The other Sunday at church, the youth were in charge of the service. It’s called the “Hanging of the Greens,” and the older kids read parts explaining things such as Christmas trees, chrismons, wreaths, and candles. At one point, the youngest children were ushered in to sing a couple of songs. Some were dressed in wise men costumes. The youngest wore white outfits and had silver wings. They reminded me of Christmas programs at church when I was a little person.
Most of the church programs at Beaver Ridge Methodist Church, where I attended back then, included a choir loft filled with children. Mrs. Kirkland was a member who took on the duties of teaching us children the songs to be sung. Each Sunday morning in the late fall, we sat in a group and sang songs before attending our individual classes. During those early years, singing is so much fun. Kids that age aren’t self-conscious; they belt out songs with all the excitement and energy in their beings.
As the Christmas season drew closer, Mrs. Kirkland demanded that rehearsals be held after school on a couple of occasions. Most of the group already knew the songs that were to be preformed. The concern was over how children would react when they had to sing in the choir loft in front of a church filled with adoring parents and others. Practicing the singing only made sure that we got everything right.
Most people don’t aren’t so sure that I can sing a note, but back in the day, I had a good enough voice to be given a solo on occasion. One year, my brother Jim, Mike Guinn, and I sang “We Three Kings.” We stood in front of the church and were scared stiff; somehow we managed to get through that song without passing out or making mistakes.
Another year, those in charge decided to put on a play. “The Littlest Angel” included a plot and songs. Jim was chosen to play the part of the littlest angel. Folks who know Jim find it hard to believe that he could pull off a convincing performance in that role, but he did.
Those Christmas programs were always fun. They signaled the beginning of the season to us, and Santa always made an appearance to pass out gifts at the end of the program. Each member of the choir wore a cape that Mother had sewn. I’ll bet the number was well over thirty, but each child’s cape was identical, and we all looked like those kids on Christmas cards who are singing at the altar.
A new song or two might have been introduced each year, but the ones that meant the most were familiar Christmas carols. “Silent Night,” “Away in a Manger,” and O Little Town of Bethlehem” never sound as sweet or magical or reverent as when they’re sung by a group of little children. All of those traditional songs have stuck with children as they have gone through life. The oldest member of a congregation can let lose and sing them and never worry a minute whether or not his or her efforts will fall in discord on others’ ears.
When the service ended the other Sunday, I found Cindy Pearman, who directed the little ones as they sang. I gave her a hug and thanked her for making that Sunday a special one. Cindy and others worked tirelessly to teach children the wondrous songs of Christmas. I’d like to have the opportunity to say a thank you to Mrs. Kirkland, Mother, and the other women from my childhood for doing the same. I suppose the good lord will have to pass the message along to them for me.
I hope everyone takes a few minutes to sing those Christmas carols that bring back wonderful memories of life and Christmas.
Christmas Changes
Christmas has changed a lot in the last couple of years. Amy’s mom doesn’t travel as well since she began dialysis three times a week. Dallas is in Chattanooga, and although he is with us on Christmas, it’s easy to see his squirming and desire to get back home to his life. Who can blame him? Our daughter Lacey and son-in-law Nick now have a son, Madden, and it’s a sure bet that before long, they’ll spend Christmas at home in Nashville instead of traveling to Knoxville and Huntsville, the two cities where parents live. When I think about it, changes during the holiday season have come about for years.
The first serious change in our Christmas came in 1965. Daddy died in August of that year. All of us were in a fog as we tried to get through a rough situation. Jim and I got new bikes, and although we were appreciative, the gifts in no way filled the void that was left. Mother cooked another huge meal that fed extended family, but the day would have been better if Jim, Dal, Mother, and I had spent the day by ourselves.
A year later, Dal was dating Brenda, his future wife. Jim and I didn’t take to her at first. She was a stranger intruding in our Christmas. Dal spent all of his time with Brenda, and we were jealous. As the years passed, Brenda became an important part of our lives and member of our family, and Christmases would have been bluer without her. A few years later, Jim married his Brenda, and I was jealous of him. Another change came, and I felt left out.
In 1974, Amy and I were married on December 20. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t home for the holidays. We spent Christmas Eve with Amy’s family and hit the floor early Christmas morning to make the one hundred mile drive home. I admit my mood was surly, and I doubted this plan would ever catch on.
In 1976 Jim’s son was born, and our Christmas took a different spin. As he grew older and got toys from Santa, Brandon expected us to play with him. Amy and I got him several toy percussion instruments one year. He passed them out, and we all marched through the house playing drums, cymbals, triangles, and other things that made plenty of noise.
Lacey and Mindy both came along in 1981, and Dallas was born in 1985. The house was filled with kids and noise and toys. We still made the trip to Cookeville for the first three years that Lacey was around. Then Amy told her parents that they’d need to come to Knoxville. So, they came, and brought Amy’s uncle and aunt with them. It was an adjustment having so many people in the house for Christmas Eve, Christmas, and the day after, but before long Christmas didn’t seem right without our Cookeville family. Being home with my brothers and their wives, Mother, and kids made for a good holiday.
For the second year now, we are back in Cookeville. Our Christmas Day is spent there. Lacey, Nick, and Dallas make the trip, and we share the special time. We all miss home and Jim’s family. Mother and Dal have passed, and Brenda stays in Nashville with her brood. New places and fewer loved ones change the holiday.
Madden will soon know what’s going on for Christmas. Then things will change again. I can see us making the trip to Nashville that day to watch the first grandchild open his presents. The whole Christmas routine will have come full circle. It will be Amy and I making the trips to our children’s homes, and that’s the way it should be. The change will eventually become the norm.
The first serious change in our Christmas came in 1965. Daddy died in August of that year. All of us were in a fog as we tried to get through a rough situation. Jim and I got new bikes, and although we were appreciative, the gifts in no way filled the void that was left. Mother cooked another huge meal that fed extended family, but the day would have been better if Jim, Dal, Mother, and I had spent the day by ourselves.
A year later, Dal was dating Brenda, his future wife. Jim and I didn’t take to her at first. She was a stranger intruding in our Christmas. Dal spent all of his time with Brenda, and we were jealous. As the years passed, Brenda became an important part of our lives and member of our family, and Christmases would have been bluer without her. A few years later, Jim married his Brenda, and I was jealous of him. Another change came, and I felt left out.
In 1974, Amy and I were married on December 20. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t home for the holidays. We spent Christmas Eve with Amy’s family and hit the floor early Christmas morning to make the one hundred mile drive home. I admit my mood was surly, and I doubted this plan would ever catch on.
In 1976 Jim’s son was born, and our Christmas took a different spin. As he grew older and got toys from Santa, Brandon expected us to play with him. Amy and I got him several toy percussion instruments one year. He passed them out, and we all marched through the house playing drums, cymbals, triangles, and other things that made plenty of noise.
Lacey and Mindy both came along in 1981, and Dallas was born in 1985. The house was filled with kids and noise and toys. We still made the trip to Cookeville for the first three years that Lacey was around. Then Amy told her parents that they’d need to come to Knoxville. So, they came, and brought Amy’s uncle and aunt with them. It was an adjustment having so many people in the house for Christmas Eve, Christmas, and the day after, but before long Christmas didn’t seem right without our Cookeville family. Being home with my brothers and their wives, Mother, and kids made for a good holiday.
For the second year now, we are back in Cookeville. Our Christmas Day is spent there. Lacey, Nick, and Dallas make the trip, and we share the special time. We all miss home and Jim’s family. Mother and Dal have passed, and Brenda stays in Nashville with her brood. New places and fewer loved ones change the holiday.
Madden will soon know what’s going on for Christmas. Then things will change again. I can see us making the trip to Nashville that day to watch the first grandchild open his presents. The whole Christmas routine will have come full circle. It will be Amy and I making the trips to our children’s homes, and that’s the way it should be. The change will eventually become the norm.
Pushing the Right Buttons
Sometimes we parents scratch our heads and wonder how we’ll survive life with our children. Sure, moms gush over newborns, and dads strut with pride over the child. In most cases, life runs with few problems until those gifts from above are riddled with hormones. Then adults wonder how they can ever do the right thing.
I was the same way. Lacey was an independent child from the moment she entered the world. She is my daughter, but because of her mother, Lacey was and is an intelligent child. Mixing an independent streak with intelligence is a sure recipe for upheaval in a family.
At one time, my daughter announced that she’d like to leave home and never come back. She was fourteen at the time, and if I wouldn’t have been arrested for child abuse, I’d have helped pack her bags. Our house was a war zone—Lacey on one side, me on the other, and Amy as the U.N. peace-keeping presence. The battles were often fraught with harsh words and hot tears.
An uneasy truce was called during Lacey’s last summer at home before college. She’d graduated from high school early and worked to make some extra money. We loaded the car the following August and carried her away to Middle Tennessee State University. Her plan was to earn a degree in recording industry management and then move to England to work in the business. After getting all her possessions placed into her dorm room and making idle small talk, we left for home. In the blink of an eye Lacey’s whole world had changed. Her wish had been granted; she was on her own.
The first two weeks of college, Lacey was miserable in her homesickness. She called home and cried, and we did too. Even after all the rough times, the bottom line was that we loved each other and needed each other. We were FAMILY. Nothing could change that. It took only two weeks before my little girl came back to us for good.
Dallas tried to be the perfect child after Lacey left home. He didn’t like the fights we’d had when she was home, and he made a vow that things would be different. Since he’s been in college in Chattanooga, I’ve shaken my head at some of the things he’s done. A change in majors and a setback here or there has thrown him off “my” schedule for his graduation. Dallas is so much like his mother that I don’t get much of what he does and even less of what he thinks. Still, that boy is my son, and no father could ever be as proud as I am. He is loving, giving, and unpretentious. Some girl is going to be lucky to have him as a husband.
Amy and I visited Nashville recently. Our grandson Madden was to be baptized, and Lacey wanted us to be present for the occasion. We spent a wonderful weekend with Lacey, Nick, Madden and Dallas. My son was the first to leave for home. When he did, the party balloon deflated and was replaced with a blue funk. When our time to leave came, the tears flowed from mother and daughter. Observers might have thought Amy was upset about leaving Madden, and that was part of the story. However, her biggest reason for crying was that she didn’t want to leave Lacey. The two have developed a tighter bond over the years, and now they share those special secrets that only mothers can.
The ride was quiet on the way back to Knoxville. I thought about my two children and said a prayer of thanks. They are good people who love and are loved. Some way, some how, Amy and I pushed most of the right buttons. The proof is in the fact that Lacey and Dallas have grown to be the kind of humans that they are. Thank you lord!
I was the same way. Lacey was an independent child from the moment she entered the world. She is my daughter, but because of her mother, Lacey was and is an intelligent child. Mixing an independent streak with intelligence is a sure recipe for upheaval in a family.
At one time, my daughter announced that she’d like to leave home and never come back. She was fourteen at the time, and if I wouldn’t have been arrested for child abuse, I’d have helped pack her bags. Our house was a war zone—Lacey on one side, me on the other, and Amy as the U.N. peace-keeping presence. The battles were often fraught with harsh words and hot tears.
An uneasy truce was called during Lacey’s last summer at home before college. She’d graduated from high school early and worked to make some extra money. We loaded the car the following August and carried her away to Middle Tennessee State University. Her plan was to earn a degree in recording industry management and then move to England to work in the business. After getting all her possessions placed into her dorm room and making idle small talk, we left for home. In the blink of an eye Lacey’s whole world had changed. Her wish had been granted; she was on her own.
The first two weeks of college, Lacey was miserable in her homesickness. She called home and cried, and we did too. Even after all the rough times, the bottom line was that we loved each other and needed each other. We were FAMILY. Nothing could change that. It took only two weeks before my little girl came back to us for good.
