so I'm sharing it with everyone. I've also put in a picture.

The Masters Golf Tournament is an event that everyone recognizes. It fills up television screens with some of the most beautiful landscape anywhere on the planet Earth. The behind the scenes planning and the staffing help the week-long tournament to run smoothly.

Huge crowds are present each day. A sea of people covers the course. Eighteen holes cover approximately 6925 yards, and the rest of the property easily dilutes the mob. That’s not the case on the outside. Traffic snarls as early as 6:15 a.m. as people make their ways to the course. Fans come from around the world, so hearing a variety of languages is no surprise.

Every aspect of the Masters Tournament is run like a well-oiled machine. At the gift shop, crowds grab items from shelves and stuff them into small baskets. As soon as an item is taken, an employee restocks the shelf. At the check out lines, several registers are attended with employees who ring up merchandise while others place the items in bags. Many of the better known retail stores could take lessons on providing such service.

In the men’s restroom, as many as ten employees are on hand to help. Two men stand at the front door and make sure the crowds don’t become too large at one time. One instructs, “Squatters to the left, standers to the right.” In one restroom, a leaking sink was fixed by a maintenance worker who made sure not a drop of water hit the floor. Not a single paper towel touched the floor for more than a couple of seconds before it was snatched and deposited in a receptacle. UT fans can only dream of that kind of help in Neyland Stadium.

The costs of items vary for the Masters. Practice round tickets are inexpensive for those who win the lottery. However, scalpers line the sidewalks and are only too eager to charge exorbitant prices to others looking for admission. Like any place that draws large crowds, souvenirs were over priced. I put my hand on one sweater that cost $450 but quickly removed for fear of pulling a thread. Food is cheap. Most soft drinks and sandwiches cost $1.50. Beer was only $2.75. The lines moved at all times since enough registers were opened to accommodate customers. Compare that with prices and slow moving lines at most ball parks.

Most impressive of all was the behavior of patrons. Cheers went up for miracle shots. Yet, when a player prepared to hit the ball, a pall of silence fell. During most of the time, people spoke in low voices. At the same time, folks were polite. A lack of urgency, panic, and anger was evident. Folks were there to enjoy the day, soak in some of the most beautiful landscape anywhere, and be entertained by the world’s best golfers. No one would describe places like Dollywood the same way.

The golfers entertained the crowds. Phil Mickelson won his third green coat. The service was splendid. All those things led to an easy going pace day in the sun on the most famous course in golf.

Breaking Up

2010-04-19T19:37:00.000-05:00

Neil Sedaka sang that “breaking up is hard to do.” No doubt he stated the obvious. Of all the things that kick our emotional butts, breaking up with a boyfriend or girlfriend is the worst. Over the first twenty-one years of my life, I was on the receiving end of female boots as girls unceremoniously dumped me. Like most folks, those times remain vivid in our memory banks.

Suzanne was the first to break up with me. It was in the fifth grade, and I was the lucky guy to be her boyfriend. Suzanne was taller than everyone else in the class. She had dirty blonde hair and a smile that automatically won every boy over. Unlike the rest of the girls in the class, she’d developed “bumps,” but they didn’t seem to make her feel self-conscious.

Suzanne didn’t actually break up. The truth is her family moved. They hadn’t been in Ball Camp for more than a year, and her dad’s work transferred them to Tunnel Hill, Georgia. For the longest time I pined for her. She left me with nothing more but an 8 X 10 black and white school picture. I sometimes wonder what happened to Suzanne and how her life turned out.

Brenda was the next female to kick me to the curb. She came to Ball Camp during the eighth grade with a cute smile and a voice much more suited for a high school senior girl. I never figured out why she became my girlfriend but was glad she made the decision. Brenda was the first girl I talked with on the phone. The conversations were stilted and filled with silence between comments. I remember the Christmas gifts I bought her that year—a bottle of some kind of cheap perfume and a six foot snake. At some point Brenda got tired of me. She called it quits, and the rest of the school year was awkward as we sat in classes together, but separate.

Carolyn was my first high school girlfriend. We got together at an end-of-the-school year swimming party at Inskip Pool. The details are vague, but she left with me and another couple. We were together for a while. At one sock hop, we danced, as I bent over to say something to her over the music, my gum got stuck in her long brown hair. A hunk of it had to be cut out.

I shouldn’t have been surprised that we were through soon after that faux pas. What bothered me the most were the rumors that swirled that Carolyn wanted to go out with my twin. Jim called her to say he’d never go out with her, a valiant act of one brother toward another.

Anda was the first girlfriend after I got my driver’s license. She was a year younger, a cheerleader, and filled with energy. We got together at the Coker’s house one evening after Jim and I had walked in the snow to their house. Two couples were there, and Anda and I were singles. We stayed together through the winter and early spring.

Then the girl dumped me right before junior prom. As it turned out, she wanted to go to the event with Joe Kennedy, the star athlete in my class. I was devastated for quite a while. The girl would stay away for a while and then show up again, as she did one day after I’d had ankle surgery. I saw her at her son’s high school graduation. I’d had him in one of my classes. At last report, she was in the Midwest somewhere.

Jacque was my first girlfriend in college. She was from Nashville, and as I later learned, the girl had her share of problems. She’d supposedly broken up with her high school sweetheart. The guy was a member of the MTSU football team. As it turned out, Jacque hadn’t actually broken up with George. The guy made a trip to Cookeville one night to find me and to beat me senseless. The stars were aligned so that our paths didn’t cross.

Jacque never broke up with me. She simply disappeared after that first term at TTU. She didn’t return to school in January, and I never saw nor heard from her again. It’s my good luck that things worked out that way because I’d never have been able to avoid George forever.

God is gracious. The last year of college Amy and I began dating. That was in 1973. In 1974 we were married. Bless her heart; she’s put up with me for nearly 36 years. I’m sure that there’ve been plenty of times she’s wanted to trade me in for a new one. Lucky for me, it didn’t happen. I know that break ups are gut-wrenching experiences. However, I also know they are just steps that lead to finding the right person. In the end, all the pain is somehow worth the reward.

Making Everybody Fine

2010-04-12T06:08:00.002-05:00

Amy and I watched the movie “Everybody’s Fine” the other night. Here’s a hint, especially for parents: don’t watch it. The movie was depressing, and the plot was disjointed and jerky. What the show did for me was jump-start my mind thinking about what parents need to do for their children.