Dallas tried to be the perfect child after Lacey left home. He didn’t like the fights we’d had when she was home, and he made a vow that things would be different. Since he’s been in college in Chattanooga, I’ve shaken my head at some of the things he’s done. A change in majors and a setback here or there has thrown him off “my” schedule for his graduation. Dallas is so much like his mother that I don’t get much of what he does and even less of what he thinks. Still, that boy is my son, and no father could ever be as proud as I am. He is loving, giving, and unpretentious. Some girl is going to be lucky to have him as a husband.
Amy and I visited Nashville recently. Our grandson Madden was to be baptized, and Lacey wanted us to be present for the occasion. We spent a wonderful weekend with Lacey, Nick, Madden and Dallas. My son was the first to leave for home. When he did, the party balloon deflated and was replaced with a blue funk. When our time to leave came, the tears flowed from mother and daughter. Observers might have thought Amy was upset about leaving Madden, and that was part of the story. However, her biggest reason for crying was that she didn’t want to leave Lacey. The two have developed a tighter bond over the years, and now they share those special secrets that only mothers can.
The ride was quiet on the way back to Knoxville. I thought about my two children and said a prayer of thanks. They are good people who love and are loved. Some way, some how, Amy and I pushed most of the right buttons. The proof is in the fact that Lacey and Dallas have grown to be the kind of humans that they are. Thank you lord!
Memories Sparked by a Parking Space
Amy and I try to make a trip to Cookeville every couple of weeks or so. It’s Amy’s hometown and the place where her mother, Mary Alice, lives. She undergoes dialysis Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday and must arrive at the center about 6:00 a.m.
I volunteer to take Amy’s mom to the center on Saturday morning when we’re in town. Because Cookeville is on Central Standard Time, I have little problem getting up and making sure we’re prompt for her sessions. I also enjoy driving around Cookeville and the Tennessee Tech campus before I pick up Mary Alice for her appointment. The trip around the college is filled with memories.
Each visit, I make sure to pass the football stadium. During my years at TTU, the football team played powerful games. NFL players such as Jim Youngblood (L.A. Rams), Mike Hennigan (N.Y. Jets), and Elois Grooms (N.O. Saints) gave opposing OVC teams fits in the early 70’s. The TTU band presented precision shows, and the music they played was entertaining. The parking lot on the south side of the stadium is smaller now than during my years in school. Commuters parked at the site during the day, but in the evenings it was loaded with couples who searched for a bit of privacy. In those days, no member of the opposite sex could visit another resident except on special occasions. The parking lot became a place for couples to see each other and not be harassed. The campus police patrolled the lot to keep it safe from would-be troublemakers.
Another place I always visit is the men’s dormitory area. The old Smith Quad has been demolished and with it went many memories; in its place stands the new nursing school. Capitol Quad brings back memories as well. I can still see “buck-naked” guys sliding down hallways that had been covered with water and washing powder. Those “Tide Slides” caused messes, but they offered a little fun and relief to guys who usually studied hard. I shake my head when I recall the idiot who stood on the roof of one five-floor dorm and refused to come down until he could seen the funnel cloud of an approaching tornado. Most of all, I close my eyes and relive the evening that Amy stopped by my head resident apartment on her way to a wedding. I’d never seen her so dressed up, and she simply took my breath.
My favorite place to visit on a trip to TTU is the back parking lot at the student center. There, a parking spot is important to my life. Facing the lot from the student center, the space is the first one right of center in the row at the top of a set of steps. I parked there one day and saw Amy jogging with her P.E. class. We’d had our first date the weekend before, and I remember how embarrassed she was that I’d seen her without make-up and in gym clothes. That same spot became more special a few weeks later when Amy and I stood at the back of my VW Beetle and declared our love for each other. I have a vivid picture of the moment, even though it happened 35 years ago.
This coming weekend, we make another trip to Cookeville. On Saturday morning, I’ll again make the trip to get Mary Alice. Before I pick her up, however, I’ll re-visit those places on the campus of Tennessee Tech University. Who’d have ever thought that such wonderful memories could be sparked by a parking space?
I volunteer to take Amy’s mom to the center on Saturday morning when we’re in town. Because Cookeville is on Central Standard Time, I have little problem getting up and making sure we’re prompt for her sessions. I also enjoy driving around Cookeville and the Tennessee Tech campus before I pick up Mary Alice for her appointment. The trip around the college is filled with memories.
Each visit, I make sure to pass the football stadium. During my years at TTU, the football team played powerful games. NFL players such as Jim Youngblood (L.A. Rams), Mike Hennigan (N.Y. Jets), and Elois Grooms (N.O. Saints) gave opposing OVC teams fits in the early 70’s. The TTU band presented precision shows, and the music they played was entertaining. The parking lot on the south side of the stadium is smaller now than during my years in school. Commuters parked at the site during the day, but in the evenings it was loaded with couples who searched for a bit of privacy. In those days, no member of the opposite sex could visit another resident except on special occasions. The parking lot became a place for couples to see each other and not be harassed. The campus police patrolled the lot to keep it safe from would-be troublemakers.
Another place I always visit is the men’s dormitory area. The old Smith Quad has been demolished and with it went many memories; in its place stands the new nursing school. Capitol Quad brings back memories as well. I can still see “buck-naked” guys sliding down hallways that had been covered with water and washing powder. Those “Tide Slides” caused messes, but they offered a little fun and relief to guys who usually studied hard. I shake my head when I recall the idiot who stood on the roof of one five-floor dorm and refused to come down until he could seen the funnel cloud of an approaching tornado. Most of all, I close my eyes and relive the evening that Amy stopped by my head resident apartment on her way to a wedding. I’d never seen her so dressed up, and she simply took my breath.
My favorite place to visit on a trip to TTU is the back parking lot at the student center. There, a parking spot is important to my life. Facing the lot from the student center, the space is the first one right of center in the row at the top of a set of steps. I parked there one day and saw Amy jogging with her P.E. class. We’d had our first date the weekend before, and I remember how embarrassed she was that I’d seen her without make-up and in gym clothes. That same spot became more special a few weeks later when Amy and I stood at the back of my VW Beetle and declared our love for each other. I have a vivid picture of the moment, even though it happened 35 years ago.
This coming weekend, we make another trip to Cookeville. On Saturday morning, I’ll again make the trip to get Mary Alice. Before I pick her up, however, I’ll re-visit those places on the campus of Tennessee Tech University. Who’d have ever thought that such wonderful memories could be sparked by a parking space?
A Part Time Job
Well, school’s been in session for some time, and so far, I haven’t missed it. I’ve been able to fill the time with a variety of activities: games of golf, interviews for news stories, completion of “honey-do’s.” I keep waiting for what people told me would be that empty feeling. Thankfully, it hasn’t shown its ugly face. Still, it looks as if I’ll have to scout out a part time job.
For one thing, I am a social creature. Other people are important. I’ve spent most of my retired days by myself, except for my little buddy Snoop. If there’s one thing I do miss from my teaching career, it’s the communication with fellow teachers and with students. Laughing at jokes and engaging in heated arguments are things that I’ve always enjoyed. Snoop is good company, but the only communication coming from him is an occasional bark and constant growling. I figure he’s had enough of my being home all the time. It cuts into his sleep time. A part time job will allow me to be with people and Snoop to catch up on some much needed rest.
Another reason for finding a job is that the extra income will come in handy. I’m not going to make a fortune, but what money I bring in will level the financial playing field to what it was before calling it quits. The cash can pay a couple of small bills, and some of it might be squirreled away for a weekend trip to some place that Amy might like to go.
Working somewhere also gives a bit more structure to life. Whether or not they admit it, people feel better with a daily routine. It sets the parameters for the things that come in life. Work takes a hunk of time, and we divvy up the rest for other things to which we are obligated or for recreational activities that we enjoy. For some, work dictates bed time. Having to put feet on the floor at 5:00 a.m. causes folks to turn in before Monday Night Football is over.
A part time job prevents some terrible things. One is boredom. I’m not close to being bored, but when cold weather arrives and I’m stuck inside, the days will grow much too long. Being a captive in the house leads to a miserable attitude that frustrates me and tortures Amy. Reporting to work stops folks from taking themselves too seriously. Excessive amounts of time bring on worries over things that aren’t. We imagine the problems and let them grow until they’ve consumed and smothered us in a gray funk.
I know I will need to find a part time job before long. Doing so will keep everyone in my life happy. I don’t want to work more than a couple of days each week, just enough to get me out of the house and to make some extra “jingle.” To put more time than that in a job would defeat the purpose of retirement. Worse than that, too many hours at work will greatly affect my writing time. That’s one of the reasons I felt good about leaving teaching so that I could spend more time at the keyboard.
I’ll see how things go and begin to look for that part time employment. I’d rather not work some in a business where former students and their parents will see me and ask, “What are you doing here?”
For one thing, I am a social creature. Other people are important. I’ve spent most of my retired days by myself, except for my little buddy Snoop. If there’s one thing I do miss from my teaching career, it’s the communication with fellow teachers and with students. Laughing at jokes and engaging in heated arguments are things that I’ve always enjoyed. Snoop is good company, but the only communication coming from him is an occasional bark and constant growling. I figure he’s had enough of my being home all the time. It cuts into his sleep time. A part time job will allow me to be with people and Snoop to catch up on some much needed rest.
Another reason for finding a job is that the extra income will come in handy. I’m not going to make a fortune, but what money I bring in will level the financial playing field to what it was before calling it quits. The cash can pay a couple of small bills, and some of it might be squirreled away for a weekend trip to some place that Amy might like to go.
Working somewhere also gives a bit more structure to life. Whether or not they admit it, people feel better with a daily routine. It sets the parameters for the things that come in life. Work takes a hunk of time, and we divvy up the rest for other things to which we are obligated or for recreational activities that we enjoy. For some, work dictates bed time. Having to put feet on the floor at 5:00 a.m. causes folks to turn in before Monday Night Football is over.
A part time job prevents some terrible things. One is boredom. I’m not close to being bored, but when cold weather arrives and I’m stuck inside, the days will grow much too long. Being a captive in the house leads to a miserable attitude that frustrates me and tortures Amy. Reporting to work stops folks from taking themselves too seriously. Excessive amounts of time bring on worries over things that aren’t. We imagine the problems and let them grow until they’ve consumed and smothered us in a gray funk.
I know I will need to find a part time job before long. Doing so will keep everyone in my life happy. I don’t want to work more than a couple of days each week, just enough to get me out of the house and to make some extra “jingle.” To put more time than that in a job would defeat the purpose of retirement. Worse than that, too many hours at work will greatly affect my writing time. That’s one of the reasons I felt good about leaving teaching so that I could spend more time at the keyboard.
I’ll see how things go and begin to look for that part time employment. I’d rather not work some in a business where former students and their parents will see me and ask, “What are you doing here?”
Buying a Car
The news says that the economy is sluggish at best. Skyrocketing fuel prices lead to more expensive clothing, appliances, and food. Gloom and doom set the mood for the country. With that outlook, it’d seem that car dealers would fall over each other in an effort to sell a vehicle. Instead, some of these businesses employ practices that have stained the industry’s reputation for years.
My old Pathfinder still chugs along, but it’s not dependable enough to take on a journey to Chattanooga or Nashville, cities where my kids live. The 2009 models were coming out, and I figured the time would be a good one to get a good deal. So, I visited dealerships in the area. What transpired is what only can be called nightmarish.
One dealer advertised a couple of used cars in the morning newspaper ads. One was a subcompact; the other a compact. The stated prices piqued my interest enough that I made the trip to the lot. I’d written down the stock numbers and registration numbers of the cars to make sure I got the right one. By 10:00 a.m. I arrived and waited for the first salesman to swoop in. He did in about a second and a half. I showed him the stock number of the first vehicle and told him I’d like to see it. He looked at his list, and then back at me.
“That ones not here anymore,” he said.
Stunned, I looked at him and said,
“How can that be? It was just advertised in the morning’s paper.”
Then, this guy has the gall to look at me with a straight face and reply,
“We sold it at 8:30 a.m.”
I glared at him in angry disbelief. However, I another car appealed to me, so I asked him about it. The salesman said he wasn’t familiar with that one. He suggested we go to the showroom so that he could look at the log sheet that listed all the cars. I followed him, all the while resigned to the belief that the day was going to be a bad one.
This salesman didn’t do anything to contradict my feelings after he came back to me in a couple of minutes.
“Hey, you’re not going to believe it, but we sold that car at 8:30 too. Man, we had people lined up and waiting to get to these babies!”
By then my mood had gone from excited to ticked off. I looked at the salesman and said,
“Don’t blow smoke up my tail. I was born at night, but not last night. You guys lied. It looks like a bait and switch move!”
As I turned on my heels to leave the showroom, I told the salesman loud enough for everyone in the place to hear that I would never buy a car from his business—EVER!
A salesman at another dealership told me he was giving me special deals because we had a mutual friend. I thanked him and told him the vehicle I wanted, and he gave me a figure. The close of business was near, so I contacted him the following morning and asked that he give me an “out-the-door” price for the car. He promised to call me back in “a few minutes” with the number. Two hours later I called again but could only leave a message since the salesman wasn’t available. Another two hours passed and I called the third time. The guy forgot what I wanted and faithfully promised to call me in a couple of minutes with the total. At 7:00 p.m. I called the last time.
Now remember, this guy is going to give me a special deal. What he gave me was the shaft. From the time I’d called him that morning until that evening, the price of the car had gone UP $2000.00. He offered some dribble about having to pay someone to make sure the new vehicle had all the fluids, that it was washed, blah, blah, blah.
I was furious by that time. I asked him why he wanted to treat me as he had done and called him out about the continuing hike in price. Then I told him to take the car and drive it up a dark orifice and that I’d go somewhere else to buy any future vehicles.
I bought a car, but it wasn’t from a dealership in town. I hate to buy cars anyway, and when guys jerk my chain as these salesmen did, I vow that my next car will be purchased from some little old lady who will at least tell the truth.
My old Pathfinder still chugs along, but it’s not dependable enough to take on a journey to Chattanooga or Nashville, cities where my kids live. The 2009 models were coming out, and I figured the time would be a good one to get a good deal. So, I visited dealerships in the area. What transpired is what only can be called nightmarish.
One dealer advertised a couple of used cars in the morning newspaper ads. One was a subcompact; the other a compact. The stated prices piqued my interest enough that I made the trip to the lot. I’d written down the stock numbers and registration numbers of the cars to make sure I got the right one. By 10:00 a.m. I arrived and waited for the first salesman to swoop in. He did in about a second and a half. I showed him the stock number of the first vehicle and told him I’d like to see it. He looked at his list, and then back at me.
“That ones not here anymore,” he said.
Stunned, I looked at him and said,
“How can that be? It was just advertised in the morning’s paper.”
Then, this guy has the gall to look at me with a straight face and reply,
“We sold it at 8:30 a.m.”
I glared at him in angry disbelief. However, I another car appealed to me, so I asked him about it. The salesman said he wasn’t familiar with that one. He suggested we go to the showroom so that he could look at the log sheet that listed all the cars. I followed him, all the while resigned to the belief that the day was going to be a bad one.
This salesman didn’t do anything to contradict my feelings after he came back to me in a couple of minutes.
“Hey, you’re not going to believe it, but we sold that car at 8:30 too. Man, we had people lined up and waiting to get to these babies!”
By then my mood had gone from excited to ticked off. I looked at the salesman and said,
“Don’t blow smoke up my tail. I was born at night, but not last night. You guys lied. It looks like a bait and switch move!”
As I turned on my heels to leave the showroom, I told the salesman loud enough for everyone in the place to hear that I would never buy a car from his business—EVER!
A salesman at another dealership told me he was giving me special deals because we had a mutual friend. I thanked him and told him the vehicle I wanted, and he gave me a figure. The close of business was near, so I contacted him the following morning and asked that he give me an “out-the-door” price for the car. He promised to call me back in “a few minutes” with the number. Two hours later I called again but could only leave a message since the salesman wasn’t available. Another two hours passed and I called the third time. The guy forgot what I wanted and faithfully promised to call me in a couple of minutes with the total. At 7:00 p.m. I called the last time.
Now remember, this guy is going to give me a special deal. What he gave me was the shaft. From the time I’d called him that morning until that evening, the price of the car had gone UP $2000.00. He offered some dribble about having to pay someone to make sure the new vehicle had all the fluids, that it was washed, blah, blah, blah.
I was furious by that time. I asked him why he wanted to treat me as he had done and called him out about the continuing hike in price. Then I told him to take the car and drive it up a dark orifice and that I’d go somewhere else to buy any future vehicles.
I bought a car, but it wasn’t from a dealership in town. I hate to buy cars anyway, and when guys jerk my chain as these salesmen did, I vow that my next car will be purchased from some little old lady who will at least tell the truth.
Summer Saturday Nights
One recent Saturday evening, Amy and I sat on our porch. The temperatures had cooled enough so that the ceiling fan provided enough circulation to keep us comfortable. We read a while, and when I took a break, the falling darkness surprised me. The time reminded me so much of earlier days of my life.
One part of Saturday evenings that I always remember is the rhythmic, repetitive song of the cicadas. They’d taken the place of birds that in the spring jabbered both night and day. The summer melodies were interrupted only by the bark of a dog or the occasional engine roar of a passing car. Trains passed constantly throughout the night, but we were too accustomed to the echoes of their horns and the zing of their wheels upon the rails to have paid any attention.
After the family came inside for the night, our ritual began. Mother had found a few minutes between washing clothes, working in the garden, and cooking meals to take a bath and fix her hair. Her head was covered in gray curls that were tightly wound and kept in place by what seemed to be hundreds of bobby pins. By evening, she’d taken her station at the ironing board where she worked through a basket of clothes. Scattered throughout the living room were pants stretchers that held jeans for Daddy and us three boys. Three pairs of boys’ shoes had been shined for the next day’s church, and clothes had been laid out.
Daddy had plopped down in his chair, a platform rocker, and hoisted his feet on the matching ottoman. My twin brother Jim sat in the floor and applied globs of Deep Heat to Daddy’s ankles that were perpetually swollen from standing on concrete floors throughout his work shifts. My older brother Dal and I found our places, and the five of us passed the time watching our favorite shows, “Perry Mason” and “Gunsmoke.”
Going to bed was a curse and a blessing. Summer nights were humid and provided only a whisper of a breeze coming through open bedroom windows. A box fan in the living room whirred as it tried to move air through the house, but the efforts were in vain. Dampness from the thick air fell on beds. The sheets held a fresh scent from having been dried on the fifty-foot, double clothes lines in the back yard, and they also were scratchy to the skin.
We’d taken our baths before bedtime but spent little time drying off with towels. That water and perspiration made pajamas stick to our skin and made beds all the more uncomfortable. Jim and I shared a room, and for too long we lay on twin beds and suffer through fits of giggles until Daddy came to the door with the final ultimatum: be quiet or face the belt. When we did lie still for just a couple of minutes, sleep that was so peaceful and deep came quickly, and we thought no more of discomfort from heat and humidity.
Oh, I appreciate air conditioning and cable television, and computers and all modern conveniences. Still, sitting on the porch after dark and looking toward the house where I grew up, I miss the people who were my world back those many years ago. A father, mother, and brother have passed. Jim is still here thankfully, and I am blessed with a wife, two children, a son-in-law, and a grandson. Folks don’t come outside much any more because we’re all spoiled by air conditioning. Locking ourselves inside sure deprives us of conjuring up memories of good times from years gone by. I hope that folks can spend some quiet time on a porch or in a chair out in the backyard so they too can recall summer Saturday nights.
One part of Saturday evenings that I always remember is the rhythmic, repetitive song of the cicadas. They’d taken the place of birds that in the spring jabbered both night and day. The summer melodies were interrupted only by the bark of a dog or the occasional engine roar of a passing car. Trains passed constantly throughout the night, but we were too accustomed to the echoes of their horns and the zing of their wheels upon the rails to have paid any attention.
After the family came inside for the night, our ritual began. Mother had found a few minutes between washing clothes, working in the garden, and cooking meals to take a bath and fix her hair. Her head was covered in gray curls that were tightly wound and kept in place by what seemed to be hundreds of bobby pins. By evening, she’d taken her station at the ironing board where she worked through a basket of clothes. Scattered throughout the living room were pants stretchers that held jeans for Daddy and us three boys. Three pairs of boys’ shoes had been shined for the next day’s church, and clothes had been laid out.
Daddy had plopped down in his chair, a platform rocker, and hoisted his feet on the matching ottoman. My twin brother Jim sat in the floor and applied globs of Deep Heat to Daddy’s ankles that were perpetually swollen from standing on concrete floors throughout his work shifts. My older brother Dal and I found our places, and the five of us passed the time watching our favorite shows, “Perry Mason” and “Gunsmoke.”
Going to bed was a curse and a blessing. Summer nights were humid and provided only a whisper of a breeze coming through open bedroom windows. A box fan in the living room whirred as it tried to move air through the house, but the efforts were in vain. Dampness from the thick air fell on beds. The sheets held a fresh scent from having been dried on the fifty-foot, double clothes lines in the back yard, and they also were scratchy to the skin.
We’d taken our baths before bedtime but spent little time drying off with towels. That water and perspiration made pajamas stick to our skin and made beds all the more uncomfortable. Jim and I shared a room, and for too long we lay on twin beds and suffer through fits of giggles until Daddy came to the door with the final ultimatum: be quiet or face the belt. When we did lie still for just a couple of minutes, sleep that was so peaceful and deep came quickly, and we thought no more of discomfort from heat and humidity.
Oh, I appreciate air conditioning and cable television, and computers and all modern conveniences. Still, sitting on the porch after dark and looking toward the house where I grew up, I miss the people who were my world back those many years ago. A father, mother, and brother have passed. Jim is still here thankfully, and I am blessed with a wife, two children, a son-in-law, and a grandson. Folks don’t come outside much any more because we’re all spoiled by air conditioning. Locking ourselves inside sure deprives us of conjuring up memories of good times from years gone by. I hope that folks can spend some quiet time on a porch or in a chair out in the backyard so they too can recall summer Saturday nights.
Beach Thoughts
Amy and I traveled to Treasure Island in Florida recently to attend our nephew’s wedding. He and bride Abbie were married on the beach in a laid-back, Jimmy Buffet-like setting. I spent more time on the beach an ever before, several things there made impressions on me.
I love the beach, but I always have managed to scorch my hide with an almost second-degree burns. For some reason, this visit to the beach we discovered beach umbrellas and chairs. Suddenly, the sand of the shoreline were pleasant. Most days Amy and I spent no fewer than five hours under that umbrella. We chased the shade with our chairs most of the day, and when we returned to our room, neither of us was burned in the least by the son. That was good news to a guy who’s already had one cancerous spot removed from his neck and now has two others that need to be checked. I can’t understand why we never rented them before. Maybe umbrellas weren’t available at other beaches, or maybe our budgets on previous occasions were so lean that we couldn’t make the investment. I know from now on I’ll have an umbrella, even if I have to buy one and tote it from place to place. I’ll have the chairs too so that sand doesn’t cover fill every crevice of my body.