The first thing deals with moderation. In today’s world, everyone has a sense of entitlement. Somehow, too many kids got the idea that they deserve things and that they are rightfully theirs. We parents are the ones who’ve spread this malicious rumor. Our own parents were the products of the Great Depression. They lived through times when shortages made even the necessities of life tough to get. Many people couldn’t work, and they relied upon the goodness of others to help them make their ways. As adults and parents, this generation promised themselves that they would save and work hard to earn what they got and to hold on to it. They gave their children the things they’d been denied, and now we’re trying to do the same thing with our own offspring. The problem with that is that we didn’t do without too much in our younger years. The things we offer our own children are far removed from needs and more like wants. Really, does an elementary school child need a cell phone or an iPhone? What about a laptop computer? Will they die if they don’t have a new car or designer clothes?

We need to teach that less is better. Of course, we need to live by what we preach. Our kids need to know that going through life with well worn items isn’t bad. These young people are bombarded with notions of recycling and conserving. We can extend that to the things they have, those electronic devices, vehicles, and clothes.

Another thing we need to teach our children is the work ethic. It’s surprising the number of young people who graduate from college and have NO work experience on their resumes. Ask them, and they say sports and other types of activities took up the time that could have been spent earning money. These poor people enter the workforce with inflated ideas about earnings and job titles.

Parents need to insist that their children work a part time job. That experience helps youngster learn the value of a dollar and of a budget. At the same time, they quickly learn the feelings of pride that accompany earning their own money. Work never hurt anyone, and be assured, no matter how much children whine, a job isn’t actually “killing them.”

Our greatest lesson to children is about love. It’s the thing most important in life. They need to know that parents’ love isn't measured by the amount of stuff they give. Kids need to know that loving them means making them responsible for their actions in all situations. We must teach them that loving back means sacrificing. If moms and dads change courses and begin to parent differently, then everybody’s fine. Otherwise, our children are in for a whole lot of hurting and disappointment.

Easter Memories

2010-04-05T05:46:00.000-05:00

Amy and I traveled to Nashville for Easter weekend. Dallas had to work, so we decided to see what the holiday was like for Lacey, Nick, and Madden. I hope it’s as special to them as it was to us as kids and then as parents.

When I was little, Mother made sure we had Easter outfits. During the younger years, she dressed Jim and me in matching outfits. Bow ties and cuff links were parts of the ensemble. To top it off, Mother bought hats for us. Now, Jim and I had big heads as children. In fact, they probably were the same size that they are some fifty-plus years later. Mother thought we looked snazzy, but today, people would say we looked more like miniature pimps.

In those times, we got Easter shoes. In truth, we got shoes twice a year. They were orthopedic shoes that resembled the ones that Frankenstein wore in the early movies. We’d make the trip to Bill’s Comfort Shoes on North Central in Happy Holler. The things were ugly and unmercifully heavy. After years of wearing them, one would think that Jim and I would have muscular legs. To the contrary, we have what are called “chicken leg” that could be sued for nonsupport.

As we got older, our clothes were often hand-me-downs from older brother Dal or other boys. Most years we had sport coats for Easter. Our bellies grew and dress slacks were husky sized, a euphemism for “fat boy pants.” We graduated from bow ties to clip-ons or string ties. The shoes were still from Bill’s Comfort; they never got better looking, and new style still looked too much like clod-hoppers.

Saturday evenings before Easter were set aside for coloring eggs. Mother boiled several dozen mixed dye tablets in cups of vinegar. We gathered around the kitchen table and began. Some of the eggs were multi-colored. Others were the color of bruises. Names of every family member were written on shells with paraffin crayons. We made eggs for parents and grandparents alike. When we finished, the eggs were placed on racks to dry and we hustled off to baths and bed. All of us had dye-stained fingers for a week, but we were in good company with the kids in our classrooms at school.

On Sunday morning, we boys awoke and made a bee line to the kitchen. The Easter Bunny visited and left baskets that were filled with boiled eggs, marshmallow and chocolate bunnies, and M&M’s. As long as Mother was alive, those baskets were present on Easter morning. She added baskets as the grandchildren came. Her yard was the best place around for egg hunts. Our children hunted in the same places that we’d looked for eggs, and they begged for just one more hunt, just as we had done so many years before. At least on egg was never located—until months later. Then we’d crack it open and hold our noses and gag as the foul smell of a rotten egg filled the air.

Church was a central part of our Easters. Daddy was off on that day, and the five of us piled into the car to attend both Sunday school and church. We heard the crucifixion and resurrection stories, and our young minds tired to wrap themselves around what had happened. We sang “The Old Rugged Cross” and other old hymns that celebrated the risen Christ. As children, we enjoyed the time but looked forward to getting home for more pictures, outside play, and then meals.

Easter dinners were every bit as festive as Christmas. Turkey and ham graced the table. Potato salad sometimes replaced Christmas mashed potatoes. Mother held back some of our colored eggs to make a huge plate of deviled-eggs. We all ate until our sides ached. As children, we were ready for more rounds of hunting eggs. As adults, we preferred naps.

Being with Lacey and her family was a wonderful experience. However, I missed Dallas on that special day. I also missed Daddy, Mother, and Dal, but because of the events that make Easter so special, I know that some day I’ll see them again.

Shoney's

2010-03-29T08:09:00.000-05:00

At a business group meeting the other night, a speaker was recalling the days of her youth. She spoke of a family shopping trip that was punctuated with an evening meal eaten at the most special restaurant of that time: Shoney’s. That conversation reminded me of my first adventure to that eating establishment.

The visit took place sometime in the 1960’s. Uncle Ed and Aunt Rosie were visiting from Cincinnati. They were childless, but when upon their arrival in Knoxville, no fewer than nine nephews and nieces descended upon us. The two were the same age as our parents, but infrequent trips to Knoxville made them special, and their spoiling of us made the visits the next best things to Christmas.

On that summer visit to Knoxville, the two opted to take Jim, Dal, and me to lunch at the newest restaurant in town. The Shoney’s was located in Bearden on Kingston Pike. Next door was a theater. For our uncle and aunt, the visit wasn’t that special. They’d eaten numerous times at Frisch’s, the Cincinnati version Shoney’s. Aunt Rosie wanted onion rings, and Shoney’s specialized in them. Up to that point in life, I’d never heard of onion rings and wondered what could be so special about a slice of onion unless it was covered by a hamburger bun or it floated on top of a bowl of pinto beans.