I looked at plenty of bathing suits during that week. The young folks had cut bodies that sported two-piece suits that emphasized every curve. That’s as it should be. However, I saw all too many swim suits on older folks that mesmerized me. That’s because I couldn’t believe the oldsters were wearing them. One ol’ girl looked to be well into her seventh decade. I eavesdropped on her conversations enough to determine her home was Germany. This Frau wore a black bikini. Her rounded belly was offset with drooping shoulders and overly long arms that failed with swing rhythmically with her walk. Her husband wore a suit that was popular the seventies. It was about the length of a pair of basketball shorts from the same period. The attire accented his stark white legs that were so skinny that he could have sued them for nonsupport. He protected his head with a hat that looked as if it were the property of a yodeler in the Alps. Another guy was still wearing the same size trunks that he wore during his high school years. He now wore them low enough to let his belly hang over the waistband. The saddest outfit, however, was worn by an older man, probably in his late sixties. He toured the sands in his Speedo. Sure, the guy was in decent shape, but not good enough to wear something like that. It’s for sure that folks should take others into consideration before they squeeze themselves in swimwear.
Something else became clear during my beach observations: the differences between boy and girl children at play. Boys are surprisingly louder. A few little guys around the ages of five to seven left not doubt of their presence. Everything seemed to excite them because instead of talking they yelled with each small discovery. The tiniest shell or a palm frond in the surf drove them nuts. Throwing a Frisbee or a ball created excited yelps when they dove for them in the water or on the sands.
To the contrary, little girls were much quieter—most of the time. They went about building sand castles at the edge of the water. Those little ladies smiled with delight or they shaded their eyes with one hand across their brows and pointed to the sand creations with the others to parents who were sitting close by. Only when the water inched up and began to nibble away at the castles or when an evil brother did the same were those feminine voices raised in ire. Then, an ear-piercing scream that must have been akin to the ones let loose by the Sirens that caused men to crash ships upon the reefs was heard.
Amy and I spent a restful, pleasant week on the edge of the water of the Gulf of Mexico. I got plenty of sun and even managed to overdo it one day so that places that I can’t reach itch from sun poisoning. I also gained weight that hopefully will melt in the heat of the rest of the summer. I realized one more thing: going is nice, but arriving home is always a more wonderful feeling.
I love the beach, but I always have managed to scorch my hide with an almost second-degree burns. For some reason, this visit to the beach we discovered beach umbrellas and chairs. Suddenly, the sand of the shoreline were pleasant. Most days Amy and I spent no fewer than five hours under that umbrella. We chased the shade with our chairs most of the day, and when we returned to our room, neither of us was burned in the least by the son. That was good news to a guy who’s already had one cancerous spot removed from his neck and now has two others that need to be checked. I can’t understand why we never rented them before. Maybe umbrellas weren’t available at other beaches, or maybe our budgets on previous occasions were so lean that we couldn’t make the investment. I know from now on I’ll have an umbrella, even if I have to buy one and tote it from place to place. I’ll have the chairs too so that sand doesn’t cover fill every crevice of my body.
I looked at plenty of bathing suits during that week. The young folks had cut bodies that sported two-piece suits that emphasized every curve. That’s as it should be. However, I saw all too many swim suits on older folks that mesmerized me. That’s because I couldn’t believe the oldsters were wearing them. One ol’ girl looked to be well into her seventh decade. I eavesdropped on her conversations enough to determine her home was Germany. This Frau wore a black bikini. Her rounded belly was offset with drooping shoulders and overly long arms that failed with swing rhythmically with her walk. Her husband wore a suit that was popular the seventies. It was about the length of a pair of basketball shorts from the same period. The attire accented his stark white legs that were so skinny that he could have sued them for nonsupport. He protected his head with a hat that looked as if it were the property of a yodeler in the Alps. Another guy was still wearing the same size trunks that he wore during his high school years. He now wore them low enough to let his belly hang over the waistband. The saddest outfit, however, was worn by an older man, probably in his late sixties. He toured the sands in his Speedo. Sure, the guy was in decent shape, but not good enough to wear something like that. It’s for sure that folks should take others into consideration before they squeeze themselves in swimwear.
Something else became clear during my beach observations: the differences between boy and girl children at play. Boys are surprisingly louder. A few little guys around the ages of five to seven left not doubt of their presence. Everything seemed to excite them because instead of talking they yelled with each small discovery. The tiniest shell or a palm frond in the surf drove them nuts. Throwing a Frisbee or a ball created excited yelps when they dove for them in the water or on the sands.
To the contrary, little girls were much quieter—most of the time. They went about building sand castles at the edge of the water. Those little ladies smiled with delight or they shaded their eyes with one hand across their brows and pointed to the sand creations with the others to parents who were sitting close by. Only when the water inched up and began to nibble away at the castles or when an evil brother did the same were those feminine voices raised in ire. Then, an ear-piercing scream that must have been akin to the ones let loose by the Sirens that caused men to crash ships upon the reefs was heard.
Amy and I spent a restful, pleasant week on the edge of the water of the Gulf of Mexico. I got plenty of sun and even managed to overdo it one day so that places that I can’t reach itch from sun poisoning. I also gained weight that hopefully will melt in the heat of the rest of the summer. I realized one more thing: going is nice, but arriving home is always a more wonderful feeling.
Beach Thoughts
Amy and I traveled to Treasure Island in Florida recently to attend our nephew’s wedding. He and bride Abbie were married on the beach in a laid-back, Jimmy Buffet-like setting. I spent more time on the beach an ever before, several things there made impressions on me.
I love the beach, but I always have managed to scorch my hide with an almost second-degree burns. For some reason, this visit to the beach we discovered beach umbrellas and chairs. Suddenly, the sand of the shoreline were pleasant. Most days Amy and I spent no fewer than five hours under that umbrella. We chased the shade with our chairs most of the day, and when we returned to our room, neither of us was burned in the least by the son. That was good news to a guy who’s already had one cancerous spot removed from his neck and now has two others that need to be checked. I can’t understand why we never rented them before. Maybe umbrellas weren’t available at other beaches, or maybe our budgets on previous occasions were so lean that we couldn’t make the investment. I know from now on I’ll have an umbrella, even if I have to buy one and tote it from place to place. I’ll have the chairs too so that sand doesn’t cover fill every crevice of my body.
I looked at plenty of bathing suits during that week. The young folks had cut bodies that sported two-piece suits that emphasized every curve. That’s as it should be. However, I saw all too many swim suits on older folks that mesmerized me. That’s because I couldn’t believe the oldsters were wearing them. One ol’ girl looked to be well into her seventh decade. I eavesdropped on her conversations enough to determine her home was Germany. This Frau wore a black bikini. Her rounded belly was offset with drooping shoulders and overly long arms that failed with swing rhythmically with her walk. Her husband wore a suit that was popular the seventies. It was about the length of a pair of basketball shorts from the same period. The attire accented his stark white legs that were so skinny that he could have sued them for nonsupport. He protected his head with a hat that looked as if it were the property of a yodeler in the Alps. Another guy was still wearing the same size trunks that he wore during his high school years. He now wore them low enough to let his belly hang over the waistband. The saddest outfit, however, was worn by an older man, probably in his late sixties. He toured the sands in his Speedo. Sure, the guy was in decent shape, but not good enough to wear something like that. It’s for sure that folks should take others into consideration before they squeeze themselves in swimwear.
Something else became clear during my beach observations: the differences between boy and girl children at play. Boys are surprisingly louder. A few little guys around the ages of five to seven left not doubt of their presence. Everything seemed to excite them because instead of talking they yelled with each small discovery. The tiniest shell or a palm frond in the surf drove them nuts. Throwing a Frisbee or a ball created excited yelps when they dove for them in the water or on the sands.
To the contrary, little girls were much quieter—most of the time. They went about building sand castles at the edge of the water. Those little ladies smiled with delight or they shaded their eyes with one hand across their brows and pointed to the sand creations with the others to parents who were sitting close by. Only when the water inched up and began to nibble away at the castles or when an evil brother did the same were those feminine voices raised in ire. Then, an ear-piercing scream that must have been akin to the ones let loose by the Sirens that caused men to crash ships upon the reefs was heard.
Amy and I spent a restful, pleasant week on the edge of the water of the Gulf of Mexico. I got plenty of sun and even managed to overdo it one day so that places that I can’t reach itch from sun poisoning. I also gained weight that hopefully will melt in the heat of the rest of the summer. I realized one more thing: going is nice, but arriving home is always a more wonderful feeling.
I love the beach, but I always have managed to scorch my hide with an almost second-degree burns. For some reason, this visit to the beach we discovered beach umbrellas and chairs. Suddenly, the sand of the shoreline were pleasant. Most days Amy and I spent no fewer than five hours under that umbrella. We chased the shade with our chairs most of the day, and when we returned to our room, neither of us was burned in the least by the son. That was good news to a guy who’s already had one cancerous spot removed from his neck and now has two others that need to be checked. I can’t understand why we never rented them before. Maybe umbrellas weren’t available at other beaches, or maybe our budgets on previous occasions were so lean that we couldn’t make the investment. I know from now on I’ll have an umbrella, even if I have to buy one and tote it from place to place. I’ll have the chairs too so that sand doesn’t cover fill every crevice of my body.
I looked at plenty of bathing suits during that week. The young folks had cut bodies that sported two-piece suits that emphasized every curve. That’s as it should be. However, I saw all too many swim suits on older folks that mesmerized me. That’s because I couldn’t believe the oldsters were wearing them. One ol’ girl looked to be well into her seventh decade. I eavesdropped on her conversations enough to determine her home was Germany. This Frau wore a black bikini. Her rounded belly was offset with drooping shoulders and overly long arms that failed with swing rhythmically with her walk. Her husband wore a suit that was popular the seventies. It was about the length of a pair of basketball shorts from the same period. The attire accented his stark white legs that were so skinny that he could have sued them for nonsupport. He protected his head with a hat that looked as if it were the property of a yodeler in the Alps. Another guy was still wearing the same size trunks that he wore during his high school years. He now wore them low enough to let his belly hang over the waistband. The saddest outfit, however, was worn by an older man, probably in his late sixties. He toured the sands in his Speedo. Sure, the guy was in decent shape, but not good enough to wear something like that. It’s for sure that folks should take others into consideration before they squeeze themselves in swimwear.
Something else became clear during my beach observations: the differences between boy and girl children at play. Boys are surprisingly louder. A few little guys around the ages of five to seven left not doubt of their presence. Everything seemed to excite them because instead of talking they yelled with each small discovery. The tiniest shell or a palm frond in the surf drove them nuts. Throwing a Frisbee or a ball created excited yelps when they dove for them in the water or on the sands.
To the contrary, little girls were much quieter—most of the time. They went about building sand castles at the edge of the water. Those little ladies smiled with delight or they shaded their eyes with one hand across their brows and pointed to the sand creations with the others to parents who were sitting close by. Only when the water inched up and began to nibble away at the castles or when an evil brother did the same were those feminine voices raised in ire. Then, an ear-piercing scream that must have been akin to the ones let loose by the Sirens that caused men to crash ships upon the reefs was heard.
Amy and I spent a restful, pleasant week on the edge of the water of the Gulf of Mexico. I got plenty of sun and even managed to overdo it one day so that places that I can’t reach itch from sun poisoning. I also gained weight that hopefully will melt in the heat of the rest of the summer. I realized one more thing: going is nice, but arriving home is always a more wonderful feeling.
Scary Times
When we walked into the room, there she was. Monitors and IV’s hooked everywhere, and my little girl looked so pitiful. She was tired, as any woman who has been through labor understands. Still, it was Lacey, and to me that made it different. The good news was that Amy and I had it made to Nashville before the baby was born. The saying that God looks out for fools and grandparents who speed down I-40 at eighty-plus miles per hour proved to be true.
Neither Amy nor I was emotionally out of control. Sure, we wanted to be present upon the arrival of our first grandchild, but for some reason a calm had grabbed hold of us. In fact, we discussed this, and I wondered if we were bad grandparents because of our even temperaments, but Amy answered with that look that screams “Goofball.”
That attitude was a good one to have. We were greeted with news that scared us stiff. At some point, Lacey’s blood pressure had spiked, and she had a strong contraction, all of which put her and the baby in distress. The nurse said she suffered what our generation knew as toxemia. When the event occurred, about ten people had rushed into the room and begun hooking up drips to the IV and shoving forms to be signed in Nick’s, face. Only two words can describe the situation----SCARY TIMES!
Lacey called the nurse back to the room to explain all that was occurring, and shortly the doctor came. The decision was made to perform a Caesarian section. Doing so would ease the distress on both mother and child. Waiting for Nature to run its course could have meant that the child would have been born as much as a day later. It was a “no-brainer” decision.
The nurses hurried us out and banished us to the waiting room with the promise that we’d get to be with Lacey after they got her ready for surgery. Computer, cameras, books, and cell phone in hands, we marched to our assigned area. Several calls were placed to family and friends. I settled down to check emails. In about forty-five minutes Amy and I wondered when we could see Lacey. She went to find an answer and hurried back. It seems that no one came to get us and when Amy went to check, the nurse informed her that Madden Joseph Chemsak was lying in the nursery.
We grabbed belongings and half-sprinted down the hall. The boy lay in all of his glory under a “French fry” light. He was squalling enough to alleviate concerns about his lungs. A couple of weeks early, he still weighed in at seven pounds, three ounces and stretched nineteen inches long. Much of his upset was caused by the attending nurse who busied herself by giving the child a couple of shots and taking his temperature rectally, something I told Amy was enough to make anyone mad.
Nick was with the boy and looked every bit the proud papa. Lacey hadn’t come out of surgery, and that bothered me. I was thrilled to have this new addition to our family, but nothing would be all right until my little girl came back for me to see and check. Probably another thirty minutes passed before she was wheeled back into the room, but we still couldn’t see her.
Finally, the nurse gave the go-ahead, and I made a dash to the door. I walked to the bedside, looked at my little girl, kissed her hand, and breathed a sigh of relief. She was tired and groggy. I didn’t care as long as she was okay.
For the next twenty-four hours, Lacey wasn’t allowed to have any visitors other than grandparents. The commotion of visitors tended to elevate her blood pressure. All she could have to eat were ice chips or Popsicle.
Worst of all, Lacey wasn’t allowed to hold Madden after she returned to her room. The staff was concerned about her health, and not until her doctor came did she get the go-ahead to hold the baby, but that was more than half a day after he was born.
We visited Lacey about noon the day after, and she, Nick, and Madden were together. Amy took a turn, and then I held the boy for a couple of minutes. What was most important to me was seeing Lacey and knowing that she was all right. I relaxed just a bit then. Those were scary times. After all, Lacey was the one I once held just moments after she was born. Knowing she was safe finally made the birth Madden a completely joyous occasion.
Neither Amy nor I was emotionally out of control. Sure, we wanted to be present upon the arrival of our first grandchild, but for some reason a calm had grabbed hold of us. In fact, we discussed this, and I wondered if we were bad grandparents because of our even temperaments, but Amy answered with that look that screams “Goofball.”
That attitude was a good one to have. We were greeted with news that scared us stiff. At some point, Lacey’s blood pressure had spiked, and she had a strong contraction, all of which put her and the baby in distress. The nurse said she suffered what our generation knew as toxemia. When the event occurred, about ten people had rushed into the room and begun hooking up drips to the IV and shoving forms to be signed in Nick’s, face. Only two words can describe the situation----SCARY TIMES!
Lacey called the nurse back to the room to explain all that was occurring, and shortly the doctor came. The decision was made to perform a Caesarian section. Doing so would ease the distress on both mother and child. Waiting for Nature to run its course could have meant that the child would have been born as much as a day later. It was a “no-brainer” decision.
The nurses hurried us out and banished us to the waiting room with the promise that we’d get to be with Lacey after they got her ready for surgery. Computer, cameras, books, and cell phone in hands, we marched to our assigned area. Several calls were placed to family and friends. I settled down to check emails. In about forty-five minutes Amy and I wondered when we could see Lacey. She went to find an answer and hurried back. It seems that no one came to get us and when Amy went to check, the nurse informed her that Madden Joseph Chemsak was lying in the nursery.
We grabbed belongings and half-sprinted down the hall. The boy lay in all of his glory under a “French fry” light. He was squalling enough to alleviate concerns about his lungs. A couple of weeks early, he still weighed in at seven pounds, three ounces and stretched nineteen inches long. Much of his upset was caused by the attending nurse who busied herself by giving the child a couple of shots and taking his temperature rectally, something I told Amy was enough to make anyone mad.
Nick was with the boy and looked every bit the proud papa. Lacey hadn’t come out of surgery, and that bothered me. I was thrilled to have this new addition to our family, but nothing would be all right until my little girl came back for me to see and check. Probably another thirty minutes passed before she was wheeled back into the room, but we still couldn’t see her.
Finally, the nurse gave the go-ahead, and I made a dash to the door. I walked to the bedside, looked at my little girl, kissed her hand, and breathed a sigh of relief. She was tired and groggy. I didn’t care as long as she was okay.
For the next twenty-four hours, Lacey wasn’t allowed to have any visitors other than grandparents. The commotion of visitors tended to elevate her blood pressure. All she could have to eat were ice chips or Popsicle.
Worst of all, Lacey wasn’t allowed to hold Madden after she returned to her room. The staff was concerned about her health, and not until her doctor came did she get the go-ahead to hold the baby, but that was more than half a day after he was born.
We visited Lacey about noon the day after, and she, Nick, and Madden were together. Amy took a turn, and then I held the boy for a couple of minutes. What was most important to me was seeing Lacey and knowing that she was all right. I relaxed just a bit then. Those were scary times. After all, Lacey was the one I once held just moments after she was born. Knowing she was safe finally made the birth Madden a completely joyous occasion.
Biting the Hand that Feeds
I love dogs. They are wonderful pets that seem to hold nothing but love for their owners. Throughout my years, I’ve had dogs, and they’ve all been good and gentle, at least to me. I’ve never been afraid of a dog either. My twin brother Jim was bitten by one when he was a boy, and since then, he’s always been nervous around strange dogs, an act in itself that causes a dog to bite.
I’ve always established a good relationship with the dogs we’ve had. For some reason, that ended with our current pet Snoop, a Jack Russell Terrier. As I’ve said before, Snoop was a birthday present the year before my son Dallas left for college. He was sure I needed someone or something to help me through the adjustment period of not having a “buddy” to hang out with. My objection fell on deaf ears.
Snoop came to us as a pup, and he was a lovable creature. Best of all, the dog was crate-trained already, so we lost little sleep with his whining and crying in a new surrounding. Snoop came to our house at the end of May, and in November of the same year, I had back surgery. That dog was by my side during the entire recovery period. His need for daily exercise helped me to walk as the doctor had instructed. At 2:00 p.m. every day, I sat down in my recliner. Next I placed a pillow on my stomach where the doctors had made an incision. Then I picked Snoop up and gingerly placed him on that pillow. For the next two hours, he and I slept. Snoop woke up when I did, and he stayed beside me as if he were protecting me from all evil.
Somewhere along the line, the circuits in his brain must have shorted. For the past few months, Snoop’s behavior has been hostile. He growls when I pet him, and he rarely ever sits with me. I’ve tried to discipline him in the way the “the dog whisperer” instructs, but all that has happened is that Snoop has become even more skittish and aggressive toward me.
I’m the one who took this canine to obedience classes for two different sessions. We worked on those commands, and Snoop became quite good at obeying those them. Even when he is growling and bearing his teeth, he will sit and lie down on command. I also am the one over the years who’s taken this pup for his walks through the neighborhood. I’m the one who usually feeds him and gets his water. I arise in the middle of the night to let him out to do his business. What do I get for all the trouble? The dog has nipped at me and actually broken the skin a couple of times. More recently, he bit my finger and put a nasty gash on either side of the digit.No, I didn’t kill him, although I wanted to fling him across the room.
Some of the problem is that he has become my wife’s dog. She has had a couple of illnesses, and during that time Snoop has watched over her just as he did me. However, now I think he assumes Amy is his, and he protects her from me. He lies on her lap and rarely snarls at her. I keep telling Amy that she needs to be the one who breaks the dog’s aggressive actions toward me. I don’t think my wife is buying my explanation for the dog’s behavior.
So, what am I to do? The things I’ve seen the dog whisperer, Cesar Millan, do haven’t worked. I’ve tried to contact him, but the man is so popular that reaching him is impossible. I can’t find anyone in the area who uses the practices of Millan either. I hope that someone who reads this can come to our rescue. Otherwise, life is going to be a war at my house.
I’m not about to beat the dog for his behavior. I know that will only worsen the situation. I want my old buddy back but don’t know how to make that happen. Neither one of us is getting any younger; Snoop’s life expectancy is shorter than mine. I’ve got to find a way to snap him back to his old self. At the end of May Snoop and I will have even more time together, and I’d like to think that we can get along and guide each other into our older years.
I’ve always established a good relationship with the dogs we’ve had. For some reason, that ended with our current pet Snoop, a Jack Russell Terrier. As I’ve said before, Snoop was a birthday present the year before my son Dallas left for college. He was sure I needed someone or something to help me through the adjustment period of not having a “buddy” to hang out with. My objection fell on deaf ears.
Snoop came to us as a pup, and he was a lovable creature. Best of all, the dog was crate-trained already, so we lost little sleep with his whining and crying in a new surrounding. Snoop came to our house at the end of May, and in November of the same year, I had back surgery. That dog was by my side during the entire recovery period. His need for daily exercise helped me to walk as the doctor had instructed. At 2:00 p.m. every day, I sat down in my recliner. Next I placed a pillow on my stomach where the doctors had made an incision. Then I picked Snoop up and gingerly placed him on that pillow. For the next two hours, he and I slept. Snoop woke up when I did, and he stayed beside me as if he were protecting me from all evil.
Somewhere along the line, the circuits in his brain must have shorted. For the past few months, Snoop’s behavior has been hostile. He growls when I pet him, and he rarely ever sits with me. I’ve tried to discipline him in the way the “the dog whisperer” instructs, but all that has happened is that Snoop has become even more skittish and aggressive toward me.
I’m the one who took this canine to obedience classes for two different sessions. We worked on those commands, and Snoop became quite good at obeying those them. Even when he is growling and bearing his teeth, he will sit and lie down on command. I also am the one over the years who’s taken this pup for his walks through the neighborhood. I’m the one who usually feeds him and gets his water. I arise in the middle of the night to let him out to do his business. What do I get for all the trouble? The dog has nipped at me and actually broken the skin a couple of times. More recently, he bit my finger and put a nasty gash on either side of the digit.No, I didn’t kill him, although I wanted to fling him across the room.
Some of the problem is that he has become my wife’s dog. She has had a couple of illnesses, and during that time Snoop has watched over her just as he did me. However, now I think he assumes Amy is his, and he protects her from me. He lies on her lap and rarely snarls at her. I keep telling Amy that she needs to be the one who breaks the dog’s aggressive actions toward me. I don’t think my wife is buying my explanation for the dog’s behavior.