We slid into one to the big booths and looked at the menu. On it was the now famous figure of the “Big Boy” and all sorts of offerings made choosing difficult. I thought about ordering the Big Boy hamburger, the first one I’d ever seen that was two patties with double buns, lettuce, pickles and secret sauce. Then I saw the perfect thing. It was a Kingfish sandwich. At home, we’d had crappie, fish sticks, tuna salad, and canned salmon, but I’d never experienced a sandwich with a huge hunk of fish. A side of fries and a glass of tea, sweet tea that is, rounded out a wonderful meal.

Aunt Rosie scooted a plated piled high with onion rings in front of us three boys. With hesitation, I picked one up and prepared for oncoming nausea. Instead, my taste buds delighted in the combination of batter, grease and onion. We shared the order and wished more had been coming.

After our meals, we sat back and enjoyed talking with family that weren’t around too much. Uncle Ed declared that we had to have dessert before leaving. The waitress came, and he ordered strawberry pie for all of us. I wasn’t thrilled about that. Mother had made her version of strawberry pie plenty of times. She’d usually included some rhubarb that counteracted sweetness with tartness. I’d rather have had lemon pie of a bowl of ice cream.

When our server delivered the slabs of pie, I was amazed. The berries were huge and they were held in place with a sweet substance that made us want to lick our plates. On top was a thick layer of cool whip. In a matter of what seemed like seconds, we devoured the pie and plopped back to allow our swollen bellies room to expand.

Over the years, I ate plenty of meals at Shoney’s. It was a good place to take a date or eat a meal after church. Later, it became the best place for breakfast. These days, I don’t stop at the home of Big Boy, but the memories of the food and time with family are plenty filling.

Everett the Cop and an Old Story

2010-03-24T19:09:00.004-05:00

I received a message from Vince Blanton. He told me that "Everett the cop" who used to break up the drag races at the red light and, in general, give kids a hard time is still around. I know his house was in Karns but didn't know if he still lived there. The man struck fear into the lives of plenty of people, mostly those in their teens. I was one of them.

One summer I broke my ankle-for the second time- working for the maintenance department in Knoxville. I had an orthodontist appointment and had to drive Mother's car since it was an automatic. Being a typical teen, I took the long way to the appointment, and that route took me over Byington-Beaver Ridge Road. Just past where the water department used to be and MK Mechanical Services is located there is a narrow bridge. As I came over that structure, a boy in my class passed me going the other way. He was speeding and nearly hit me.

The incident scared me witless, so I passed the first driveway on the right, backed into it and prepared to chase the guy down and...flog him with my crutch. I looked to my left, the shortest distance, to the right, and back to the left. With no other car in sight, I pulled out. Midway in the road, I looked up to see a Knox County Sheriff's squad car barreling straight for me.My first instinct was to stomp the gas pedal and allow the 386 Plymouth Fury to make a getaway. The police vehicle's rack of lights was spinning, but there was on siren.

Tires squealed, mine as they grabbed the road in traction and the lighted one as they tried to stop and avoid a crash. Too late. Mother's car moved far enough ahead to avoid being t-boned by the officer's cruiser. The impact occurred on the rear quarter panel. Everything went into slow motion. The sound of grinding metal and exploding plastic was deafening.

I watched in amazement as the cop car struck mine and then began to slide sideways. Its rear end lost traction and left the road. It went down the steep ditch and came to a definitive thud with the front of the car facing perpendicular to the road.

I scrambled out of the car, grabbed my crutches, and cursed. Yep, Mother would kill me. I screwed up her car. But what was I to do? The police car was on top of me in the blink of an eye. I'd done everything properly, but the car was still mangled in the side.

I walked to the ditch and looked down at the patrol car. The door swung opened and a form exited. He grabbed the door frame and used it as a way to pull himself up the embankment. When he stepped on the pavement, the officer glared at me. Deputy Gene Everett was hopping mad and looked as if he'd relish the opportunity to draw his pistol and put the teenage punk in front of him out of commission for good.

A Highway Patrolman covered the accident and found me at fault. No tickets were issued, but I was the one who was supposedly in the wrong. Mother contacted Sheriff Wagoner and asked him how I could be at fault when the officer was speeding after the car driven by the teen I was going after, but was doing so without having his siren on. Let's say the matter was dropped, and I was no longer the offending party.

I figure of all the encounters teens had with Deputy Everett, mine was the worse. In hindsight, I see where my road rage began. I also know just how lucky I was to have not been injured. Everett the cop patrolled the community for years to come, and to be honest, he did more good than harm. We teens just didn't like him because he gave us so much grief.

Friday Night

2010-03-22T08:01:00.000-05:00

According to my wonderful wife, Friday night is the best one of the week. I started thinking about that statement and realize that she’s right—again. Friday has always held a special place in all of our hearts.

During my life as a student, Friday represented the end of long week filled with homework, tests, and all the other trials and tribulations of school. During elementary years, it meant that I could play outside longer without being dragged in to complete the next day’s assignments. We didn’t leave the home place for activities. After Friday night supper, which many nights consisted of Mother’s spaghetti or hamburgers and homemade fries, Jim, Dal, and I would then gather around the television to watch our favorite show, “The Twilight Zone.”

For high school students, Friday was the best day for social activities. Ball games were big events for all of us. We were filled with school pride in those days and cheered our teams in victory or defeat. Some guys were lucky enough to have a girlfriend, so Friday meant dates and dances. The rest of us piled into cars for an evening of cruising the Copper Kettle, driving to Broadway to circle Shoneys, and then setting out for Oak Ridge to see what girls might be at McDonalds. It was cheap fun since gas was no more than 30 cents a gallon. Later in the night, some guys gathered at the red light in Karns. Cars lined up on both sides of the highway, and when the light turned green, they raced for the community center which was a quarter mile away. Races were suspended when cars came toward the racers or when “Everett the cop” came to break up the fun.

During college years, Friday nights brought a sweet break from the grind of mind-numbing lectures, hour-long labs, and late night study groups. Big schools were surrounded with businesses that catered to the interests of college students—drinking and the opposite sex. Smaller schools became ghost towns on Fridays as students threw bags of dirty clothes and textbooks in the backseats of their cars and then raced for the Interstate that led home. I knew a couple of guys who went home every weekend during their freshman year. They didn’t have a vehicle during some of that time, so they walked the ramp to the Interstate and thumbed down rides to home a hundred miles away. It’s hard to imagine doing that these days.

Young parents today spend many of their Fridays at some activity in which their children are involved. Baseball, softball, soccer, and basketball are just a few of the things that suck every minute of time from Friday. Sometimes weekend tournaments in those sports consume entire weekends as well, and moms and dads say a “thank you” when they can return to work for a rest.

Some couples make Friday a date night. They hire a babysitter and enjoy each other’s company without the constant harangue of children. At other times, parents load up the kids and go out for a meal on Friday. It’s a treat for moms who have worked hard at work and at home every day. The food doesn’t have to be special; it only needs to be prepared by someone else.

These days, Amy and I forego the dining out experience on Friday nights. It’s not worth the effort to fight for a place to eat or to wait for an hour to get a table. We have Tony’s Pizza on speed dial. Anymore when we call, they ask how we and our dog Snoop are. Netflix provides our entertainment. At least it does until one or both of us is falls into a deep sleep in our recliners. Fridays are now times to stay at home and sleep as long as we please on Saturday mornings. It’s a treat only offered by that one day of the week.

Leading

2010-03-15T06:26:00.001-05:00

I have listened to enough political bull crap the last few months to last me a lifetime. In earlier years, debates and skirmishes between parties were fascinating. Times have changed. I’ve grown too old to like this stuff, and the times are too bad for such shenanigans by our elected officials.

One thing I hope everyone caught is the fact that the word “leaders” wasn’t used to describe the folks in Washington, D.C. The Republicans and Democrats might be a lot of things, but leader is not among them. I like to think of more positive individuals such as, well, nobody in present positions of political power comes to mind. We are a nation bankrupt of true leaders.

These elected people might do well to remember that they are stewards of the country. That means that their jobs are to make decisions that benefit the citizens, as well as the country. The American voter didn’t send them to Washington to get rich or powerful. Their jobs are representing the will of the people.
Representing the people means just that. It does not mean pushing the agenda of a political party or some splinter group with radical ideas. It means listening to constituents to learn what is important, not what is politically expedient. Then the senator or congressman must look deep into his heart and choose to do those things that help the people. It has nothing to do with helping the lobbyists or the corporations to maintain their special deals and privileges.

Partisan politics will destroy this country. The Republicans had several years when they held power in the executive and legislative branches. During that time they crammed down the throats of Americans the things that served their party or their ideology. The Democrats fought tooth and nail and tried to filibuster against any legislation that came down the pike. Now the Dems are in power, and they evidently learned little from the past because they are now doing the same thing their counterparts pulled before. The Republicans have taken on the Democrats role by opposing anything that is suggested.

The US is in deep poop. Our economy, and with it our way of life, nearly crashed. President Obama took over a reeling ship and spent billions to regain control. The country faces a deficit that might someday act as a tsunami that sweeps us away. What was he to do? Cutting taxes wouldn’t do much good for so many people out of work. The Republicans have lambasted the president, but just what would they have done? This country should hang its head in disgrace that so many of its citizens have inadequate or no health care. The Dems want to involve the government; the Reps want to keep the status quo. All the time, too many people must choose between medical care and housing or eating.

The time to “just say NO” is over. If these guys keep it up, the gridlock now present will remain as our country comes to a complete standstill. The time for partisan politics is over. If individuals won’t represent the people and provide the needed leadership, they must be defeated and sent home to face their angry, confused, and desperate constituents. Lead or get out of the way, all of you. Work for us, the citizens, instead of your own elections team or the narrow and hateful views of some fringe group. Inspire us; don’t destroy us.

Sock Hops

2010-03-08T10:51:00.000-05:00

Only enough lights shine to light walking areas. The place is crowded with teens, some on the floor and others sitting in groups in the bleachers. A band is set up under the far basketball goal, and their limited repertoire contains most of the favorites of the age group. On Friday night after a ball game in the 60’s, teens spent the rest of the evening at sock-hops.

For steady couples, a sock-hop was a time to be with friends and fill up an evening for just a little money. Most of the guys couldn’t dance, but they knew to give it their best efforts in order to please girlfriends. The Jerk, Watusi, Pony, and twist were just some of the popular dance performed to varying degrees of success during the night. Bodies gyrated and arms swung, sometimes so wildly that they swatted others, during faster tempo songs. The air of the gym filled with a mixture of sweat, Wind Song or Wood Hue that girls dabbed on necks and wrists, and English Leather or Jade East in which boys had bathed. Males stood in place and moved only as little as was necessary to appease their dates and to avoid future teasing by friends. These guys weren’t to be pitied because every third song or so, the music changed and a slow dance started. Couples danced and melted together with only minimal movement. It was the perfect balance of high energy and young-love emotions.

If a guy couldn’t get a date for the dance, he attended “stag.” Upon entering the gym, he peered through the dark until friends were located. Then the boy joined the group as they sat three or four rows up on the bleachers. There they told jokes, punched each other, looked over the available girls at the other end of the bleachers, and dared each another to ask a young damsel to dance. Eventually, a brave male would take the dare and make the long trip to where the gaggle of girls was located. Most often, the strutting male would make it only two-thirds of the way before turning around and high-tailing himself back to the safety and harassment of his friends. Once in a while, a boy would make the entire trip, ask a girl to dance, and then return thoroughly humiliated at having been “shot out of the saddle.” But guys continued the ritual because they’d heard stories of others who’d actually asked a girl to dance and she’d said yes, and the two became a couple. Each held out hope that he could be so fortunate.

Sock-hops disappeared sometime; I don’t remember just when. It’s for sure that kids today are missing out on something specials. Those dances were times when kids solidified friendships. They marked times when the joy of love and the excruciating pain of break-ups were experienced. As much as anything, those get-togethers allowed teens a chance to mature a little in a safe place. Guys learned the steps of “courting” until they no longer acted like silly freshmen boys. Girls came to realize the power that they held over what was supposed to be “the stronger sex.”

Do kids dance today? I’m not sure. If they do, it might be alone or with a Wii or some other game control in their hands. Something’s missing when a partner isn’t a part of the equation. Sometimes I wish that good things from the past could return for today’s youth. I bet they’d enjoy a sock-hop.

Cruising Lessons

2010-02-28T20:10:00.001-05:00

For those of you who read and offered to take my place on the cruise, I say thanks. However, I took your advice, stopped griping and went myself. It was a nice way to spend four days. Although the temperatures were below what was normal for Miami and Nassau, we still enjoyed shirt-sleeve weather over the brisk, wintry mix we left in Knoxville. I learned many things on this short trip that surprised me.