So, what am I to do? The things I’ve seen the dog whisperer, Cesar Millan, do haven’t worked. I’ve tried to contact him, but the man is so popular that reaching him is impossible. I can’t find anyone in the area who uses the practices of Millan either. I hope that someone who reads this can come to our rescue. Otherwise, life is going to be a war at my house.
I’m not about to beat the dog for his behavior. I know that will only worsen the situation. I want my old buddy back but don’t know how to make that happen. Neither one of us is getting any younger; Snoop’s life expectancy is shorter than mine. I’ve got to find a way to snap him back to his old self. At the end of May Snoop and I will have even more time together, and I’d like to think that we can get along and guide each other into our older years.
Dance Class
Moms and dads have ways, unintentional though they might be, of torturing their children. Most of those acts involve activities that parents are sure will benefit their little ones in later life. Most often the activities are ones that the adults missed out on when they were youngsters. My mother decided that her sons would be able participate in social events when they became young men, and as a result, my brothers Dal and Jim and I were forced to take dancing lessons as boys.
A woman in the community held a dance class for younger children in the community center on Wednesday nights. The first night that Jim and I attended, we wore our school clothes, jeans and shirts. The instructor met us at the door and informed us that our dress was inappropriate for the occasion. That didn’t bode well for Ball Camp boys wore dress clothes for church and funerals. We were a bit relieved to see at least a couple of friends already seated in the center. Evidently, our mothers had been talking and decided that their young men needed to be more refined; they wanted us to be proficient in at least one activity that didn’t require a ball. Our buddies had received the memo about proper attire, and they ragged us for a while.
The lessons began, and I was sure I’d fall on my face. Taking the right step at the right time was hard enough; doing so while facing a partner was darn near impossible. Girls always pick up dance steps quicker than boys, so they snickered at us boys in our awkwardness.
Boys sent on one side of the room; the girls were on the other side. On cue, males were to cross the room and ask girls to dance. A couple of the girls were favorites, and every one of us went for them. In fact, we left our chairs in a dead run, a sin to the instructor. More than once, I was sent back to my chair to wait until the rest of the boys chose a partner. Then I could take the one little girl who was chosen last. She was worse at dancing than any boy, and she lacked social skills. A three minute dance with her lasted an eternity.
During that dance class, we learned all the great dances: the waltz, fox trot, cha-cha, and bob. Over and over again, we practiced. None of us dared look into the girls’ eyes for fear that we’d stomp their toes. Girls’ hands were covered in sweat as boys held them during the dances. Our arms were around their waists, but we never got too close. If all of us worked hard and performed especially well, our instructor allowed us one song to which we could twist, the craze of that time period.
Maybe the worst part of dance class was the timing. Wednesday evenings were destroyed by these lessons. We had to come home from school and complete any homework for the next day. That meant no time for football or basketball games with the neighborhood guys. Those friends made sure to give us plenty of grief about the evening’s events. Supper was early, and then we had to dress properly; in other words, we would spend three hours completely uncomfortable.
The biggest sacrifice that we made concerned television programming. That year “The Beverly Hillbillies” first aired. The show was entertaining, and the biggest draw was Ellie Mae. During those weeks of dance lessons, we missed her beside the “cement pond” or in her cut-off denim shorts. In those days, VCR’s and DVD’s weren’t available to copy shows for later viewing. It was almost criminal to us kids.
Obviously, we survived the dance lessons. They actually came in handy later in life. I felt comfortable slowing dancing with girls at sock hops. In college, I managed to survive with ease a ball room dancing course. I wasn’t great, but I got an “A” out of the class. I’ve never been too afraid to hit the dance floor with my wife at parties. Still, I’m glad there wasn’t an advanced class offered. I learned enough to get along and not enough to make me want to compete on “Dancing with the Stars.” I also managed to eventually see Ellie Mae on plenty of episodes.
A woman in the community held a dance class for younger children in the community center on Wednesday nights. The first night that Jim and I attended, we wore our school clothes, jeans and shirts. The instructor met us at the door and informed us that our dress was inappropriate for the occasion. That didn’t bode well for Ball Camp boys wore dress clothes for church and funerals. We were a bit relieved to see at least a couple of friends already seated in the center. Evidently, our mothers had been talking and decided that their young men needed to be more refined; they wanted us to be proficient in at least one activity that didn’t require a ball. Our buddies had received the memo about proper attire, and they ragged us for a while.
The lessons began, and I was sure I’d fall on my face. Taking the right step at the right time was hard enough; doing so while facing a partner was darn near impossible. Girls always pick up dance steps quicker than boys, so they snickered at us boys in our awkwardness.
Boys sent on one side of the room; the girls were on the other side. On cue, males were to cross the room and ask girls to dance. A couple of the girls were favorites, and every one of us went for them. In fact, we left our chairs in a dead run, a sin to the instructor. More than once, I was sent back to my chair to wait until the rest of the boys chose a partner. Then I could take the one little girl who was chosen last. She was worse at dancing than any boy, and she lacked social skills. A three minute dance with her lasted an eternity.
During that dance class, we learned all the great dances: the waltz, fox trot, cha-cha, and bob. Over and over again, we practiced. None of us dared look into the girls’ eyes for fear that we’d stomp their toes. Girls’ hands were covered in sweat as boys held them during the dances. Our arms were around their waists, but we never got too close. If all of us worked hard and performed especially well, our instructor allowed us one song to which we could twist, the craze of that time period.
Maybe the worst part of dance class was the timing. Wednesday evenings were destroyed by these lessons. We had to come home from school and complete any homework for the next day. That meant no time for football or basketball games with the neighborhood guys. Those friends made sure to give us plenty of grief about the evening’s events. Supper was early, and then we had to dress properly; in other words, we would spend three hours completely uncomfortable.
The biggest sacrifice that we made concerned television programming. That year “The Beverly Hillbillies” first aired. The show was entertaining, and the biggest draw was Ellie Mae. During those weeks of dance lessons, we missed her beside the “cement pond” or in her cut-off denim shorts. In those days, VCR’s and DVD’s weren’t available to copy shows for later viewing. It was almost criminal to us kids.
Obviously, we survived the dance lessons. They actually came in handy later in life. I felt comfortable slowing dancing with girls at sock hops. In college, I managed to survive with ease a ball room dancing course. I wasn’t great, but I got an “A” out of the class. I’ve never been too afraid to hit the dance floor with my wife at parties. Still, I’m glad there wasn’t an advanced class offered. I learned enough to get along and not enough to make me want to compete on “Dancing with the Stars.” I also managed to eventually see Ellie Mae on plenty of episodes.
ALL ABOUT BABIES
My wife Amy is growing more and more excited about the coming birth of our first grandchild. The boy will make his debut appearance during the second full week of May. The exact date depends upon the doctor’s schedule. Births and babies make us all go a little whacko for some reason.
The child’s name will be Madden. It’s a family name from our son-in-law’s side. Both Nick and Lacey want a name that isn’t too common. I figure they hit the “motherload” with the one they picked. “Madden” is definitely a different handle for a child; the only link most folks can make to it is John Madden of NFL football. I personally think the name is appropriate for the events that are to come over the next eighteen or so years. In so many ways this boy will, in fact, “madden” his parents with some of the stunts he pulls.
Newborn humans bring plenty of neat things to a household. Amy needs only to turn on my memory, and she can recall the good things. The smell of baby powder and shampoo are two things. Those are smells that scream little ones. The overall fragrance of a baby is unlike any other thing. All are soft smells that stay embedded in parents’ minds even after their children are grown. Another thing is softness. A baby is a soft creature. The child must be held gently. As a result, the gruffest of men learn to be careful when they hold an infant. Somehow, a little person like this can melt away even the meanest edges of most humans. Last, a new baby in the house brings with it a quietness that rarely existed in a home. Parents walk a bit more gingerly through the house. The family dog is quickly chastised when he barks. Televisions and radios are turned down several notches. Conversations are much calmer sounding with a baby in the house.
Those are the things my dear wife associates with a new life. I’m not so idealistic. Instead, I recall the not-so-grand parts of bringing home a new baby. The first thing that comes to mind is fear. Nothing can break down a mom or dad like being afraid that something is wrong or that they don’t know what to do. Kids don’t come with instruction manuals, so most of us learn on the job. Plenty of mistakes are made, and even though infants are tougher than we acknowledge, parents fret over every single so-called crisis. Pediatricians earn every dollar because they must listen to and calm the nerves of hysterical parents.
I grant that a small child is something wonderful with which to cuddle, at least until an arm fall asleep. I also accept that they at times can smell wonderful. However, on too many occasions, the smell which emanates from a baby is far from pleasant. A loaded diaper can bring tears to the stoutest of humans. The source of the smell scares people as much as radioactive waste. The stuff is like Velcro too; it’s nearly impossible to get off. The stuff that comes out of the other end is every bit as bad. Baby spit up invades the nose and refuses to leave. My kids were half grown before I no longer caught whiffs of the stuff.
Babies turn all of life upside down. Before Amy and I became parents, we’d decide on the spur of the moment to travel to Nashville on a Friday night. When the kids came, our lives were altered to fit infant schedules. There were times for meals, baths, and naps. Bedtime was strictly enforced, not so much because the baby needed it but because Mom was at the point of exhaustion each evening. Lacey didn’t cooperate at night. She did her best sleeping in her car seat, and on too many occasions we drove around neighborhoods in hopes that our daughter would slip off to dreamland. She cooperated until we arrived home and lifted her from the seat; then she squalled again.
Amy’s excited about Madden’s arrival, as are Nick and Lacey. I’ll be fine when the event takes place. What I am most excited about is the fact that when the stink bombs occur, the feeding times arrive, and the crying jags begin, I’ll be fast asleep either in a motel room close to Lacey’s house or at home. I’m finally beginning to understand all the good things about this grandparent thing.
The child’s name will be Madden. It’s a family name from our son-in-law’s side. Both Nick and Lacey want a name that isn’t too common. I figure they hit the “motherload” with the one they picked. “Madden” is definitely a different handle for a child; the only link most folks can make to it is John Madden of NFL football. I personally think the name is appropriate for the events that are to come over the next eighteen or so years. In so many ways this boy will, in fact, “madden” his parents with some of the stunts he pulls.
Newborn humans bring plenty of neat things to a household. Amy needs only to turn on my memory, and she can recall the good things. The smell of baby powder and shampoo are two things. Those are smells that scream little ones. The overall fragrance of a baby is unlike any other thing. All are soft smells that stay embedded in parents’ minds even after their children are grown. Another thing is softness. A baby is a soft creature. The child must be held gently. As a result, the gruffest of men learn to be careful when they hold an infant. Somehow, a little person like this can melt away even the meanest edges of most humans. Last, a new baby in the house brings with it a quietness that rarely existed in a home. Parents walk a bit more gingerly through the house. The family dog is quickly chastised when he barks. Televisions and radios are turned down several notches. Conversations are much calmer sounding with a baby in the house.
Those are the things my dear wife associates with a new life. I’m not so idealistic. Instead, I recall the not-so-grand parts of bringing home a new baby. The first thing that comes to mind is fear. Nothing can break down a mom or dad like being afraid that something is wrong or that they don’t know what to do. Kids don’t come with instruction manuals, so most of us learn on the job. Plenty of mistakes are made, and even though infants are tougher than we acknowledge, parents fret over every single so-called crisis. Pediatricians earn every dollar because they must listen to and calm the nerves of hysterical parents.