First, cruise lines have perfected the process of boarding and leaving ships. We stood in line for only a brief time. In fact, the lines at meal time might have moved slower than those that served the entire passenger lists. The federal and state government could take some pointers on handling crowds from the cruise lines. For people who have ever been to the Social Security offices or the Tennessee DMV, the suggestion will resonate. Even doctors might learn a thing or two about how to keep patients flowing through their offices.

Another thing I learned is that rudeness isn’t the exclusive characteristic of Americans. Folks on our ship rooted in lines like pigs. The bars were undermanned, a fact that led some to cut line. Some people left messes wherever they went. Yes, it’s a cruise and the crew is at everyone’s service, but that does not mean that people should leave trays lying around. One of our favorite spots to sit was on the aft deck. On one visit, it looked as if a food fight had taken place. Food and coke cans were strewn about.

I’m a huge talker, in case someone out there didn’t know. However, I pale in comparison to some on this cruise. One man who had drunk too much flapped his gums for more than thirty minutes. Amy developed a splitting headache, and we finally left. So many people occupying a ship make a lot of noise. Too many times Amy said something, but I couldn’t understand. My “hushing” got on her nerves, and I finally just shook my head when she spoke.

I also discovered that many of the crew members are from other countries. Fine. However, these individuals can’t understand good ol’ East Tennessee language. More than once I asked a question and was met with a frown, scrunched nose, and a “What” from those people. After a couple of more attempts, I turned on my heels in exasperation and made way toward the bar.

Other things I learned were more important. First, it became clear that I CAN sail the seas without becoming violently ill. Sometimes an uneasy feeling flooded over me, but I recovered quickly. Thank God for the generic form of Antivert. I also rediscovered that my best friend in the world is Amy. As Jimmy Buffet sings, “with you I’d walk anywhere.” For whatever reason, this woman puts up with me and actually loves me. Go figure. By the way, the only people who arise at 7:00 a.m. are old people, smokers, and parents with young children. Our best times on this cruise were when we sat together and read or catnapped. It’s a safe bet that Amy and I could be happy anywhere as long as we’re together.

As I write this, our ship is docked in Nassau. Amy and I took in the sites and then returned to the boat to sit by the pool. Soon we’ll have completed our first cruise. We might take another one some time, or we might decide to visit some beach where we can sit all day. As long as we are together, it won’t matter.

Feeding a Family

2010-02-23T11:27:00.001-05:00

In the late 1950’s and early 60’s, money was tight at our house. Daddy worked at Southern Extract, a paper mill, and Mother had begun her teaching career when my twin Jim and I began first grade in 1958. Still, the income was thinly stretched to meet monthly expenses incurred by our family. It was a time that demanded creative thinking in many areas. One concerned food for the family.

Like many families in the Ball Camp area, we had a vegetable garden. Half of our back yard was plowed, rows of corn, potatoes, and beans were planted. In side areas, Daddy put out onions and peppers. He also had a strawberry patch. Jim and I were sent to pull weeds from the garden. When produce came in, we shucked corn and broke beans. Potatoes were spread out on the ledges of our unfinished basement. Mother sweated over the stove as she prepared vegetables for canning and freezing. She also preserved blackberries, grapes, and strawberries, as well as making jellies from them.

Daddy decided to cut expenses by raising chickens. We got the eggs for breakfasts. On some Saturdays, he’d come out the back door, walk to the chicken coop at the edge of the yard, and grab one of the chickens. He’d wring its neck and take the carcass to Mother. She’d pluck it, cut it up, and, on Sunday, make some of the best fried chicken that ever floated in Crisco.

At some point, our parents made an investment in a chest freezer. It was so big that it occupied one whole corner of the bedroom Jim and I used. It hummed as it ran and put off enough heat to make sleeping in the summer sometimes impossible. Mother stocked part of the appliance with the vegetables and fruits she prepared in the summer.

We carried our lunch to work and school each day. A loaf of bread didn’t last long. Daddy saved money by visiting the bread store each payday. He’d load our ’54 Chevy with loaves of day-old bread and a variety of snacks such as fruit pies, jelly rolls, and raisin or banana cream-filled cakes. When he got home, Daddy loaded the freezer. Our sandwiches sometimes had a bit of freezer-burn taste, and on occasion, the cakes or pies were still frozen as hard as rocks when lunch time came around.

One year Daddy bought to calves and enclosed them with electric fence in one section of the yard. They became pets to us, and we were distraught one day when they no longer were there. Not long afterward, Daddy came back from Herron’s with the trunk of the car loaded with all sorts of beef wrapped in white paper and labeled. Jim and I were upset and asked him if he’d had the two calves slaughtered. He told us no. Instead, Daddy explained that he’d “traded” the calves for an equal amount of meat. We bought the story hook, line, and sinker and ate the meat at mealtime. It was only later that the truth—that we’d eaten the calves we'd named—was told to us.

Our family survived, and we boys ate well, as is apparent in photos of two rotund boys with buzzed haircuts. Our parents worked hard to earn a living, and they worked even harder to provide food for our table. I wish I could tell them both thanks.

Cruise Correction

2010-02-15T20:17:00.001-05:00

Hey, I'm not against going on this cruise. I just know that sometimes I screw things up for others. My only real concern is the inner ear/vertigo. I sure don't want to be stricken and thereby ruin the trip for Amy. She deserves better than that. I've had several people offer to take my place on this cruise. I appreciate the offer, but, uh, NO WAY! If things work out, my plan is to make the next trip to Alaska.

Cruising

2010-02-15T09:08:00.000-05:00

After thirty-five years of married life, Amy and I have decided it’s time to take a cruise. This first one will be short. It would be a disaster to be on one of those ten day jaunts and discover half way through it that we hated the whole thing. I’m still nervous enough about going.

To begin with, the first trip we scheduled was canceled. Something was wrong with the ship on which we were to sail. Somehow that doesn’t inspire a great deal confidence in the cruise line. Thoughts of the Titanic and sinking ships in the Caribbean come to mind. Was the breakdown an portent of things to come should we decide to go? I’m not sure that we’ll enjoy our destination this time. Are the Bahamas better than Key West and Cozumel?