I grant that a small child is something wonderful with which to cuddle, at least until an arm fall asleep. I also accept that they at times can smell wonderful. However, on too many occasions, the smell which emanates from a baby is far from pleasant. A loaded diaper can bring tears to the stoutest of humans. The source of the smell scares people as much as radioactive waste. The stuff is like Velcro too; it’s nearly impossible to get off. The stuff that comes out of the other end is every bit as bad. Baby spit up invades the nose and refuses to leave. My kids were half grown before I no longer caught whiffs of the stuff.
Babies turn all of life upside down. Before Amy and I became parents, we’d decide on the spur of the moment to travel to Nashville on a Friday night. When the kids came, our lives were altered to fit infant schedules. There were times for meals, baths, and naps. Bedtime was strictly enforced, not so much because the baby needed it but because Mom was at the point of exhaustion each evening. Lacey didn’t cooperate at night. She did her best sleeping in her car seat, and on too many occasions we drove around neighborhoods in hopes that our daughter would slip off to dreamland. She cooperated until we arrived home and lifted her from the seat; then she squalled again.
Amy’s excited about Madden’s arrival, as are Nick and Lacey. I’ll be fine when the event takes place. What I am most excited about is the fact that when the stink bombs occur, the feeding times arrive, and the crying jags begin, I’ll be fast asleep either in a motel room close to Lacey’s house or at home. I’m finally beginning to understand all the good things about this grandparent thing.
HITCH'N A RIDE
Anytime I need to get somewhere, it’s a simple task: I hop in my truck and drive to the location. Millions of Americans do the same thing daily. There was a time, however, in the earlier years, when guys reached their destinations by a different means. During my high school and college days, hitchhiking was a common practice.
By the time my brother Jim and I had reached our high school years, we were finished riding school buses except under the direst circumstances. The fact that we had taken up the cigarette habit contributed to our dislike for the “big yellow limousine.” We’d leave home each morning and begin the two-mile trek to the school. Along the way, we’d stick out our thumbs as cars drove down the narrow two-lane roads. Most of our rides came from upperclassmen who’d stop and yell at us to “Get in.” On some occasions, however, the parent of a friend would offer us a ride. If the car looked too crowded, we say “thanks” but decline. During the time we hoofed it to school, only a few mornings did we have to walk the entire distances. Even then, Jim and I managed to arrive at school well ahead of the bus that hauled us.
Both my brothers were deeply in love when they left home to attend Tennessee Tech University in Cookeville. That one hundred mile distance from Knoxville kept them from their girlfriends, who later became their wives. Without hesitation during their freshmen years in college, the love-struck guys made it home nearly every weekend. The university was three or four miles from I-40, but they’d find someone who would ferry them to the interstate from their dorm rooms. Then, these two intelligent humans walked up the ramp to the eastbound side of the interstate and began to walk. When cars approached, they tried to thumb one down. From their stories I learned that neither traveled far before someone picked stopped. On Sunday evenings the boys began the journey back to Cookeville for the week. Jim was music major and a member of the marching band. During football season, he had to stay on campus for Saturday games. Some of them were evening games, but regardless of the time, Jim always struck out for Knoxville. He’d catch a ride that might not get him home until the early hours of Sunday morning. Still, Jim would spend a few hours with Brenda and then make the return trip.
I made one hitchhiking trip home from college. A friend and I walked no more than a mile along the interstate highway before we flagged down a ride. The driver was a G.I. who was traveling from Texas to the northeast. He talked to us the entire trip about fireworks. He was obsessed with them and stopped at every stand along the way to add to his supply. The soldier spent hundreds of dollars and later told us he could sell them for twice the price in New Jersey that he’d paid. The guy gave me the willies, and I was thankful when he let us out at the Cedar Bluff exit. Right then, I swore I’d never hitchhike again.
I eventually got our old 1954 Chevy in running order, and I’d come home only occasionally since I had no love interest in Knoxville. Call me a sucker because I was forever picking up hitchhikers along the way. I empathized and sympathized with them, and picking them up in some way seem to be paying back for all the trips my brothers had taken. Usually, a hitcher was a bit scary, so when another came into view, I’d pick him up. One time, I picked up four men by the time I reached Crossville. Logic told me that there was safety in numbers.
These days, hitchhiking isn’t safe. For one thing, cars zip down the roads so fast that walkers take a risk of becoming new grill ornaments if drivers aren’t paying attention. A second reason that hitching a ride is no longer acceptable is that too many “crazies” have attacked and murdered kind-hearted souls who pick them up. Drivers ignore thumbs stuck in the air and turn a blind eye to hitchhikers. Still, the romance of walking the open roads and meeting all sorts of people along the way appeals to some of us who remember when a thumb led to a reliable means of transportation.
WHY NOT SHOOT EVERYBODY?
I’ve read the news accounts of Stacy Campfield’s latest proposal regarding school discussions on homosexuality and transgender. Ol’ Stacy sounds once again like a guy trying to grab a headline. I also listened to Campfield spew his venomous ideas on WIVK’s “Sound Off.” Before long, the talk on the radio show turned toward weapons on school campuses, and again, this legislator stirred the waters with his bill that would allow school employees to carry weapons.
This gun-carrying bill is moronic. Sure, let’s arm teachers and principals with weapons. I know plenty of teachers who aren’t capable of carrying a weapon. I’m one of them. We are scared of guns. I don’t need a gun. Other teachers aren’t on an even enough keel to carry a weapon. Some would lose their tempers when they are confronted by hostile students. They’d start shooting out of fear. Before any of us could blink our eyes, wounded and dying children would lie in a heap on classroom floors. That would be okay to Campfield because the schools would be protected. Right! A roomful of teens who watch as a teacher guns down a whacked out kid aren’t going to produce any kind of physical injury, but what about psychological harm? Or does this legislator assume that kids would straighten up after a couple of classmates are stone-cold dead?
Another reason Campfield’s proposal is nothing more than the raving of a buffoon is that society isn’t about to allow teachers to escape legal battles after they pull the trigger on students. In the present climate, many parents are just waiting to sue a teacher over the smallest things. Teachers no longer can administer corporal punishment; lawyers are attacking when they bruise students’ egos. Millions of dollars have been awarded in “Iffy” cases of negligence against professionals in education. Without a doubt, teachers are going to be in legal swamp water up to their eyeballs if they shoot, injure, or kill a student.
Okay, let’s play out the armed teacher scenario. A couple of questions come to mind. First, will teachers be able to use Better Education Plan (BEP) money to purchase handguns? Will limits be imposed on the caliber of the gun? Next, can a teacher carry a shotgun or rifle instead of a handgun? If a teacher guns down more than one student, will he/she be penalized or required to have a mentor to better handle situations? You get the idea.
We need to take this idea of arming faculties a bit farther. Why don’t we do what folks do when they shoot a crow? Let’s hang bodies on the fences around the schools so that would-be attackers will know what happens to those who dare cross us. Maybe teachers could be assigned an extra duty during planning periods. Let’s station them on rooftops of buildings where they can patrol the campus. Any suspicious character who comes on the grounds can be dropped by these snipers.
Stacy Campfield’s proposals are always designed for nothing more than drawing attention to himself. Sure, he puts forth these proposals, but he surely knows they have no chance of passing. Campfield brings up these things because he knows they’ll make the newspapers, radio stations, and television newscasts. Then he is contacted to discuss his proposals in public forums or on the airways, thereby increasing his name recognition. What’s the man’s long-term plan? I wouldn’t think he could ever win an election for a more serious political office, but then again, I never thought he could win the position that he now holds. It goes to show that we voters get what we deserve when we either fail to vote or fail to inform ourselves about candidates for office. Knox County already has one commissioner who loves the sound of his own voice and who takes every chance to roil the waters. Another one isn’t needed.
The situations in schools are scary. However, arming teachers isn’t the answer. A better approach might have school boards with enough fortitude to expel problem students and to develop discipline plans with decisive and severe consequences for misbehavior. If these things take place, Stacy Campfield and his gun-toting ideas can both disappear in a world where logic rules. I know I’ll feel safer when one individual no longer can rattle his saber.
This gun-carrying bill is moronic. Sure, let’s arm teachers and principals with weapons. I know plenty of teachers who aren’t capable of carrying a weapon. I’m one of them. We are scared of guns. I don’t need a gun. Other teachers aren’t on an even enough keel to carry a weapon. Some would lose their tempers when they are confronted by hostile students. They’d start shooting out of fear. Before any of us could blink our eyes, wounded and dying children would lie in a heap on classroom floors. That would be okay to Campfield because the schools would be protected. Right! A roomful of teens who watch as a teacher guns down a whacked out kid aren’t going to produce any kind of physical injury, but what about psychological harm? Or does this legislator assume that kids would straighten up after a couple of classmates are stone-cold dead?
Another reason Campfield’s proposal is nothing more than the raving of a buffoon is that society isn’t about to allow teachers to escape legal battles after they pull the trigger on students. In the present climate, many parents are just waiting to sue a teacher over the smallest things. Teachers no longer can administer corporal punishment; lawyers are attacking when they bruise students’ egos. Millions of dollars have been awarded in “Iffy” cases of negligence against professionals in education. Without a doubt, teachers are going to be in legal swamp water up to their eyeballs if they shoot, injure, or kill a student.
Okay, let’s play out the armed teacher scenario. A couple of questions come to mind. First, will teachers be able to use Better Education Plan (BEP) money to purchase handguns? Will limits be imposed on the caliber of the gun? Next, can a teacher carry a shotgun or rifle instead of a handgun? If a teacher guns down more than one student, will he/she be penalized or required to have a mentor to better handle situations? You get the idea.
We need to take this idea of arming faculties a bit farther. Why don’t we do what folks do when they shoot a crow? Let’s hang bodies on the fences around the schools so that would-be attackers will know what happens to those who dare cross us. Maybe teachers could be assigned an extra duty during planning periods. Let’s station them on rooftops of buildings where they can patrol the campus. Any suspicious character who comes on the grounds can be dropped by these snipers.
Stacy Campfield’s proposals are always designed for nothing more than drawing attention to himself. Sure, he puts forth these proposals, but he surely knows they have no chance of passing. Campfield brings up these things because he knows they’ll make the newspapers, radio stations, and television newscasts. Then he is contacted to discuss his proposals in public forums or on the airways, thereby increasing his name recognition. What’s the man’s long-term plan? I wouldn’t think he could ever win an election for a more serious political office, but then again, I never thought he could win the position that he now holds. It goes to show that we voters get what we deserve when we either fail to vote or fail to inform ourselves about candidates for office. Knox County already has one commissioner who loves the sound of his own voice and who takes every chance to roil the waters. Another one isn’t needed.
The situations in schools are scary. However, arming teachers isn’t the answer. A better approach might have school boards with enough fortitude to expel problem students and to develop discipline plans with decisive and severe consequences for misbehavior. If these things take place, Stacy Campfield and his gun-toting ideas can both disappear in a world where logic rules. I know I’ll feel safer when one individual no longer can rattle his saber.
POLISHING THE ELEPHANT
I’ve watched several debates between both Republican and Democratic hopefuls. Now, both sides have whittled down their lists to two candidates each: McCain and Romney for the Republican side and Clinton and Obama for the Democrats. Super Tuesday could decide the issue for both parties, and then it’s on to the general election. I remember some earlier election times in my home when I was a child. Things were just a bit tense.
My dad was a Republican. I never figured out why he chose that party because it seems as if the Democrats have always offered the working class of this country more hope and help. Daddy was one of those hard-working men, and for years he toiled at a job that would later contribute to the lung cancer that killed him. Our lives back then were lived paycheck to paycheck. My dad spent countless hours seated at the kitchen table. Armed with a cup of coffee so strong it could eat the enamel off of a person’s teeth and a pack of Winston cigarettes that filled the room with a cloud of smoke, he “figured” in a little pocket notebook that he kept with him. He could stretch a dollar farther than anyone else I’ve ever known, and it was a good thing for his family that he did.