I don’t travel so well anyway. We will be in Miami for almost two days before boarding the ship. Too many television shows have me feeling uncomfortable about spending that much time in a strange city. Ask my family. For some inexplicable reason, I always manage to get us lost at least once in the seedier parts of cities. Whether it’s been in Charleston, SC, Tampa, FL, or Nashville, TN, I’ve managed to navigate the car to the most crime-infested areas of those places, and I do so at night. The good lord has watched over us to keep trouble from finding us as I zipped our car through dangerous neighborhoods in search of an Interstate ramp. With my luck, we’ll end up in some kind of predicament that would make a perfect screen play for “Miami Vice.”

Most of all, I’m concerned about getting seasick. I have a chronic ear problem that can instantly bring on terrible cases of vertigo. Hey, don’t laugh. I might be the only person in the history of Disney World to get sick on the paddle boat ride from the parking area to the park. I know that patches behind the ear are supposed to take care of most problems, but the thoughts of hopping on board, turning green, and needing to toss my cookies have me hedging just a bit. If I’m in the middle of the ocean on a boat and am sick as a dog, I might fall overboard as I hang my head to feed the fish. Either that or Amy might shove me over to keep from hearing my whining. Lying on the bed and praying to God that the world will stop spinning isn’t my idea of a fun vacation.

If all goes well, as Amy predicts, we’ll have a wonderful time and wish the trip had been longer. I’ll hold all evaluations until my feet once again hit solid ground. With a little luck, I’ll arrive back in Knoxville tanned and contented in the end of February. Is so, I might stock up on those patches so we can take one of those long cruises next. Wish me luck. Bon Voyage!

Readjusting to Adjusting

2010-02-08T06:59:00.001-05:00

Dallas has been home for a couple of weeks now. He brought his dog Baxter as well. Life has been an adjustment for him, Amy. Snoop, and me. I wasn’t sure we could co-exist after seven years, but so far things have worked well.

He took over Lacey’s old room since I turned his into my office. He loaded it with clothes and some of the more essential things for living. We agreed to share my office. I need to time to write and he needs time to fill out applications and respond to job postings. Somehow, the boy and I have managed to maintain a cordial relationship and to share time on the computer.

Dallas also attached his X-box 360 to the television in the office. I’ve have never asked for a turn. Just watching him play a couple of times has convinced me that I don’t have the manual dexterity, stomach, or calmness to succeed on such a thing. My arthritic fingers couldn’t begin to push buttons or flip switches quickly enough to win any game. In one session, Dallas managed to defeat the entire Japanese army forces that were entrenched on an island. Blood flowed as he shot, stabbed, and blew up enemy soldiers. In all the games, opponents are either trying to do the same to him or squash him into the sod of an athletic field. Were I to engage in one of those games, my nerves would be frayed before I ever got half way through the most elementary stages of a video game. I learned years ago how poorly I could compete when Lacey, as a four year old, beat my brains out in a game of Mario Brothers.

My son isn’t comfortable here. His bed is still in Chattanooga, and he suffers through bouts of insomnia, and I feel for him. He sometimes slips off in the early evening for a power nap. That rests him enough so that sleep is difficult and then he’s up into the early morning hours. The noise he creates wakes me up since I’m such a light sleeper. Of course, now when Snoop wants to go outside in the middle of the night, Baxter insists upon going as well. Neither dog obeys worth a darn, so I spend several minutes whistling, yelling, and cursing to get them in.

What I’ve learned since Dallas came back to our house is that I like him. Dads love their sons, but not all like them. When the boy left home at eighteen, he and I didn’t always see eye to eye, meaning he didn’t do all that I demanded. That led to some tense moments. Now, Dallas is a college graduate, and I keep telling him that “it’s all good.” He’s completed the biggest dream I had for him. We spend much of our time teasing each other, but we also find moments to have serious discussions. I respect and admire the person my son has become.

Dallas moved home to begin a job with a company. He completed his training, but since then he hasn’t heard a word. He’s going back to Chattanooga to look for a position and also to find some part-time work. More than anything else, he’s going “HOME” where his life has been for the last seven years. I’d just gotten comfortable with his return. Amy and I are going to be just a bit lonely without him, but what’s most important is his happiness. We’ll just have to readjust our previous adjustments.

Grandparent Discipline

2010-01-31T20:56:00.001-05:00

In times gone by, families were more than just mom, dad, and the kids. Grandparents were integral parts of what we call family. They lived close enough to see any time, and they served as baby sitters and stand-in parents. That job also included administering discipline at times.

Our maternal grandparents lived not more than a mile from us. In fact, Cureton Road was named after Mamaw Balch’s family. When our parents were in a bind, they went to them to care for us. Sometimes it was at our house, but many times we stayed at their little home.

If we misbehaved both adults would put the hammer down on us. Mamaw was as slight woman, barely more than five feet tall. She was a faithful bible reader and every day she listened to radio preachers and singers. If the situation demanded, Mamaw would dole out discipline of a harsh nature. She administered a tongue lashing that cut to the quick. With every sentence, the misbehaving child felt whittled smaller and smaller. At the end, a weak-voiced “sorry” came from the one of us that was in trouble.

Papaw Balch believed in a stiffer punishment, what some of us call a “come to Jesus meeting.” A swat on the bottom with a hand, paddle, or switch is what he preferred. The man stood six feet, two inches tall and towered over us. His voice didn’t intimidate us until his anger rose. Then, his face contorted and he growled. Punishment would be swift and certain.

On one visit to their house, Jim did something that earned him a correction from Papaw. The big man grabbed my brother by one arm and half lifted him from the ground. His massive hand popped Jim’s backside twice. My brother bawled like calf, more surprised that Papaw would spank him than from physical pain.
“That’s half what you’re gonna get.”

Jim was traumatized for days. He fretted over when the next part of the whipping. It became almost unbearable, and the next time he saw Papaw, Jim asked when if he could have the other half of his spanking. Papaw laughed and then told Jim there wouldn’t be any more punishment.

Punishment by parents is bad enough. When grandparents become bad guys to children, it’s earthshaking. The older folks are supposed to be the ones who spoil children rotten and then send them home. I admit that I can be stern with Madden at times. I think it’s happened on, maybe, two occasions. I’ve not swatted his padded bottom, but the teacher look and a growling voice have come out. The tears flowed, and I felt like a monster. I discovered that in just a few minutes my grandson and I were friends again.

I don’t recall disciplining my own children as being so difficult. Of course, I lived with them 24—7. Although we live far apart, Amy and I plan to spend as much time as possible with Madden and correct him when he needs it. That’s not to say that our hearts won’t break when the boy tears up.