At any rate, when election time came, whether the candidates were running for local, state, or national seats. Daddy was ready. We boys knew little about politics, but we always knew when elections were on the horizon. It was then that the male head of our household retrieved his election ashtray. It was small, and on one side an elephant stood. The ashtray was made of brass and had a piece of felt attached to the bottom to prevent scratches to furniture. Daddy would empty that ashtray and then carefully wash it so as to not wet the bottom. Then he grabbed a rag and began to polish that elephant. He’d rub until the animal and the rest of the ashtray gleamed. I always felt that Daddy polished that ashtray more to aggravate Mother than to express his undying loyalty to the Republican Party and its candidates.
On the other hand, Mother was more inclined to vote for Democrats, at least in national elections. She did, however, cross over and vote for Republican candidates in local elections. She was loyal to individuals whom she perceived to be willing to help others. The truth is that Mother probably could be labeled more of an independent when it came to electing local officials.
In national elections, it was a different story. Maybe it was because she’d witnessed the things Roosevelt accomplished to help people during the Great Depression. Maybe it was because she was a teacher who saw the many needs of the schools and the children. Maybe it was because she was a liberal on social issues. Whatever the case, Mother supported Democrats in presidential elections. At least that’s what we believed. The woman didn’t have a donkey to polish; she didn’t place campaign signs in the yard, and she never came out and declared her preference. Still, we were certain her convictions were left of center.
The maddest Mother ever got about an election was when she and Daddy went to the polls. They were waiting their turns, and at some point he turned to her and said, “We might as well not even vote. All that happens is one vote cancels the other.” Mother turned furious, and my poor dad was chastised for having made such a comment in public. I don’t believe they ever went to another election together.
I love politics. It’s one area where a rousing debate can always begin and last for hours. The process of choosing a candidate and following that person through the bitter end in some way creates a bond that turns the politician into someone on the same level as a family member. Over the years I’ve become an independent like my mother. I don’t buy the belief “my party, right or wrong.” I vote for the person whom I think can best do the job. Daddy’s ashtray was taken to Nashville by my older brother. He was a liberal-minded person, so I know the only shining that elephant got was to keep away the tarnish. Before long, this year’s final candidates will be selected, and then the time to choose a side will come. I hope plenty of Americans will join in that decision. Voting is what we’re all about.
My dad was a Republican. I never figured out why he chose that party because it seems as if the Democrats have always offered the working class of this country more hope and help. Daddy was one of those hard-working men, and for years he toiled at a job that would later contribute to the lung cancer that killed him. Our lives back then were lived paycheck to paycheck. My dad spent countless hours seated at the kitchen table. Armed with a cup of coffee so strong it could eat the enamel off of a person’s teeth and a pack of Winston cigarettes that filled the room with a cloud of smoke, he “figured” in a little pocket notebook that he kept with him. He could stretch a dollar farther than anyone else I’ve ever known, and it was a good thing for his family that he did.
At any rate, when election time came, whether the candidates were running for local, state, or national seats. Daddy was ready. We boys knew little about politics, but we always knew when elections were on the horizon. It was then that the male head of our household retrieved his election ashtray. It was small, and on one side an elephant stood. The ashtray was made of brass and had a piece of felt attached to the bottom to prevent scratches to furniture. Daddy would empty that ashtray and then carefully wash it so as to not wet the bottom. Then he grabbed a rag and began to polish that elephant. He’d rub until the animal and the rest of the ashtray gleamed. I always felt that Daddy polished that ashtray more to aggravate Mother than to express his undying loyalty to the Republican Party and its candidates.
On the other hand, Mother was more inclined to vote for Democrats, at least in national elections. She did, however, cross over and vote for Republican candidates in local elections. She was loyal to individuals whom she perceived to be willing to help others. The truth is that Mother probably could be labeled more of an independent when it came to electing local officials.
In national elections, it was a different story. Maybe it was because she’d witnessed the things Roosevelt accomplished to help people during the Great Depression. Maybe it was because she was a teacher who saw the many needs of the schools and the children. Maybe it was because she was a liberal on social issues. Whatever the case, Mother supported Democrats in presidential elections. At least that’s what we believed. The woman didn’t have a donkey to polish; she didn’t place campaign signs in the yard, and she never came out and declared her preference. Still, we were certain her convictions were left of center.
The maddest Mother ever got about an election was when she and Daddy went to the polls. They were waiting their turns, and at some point he turned to her and said, “We might as well not even vote. All that happens is one vote cancels the other.” Mother turned furious, and my poor dad was chastised for having made such a comment in public. I don’t believe they ever went to another election together.
I love politics. It’s one area where a rousing debate can always begin and last for hours. The process of choosing a candidate and following that person through the bitter end in some way creates a bond that turns the politician into someone on the same level as a family member. Over the years I’ve become an independent like my mother. I don’t buy the belief “my party, right or wrong.” I vote for the person whom I think can best do the job. Daddy’s ashtray was taken to Nashville by my older brother. He was a liberal-minded person, so I know the only shining that elephant got was to keep away the tarnish. Before long, this year’s final candidates will be selected, and then the time to choose a side will come. I hope plenty of Americans will join in that decision. Voting is what we’re all about.
Wanted…SNOW!
To say I’m disappointed is an understatement. To blame things on the weather forecasters in the area is going over the top. The bottom line is I woke up this morning and expected to see some white stuff on the ground. Instead, all that came to view were puddles of water and soggy grass. The explanations of weather systems not moving into the right positions fall on my deaf ears. I want—I need some snow! All of us in East Tennessee need it.
I well remember the snow days that came when I was a boy. My brothers and I never had proper snow attire. Mother made us put on a couple of layers of clothes, and then we covered our old shoes with pairs of socks. They did little to keep out the dampness, but our feet stayed just a bit drier.
Some years we had some deep snows, and those were the best. We’d build snowmen and bombard each other with snowballs. On one occasion, the boys from next door joined in and we built an igloo. The work we put into the project kept us plenty warm, and the cold temperatures preserved our ice house for several days. It was large enough to accommodate two of us at a time. Suddenly we became “Sergeant Preston of the Yukon” and Royal Canadian Mounties.
After long afternoons in the snow, we returned home to strip the soaked clothing from our bodies. Mother fed us tomato soup and melted cheese sandwiches. Afterwards, we went to our rooms and drifted off into long afternoon naps. As night began to fall, we made another trip outside and discovered that falling temperatures turned slush into ice, the perfect conditions for riding shovels and trashcan lids down sloping pastures. The ends of those days were topped off when Mother made a bowl of snow cream, something almost as good as homemade ice cream.
Snowfalls provide many people with much needed days away from work. There’s something wonderful about waking up, discovering snow, and burrowing under the covers again. Those times provide some of the best sleep that a person can experience. The remainder of a day at home is spent idly in activities such as reading a book, watching movies, or mindlessly surfing the web for unimportant topics.
During the early years of my teaching career, Knoxville was hit with several huge snowfalls. In fact, we missed so much school that days were extended and Saturdays were added to the normal schedule. Still, those days out were beneficial. I had time to take it easy and drive Amy to her classes at U.T. In the evenings I joined the kids outside, and they gave me turns riding their sleds down a steep hill on which we lived.
The best snow days have been spent with my two children. We survived the blizzard of 1993, as well as a couple of ice storms. When they were small, I’d give them rides on a coal scoop that I’d salvaged from my parents house. They giggled and laughed as I pulled them up and down the driveway and the road. When we bought sleds, I’d pull them across the slushy snow and ride down the hill with them the next day when the stuff froze into a solid sheet of ice.
After a romp outside, we’d go back inside, and I’d pop waffles in the toaster or pizza bites in the oven. Those two children followed the same patterns that my brothers and I had traveled: eat and sleep. We sometimes sat together and watched for the zillionth time “Princess Bride” or “Goonies” or “Willow.” Later, they’d ask to go back outside, and I’d tromp back into the cold with them for one last time each day.
These days Knoxville gets maybe a total of two inches of snow each year. I declare it’s proof that global warming is real and has changed our climate. No, I don’t want mountains of the white stuff, but I’d like one snow a year so that I can look out the window of my office and remember the good times from years gone by. I’d especially like to experience one of those “snow days” during this last year of teaching. They bring about a time of quietness and stillness that makes our lives slow down for just a while. Knoxvillians need to put an ad in the paper: Wanted…SNOW!
A True East Tennessean
One of the shows I enjoy on television is “Cold Case,” that is until I watched an episode the other night. The storyline had the stars of the show traveling to Nashville and Knoxville to question people about a murder that had occurred some time before. Some of the things that were included in the program griped me.
For one thing, the actors who played the parts of folks from Tennessee were foreigners. It was obvious by the way they spoke. Their fake East Tennessee drawls grated on my nerves. To those who don’t know better, the minor characters probably sounded fine, but to us who know how a real East Tennessean speaks, the accents were pitiful. Being able to speak the language of our region requires a flatness of pronunciation that just can’t be mimicked. It’s part of our laid-back way of life. We get where we’re going, but along the way there’s no need to run over everybody in the way; the same applies to how we talk.
I’ve taught thousands of kids over the years, and one thing is apparent: people from other parts of the country are moving here in droves. Identifying immigrants from north of the Mason-Dixon line is simple. They have different ways from ours, but what stands out the most is the accent. No matter how long a person lives in the areas after a move from other parts of the country, he never sounds like an East Tennessean. Don’t get me wrong; some of my best friends are from other parts of the country, but they don’t try to speak the dialect. Eventually, some of it creeps into speaking, but they just can’t get down pat the accent of the region.
Another thing that griped me about this show was the way Tennessee was viewed by the characters. It’s the same that’s held by too many others. At one point, the female detective decided to drive from Nashville to Knoxville. She did so because she held fond memories about getting married. According to her, she passed the courthouse in Knoxville where she and some young man went to exchange vows.
Tennessee and its cities are presented as either country music producing places or towns somewhat akin to Mayberry. In both cases, we who live in Tennessee are considered rednecks who come from a life that is backward at best and ignorance-filled at worst. WRONG! A few points about us need to cleared up:
- We have in-door plumbing.
- We wear shoes all year round—for most of the year at least.
- We do read.
- We can write.
- We don’t marry our relatives.
- Our homes aren’t shacks with rusted car bodies in the yard and porches with refrigerators.
In an effort to educate some of those who sneer at us, I present this demographic information from the Internet. Knox County has approximately 400,000 residents. When the surrounding areas are included, the number jumps to more than 700,000. Nashville has a population of 1,363,394. Combined, the two cities have a population of more than 2 million—and that number continues to grow. That doesn’t sound too much like “Hicksville” to me. Couldn’t we find the some small towns in isolated parts of New York State? The problem is that folks equate ignorance with our speech. They assume that we are less than intelligent because we speak slowly and with flatness in the enunciation of words.
A short anecdote might shed some light upon things. Several years ago I spent a weekend with my in-laws in Gatlinburg. Our room had a balcony that overlooked the main street, and we delighted in sitting there and watching people go by. I noticed that several people, young and old, were walking with pieces of rope that had been stiffened. On one end was a loop, and on the other was a configuration that looked like a harness of some kind. Other tourists stopped these people and said, “Geeeez, what is that and where did you get it?” The answer was that they had purchased from a souvenir shop a “dogless leash.” Yep, people who spoke accents peculiar to some northern state paid $20.00 a pop for pieces of robe with loops on each end. I could hear shop owners saying to those customers, “You come back now, ya’ hear!”
Enough said.
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