WELCOMING NEW FRIENDS

2010-01-25T06:39:00.000-05:00

Well, life is filled with changes, and this is a big one for me. The paper for which I write wanted a different type of column from me. They did allow me to include a link to this web site. For many of you, that's why you're here. THANKS FOR MAKING THE JOURNEY!

What I'll do each Monday is post a new column like the ones that used to appear in the paper. Just follow the link that you find in the paper. Maybe you can add it to your bookmarks so that it will be handy. While you are here, why not become a member of Rector's Readers? It's easy to do. Just click on the link at the left of the page and follow the steps. I'd like to have hundreds of you as followers.

I'll miss the newspaper connection that I've developed with people over the last few years. Let's keep in touch and make this blog one of the most popular. I'll try to write pieces that are interesting and fun.

Thanks for dropping by. Please keep in touch. I hate losing friends.

Clearing Land

2010-01-25T06:28:00.000-05:00

I’ve been cleaning the lot beside our house the last few days. Most every muscle in my body is knotted and sore from swinging an axe, sickle, and mattock. The work’s been hard but fun, and knocking around there reminded my past.
In one spot fencing and barbed wire are gnarled with vines and ground. It’s the location of the old pig sty. Mother and Daddy kept hogs in that spot before Jim and I were born. Twice a day, she would tote a five gallon bucket filled with water to the pin that was located about three hundred feet up an incline. She also carried food to them.
Mother used to take our older brother Dal with her on the chores. On one occasion, she was busy about her chores and couldn’t find him when she turned back around. In a panic Mother looked for him, and her fears that he’d gotten in with the pigs had her almost hysterical, something that just didn’t happen. She finally discovered him in another area of the woods where Dal had wandered off to play.
It was on this lot that some of the biggest adventures Jim and I shared took place. I remember having our toy guns and rifles and crawling through the woods there as we escaped German soldiers in make believe games of war. That was when such play wasn’t considered inappropriate or harmful to a child’s psyche. We also built a lean-to from pine limbs. It served as teepee where we took turns as either cowboys or Indians, a game that today would be called cowboys and Native Americans.
It was in that general area that Dal tormented Jim and me. He was the babysitter when our parents were at work or school and demand that we do what he wanted. When we refused, Dal walked out the back door with news that he was running away. He left the two of us, probably no older than six or seven and scared to death wailing for him. Our older brother stood at the edge of the woods for a few minutes before returning. Jim and I gladly made his lunch and poured his drinks.
In the fall when we played there, one of us would feel the slap of a limb across an eye as we navigated the underbrush just before sundown. We’d go home whining about how much the affected eye hurt. Mother would be at the stove fixing supper, and she had little patience for such complaining. Her advice was to get a wash cloth, put it on our the scratched eye, and go lie down in a dark room. We did so, and the discomfort subsided. When we awoke the next morning, the eye problem was gone, just a Mother had promised.
My neighbor Mr. Nelson used to burn brush on that lot. He taught me the best way to perform the job was to wait for a snowfall. Then he poured kerosene on the pile and when the fire started, he used a leaf blower to stoke the flames until the blaze resembled a blast furnace. I still use that same method when I burn.
This lot needed some attention to clear its blemished surface. It didn’t take long for the memories to flood back, and feeling young for a while made the soreness of my muscles a bit easier to take.

Finding Comfort

2010-01-11T13:34:00.000-05:00

The week between Christmas and New Year was a busy one. I traveled to Cookeville to pack the last of the things in that house and then made sure they were loaded on the moving van. Next Amy and I met the movers in Nashville and they toted the stuff up a flight of stairs and into the small condo we purchased. It’s only two miles from our daughter’s home and, more important, only two miles from grandson Madden.

This condo is an older one. Built in the 1980’s, it has just enough room to house us and hold family when they drop by. Walls beg for a coat of paint, fixtures in the kitchen and bathrooms are dated, and the cabinet doors in the kitchen are warped or stained. The price was right, however, and we didn’t have to shell out exorbitant amounts of cash for the place.

Amy and I liked the place the first time we viewed it. Neither of us could say exactly why, but it was the one we kept coming back to as we looked at and compared at least twenty residences. It wasn’t the best or worst of what we viewed, but this condo had something none of the others had: comfort.

For some reason, we were comfortable from our first entrance. That didn’t changes as our stuff began to fill the space. At least fifty boxes held glassware, pots and pans, and miscellaneous items (things thrown in because they don’t fit anywhere or were found at the last minute). It took two and a half days to open those boxes and store the items, a process that might have been quicker if my wife hadn’t felt the need to wash every plate and cup.

Few things make a new place homey like a bed. We set ours up, and put on fresh sheets. Pillows that held or unique indentations lay atop the spread and waited for us to pour our tired bodies into the bed. Clothes were dispatched to familiar dresser drawers, and clocks, eye glasses and remote controls were placed in familiar locations.

The best part of this new part-time home is the living room. It is part of one large room that also includes a dining area. We sent a couch from Knoxville for sitting and got rid of the one in Cookeville that was as comfortable as a rock. We also sent our end tables and coffee table.

Other than the bed, the best pieces in the place are two platform rockers. One belonged to my dad. I can still seem him sitting in it with his feet upon the ottoman as my twin brother rubbed Deep Heat into his swollen ankles. The other rocker belonged to my father-in-law, Isaac Netherton. I remember him propped up in that rocker with a box on his lap. He’d watch television and whittle for hours. Both men were never more relaxed than when they sat in their favorite chairs.

An old familiar idiom says that “familiarity breeds contempt.” In our case with this new residence, “familiarity breeds contentment.” We’ll enjoy our new home away from home.

New Year's Resolutions--Maybe

2010-01-04T07:21:00.000-05:00

I’m contemplating what, if any, resolutions to declare for the New Year. Over time, I’ve made plenty of them, but most of them fell by the way side before long. However, some of the most important ones I managed to carry through.

The resolutions began as soon as I had a life outside the house. As a teen, I promised myself to do better in school. That included actually bringing my text books home, reading them, and completing homework assignments. As I’ve admitted to everyone before, those promises lasted until school opened after Christmas breaks. Then I was back on the slide. Not until college were those resolutions fulfilled.

When Amy and I first married, life was different. Too many times I said things that hurt her feelings. With each year, the resolution to be a better husband was uttered. I swore that I’d take on more chores, be more understanding, and be more attentive. For awhile life ran smoothly and I carried through with those things, but before long, I’d forget to something or roll my eyes when Amy told me something. It’s a wonder that she put up with me. I am lucky that she loved me in spite of my failures to keep my resolutions.

As a dad, I promised to be more patient. Folks who knew me realized the resolution was in impossibility to keep. So was the one that dealt with being loud and bullish. Lacey and Dallas learned to flip the switch so they didn’t hear my growling.

I’d never run a mile in my life as a teen or younger man. When one of our friends died, my brother and I decided it was time to get some serious exercise. I resolved to begin running. At first a half lap around a track caused gasps and stitches in side. Eventually, I ran two miles every other day and even ran in a couple of 5K events at the school. Back surgery was the only thing that could stop my running in all types of weather or whatever city I was in.

A few years ago, my older brother Dal died of lung cancer. He, Daddy, and Mother all died the same way. Dal had just turned 54 a couple of weeks before he passed. Daddy was 53 when he died. The year that I was to turn 52, I made the resolution to quit smoking. If not, I felt sure I’d be dead within another year. The process of quitting was tough and required relaxation therapy, a strict plan for cutting down and then quitting, and something I didn’t realize existed inside—willpower. That was seven years ago, and it’s hard to believe I quit.

Over the last few months, I’ve put on some weight, and it’s not comfortable. Trying to lose a few pounds during the holiday season is an exercise in futility. So, I’ve already decided that the main 2010 resolution will be to cut some poundage before summer. With luck I will find the willpower to stick with the diet. If not, the problem will grow—and so will I.

Green Is the Color this December

2009-12-21T14:42:00.000-05:00

Amy and I celebrate our 35th anniversary this December. That doesn’t seem possible, especially when I realize that she and I have spent much more than half of our lives together. The appropriate gifts for a 35th year are jade and coral. The color green perfectly describes the years we’ve spent together.

When we married, I was 22, and my bride was 19. Some might ask what we were thinking. The answer is we couldn’t live without each other. I left Amy in Cookeville in August to begin my teaching career but returned in December to marry her.

We were green horns in our new life together. So many things were waiting to be learned about marriage. We were on our own and had responsibility for paying bills and come up with tuition so Amy could complete her degree at UT. She worked part time and even joined the Army Reserves to bring in extra cash.

I never have understood why Amy married me. I’m only average in looks at best, while she has always been dazzlingly beautiful. The woman had her pick of guys, but in the end, she chose me. Over the years, my insecurity fed a jealous streak. When she left for summer camps with those reserves, I was green with jealousy, even though Amy never gave me any reason to feel that way.

We enjoyed our lives together for seven years before Lacey was born. During the pregnancy, the green came as Amy experienced morning sickness. She lived on crackers for some time before things settled down. When our daughter decided to make her appearance, green was the color of my face in the delivery room.

Dallas arrived a few years later. He and Amy both have green eyes, and they can look into a person’s soul. I’ve never been able to hide much from either of them. Both are quiet persons who are slow to anger and react. It’s that approach that drives me crazy. I’m impulsive; I want something done immediately. On so many occasions, I’ve had to admit that my wife was right. Ouch!

Amy Alice Moore Rector is an incredible woman. She’s been a wonderful mother, as is seen by the devotion to her by Lacey and Dallas. At work, Amy is respected as a caring manager and friend. Her extended family members recognize her as a loving niece and loyal cousin.

I’m the luckiest person of all. I’ve been blessed with a wife who has stuck with me through good and bad. Sometimes our road has been so rocky that we almost stumbled, but together we managed to right the course. Amy has taken care of our financial situation so that we have a comfortable home and dependable vehicles.
Most of all, Amy has put up with me. She’s loved me in spite of myself. She’s ignored my bad moods and sometimes stupid actions. In the end, Amy has stood on the other side of those things with patience and love.

This year is our green year. I hope the jade necklace that I have for her in some way can express my gratitude and love, even more now than on December 20, 1974.

Digging Out the Christmas Tree

2009-12-14T08:43:00.001-05:00

I retrieved the Christmas tree from the basement, took the blower out to knock off any cobwebs and dust bunnies, and toted it to the living room. Sometime today, Amy and I will find the time to decorate it for the holiday season. I’m glad to see that old tree. It was absent from our house last year.

For a while, we’ve spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in Cookeville. Amy’s mom wasn’t able to travel anymore. Her weakening body, failing health, and dependence upon dialysis made it impossible to her to make the journey to Knoxville. I always swore that Christmas Day would find me at home in Knoxville for at least part of the day. People who know me realize that I’m prone to make such rash statements without giving a moment’s thought to the future.

To them, it was no surprise to see me pack the car and aim our car west. There we met our children, Amy’s mom, and Aunt Mildred. The day was different but okay as long as we were surrounded by those we loved. The food was still good, the presents more than I deserved, and the sharing priceless.

Because our holiday was spent away from home, last year I decided not to decorate the house. I asked myself what was the use to expend so much energy hanging lights, decorating the tree, and scattering knick-knacks throughout the house. The only ones who would see those things were Amy and me. Then they’d be repacked and stowed away for another year. It was time to be LOGICAL, not emotional.

Decorations stayed in their containers, and the tree remained lonely in the basement with mowers, power tools, and wheel barrows. My spirits somehow remained tucked away some place.

The fact is that those festive items are the very things that spark in me the excitement of Christmas. As children, we decorated the tree with our mother as daddy sat and watched. Mother put out the manger scene that now is in my daughter’s home. Wreaths were in the windows. Our house was warm with the excitement of the season.

When the kids were young, we continued the tradition. The family decorated the tree with music or a holiday television special on the television. The strands of lights were never turned on until all the decorations were hung. Every other light in the house was turned off, and then the tree was plugged in. Amy, Lacey, Dallas, and I sat quietly around the tree and let the thrill of Christmas sink in.
Last year a case of “Bah humbug” invaded. My eyes were blinded to the real reason trees and wreaths and Santa figures. That led to a depressing situation. I’d sucked the joy out of Christmas by being too lazy to follow traditions.

Even at fifty-seven, I’m learning about life. This year that Christmas tree will be decorated and brightly lit. The porch is already decorated with lights. Amy will pull out a couple of boxes of doodads to place on tables and shelves. From now on, I won’t complain a minute. I know how my good cheer is tied to those symbols. A Christmas tree is the kindling for happiness during the season.