HOUSES SHOULD BE HOMES

 My brothers and I rode on the dirt road cut for the new subdivision. Daddy had given the developer twenty-five feet so that he could build the road. We always came home in the evening dusty and dirty from the dirt storms we kicked up with sliding bike tires. That was in the early 1960’s, 

Amy and I live in the first house on that street about 300 hundred feet up the road. We built this house in 1978, and I believe only one other place has been built here since then. Ours is a small neighborhood with modest houses and larger than normal lots. The first house in the subdivision was completed in 1964.  

I watched every step of our house’s construction. The original plan called for a two-bedroom house with two bathrooms. A small stoop stood as the front porch, and the back had a screened porch and deck. It was perfect for the two of us and even offered an extra bedroom for the in-laws when they visited.  

Over the years, we’ve renovated the kitchen, added a family room, treated ourselves with gigantic wrap-around front porch, and constructed two bedrooms to accommodate our growing family. A few years ago, Amy and I decided to have a pool built, one of the best things we’ve done to this place. Now, our 1250 square foot house has doubled in size. It’s a small by today’s standards, but the nearly two acres ensures us that no one is going to get too close.  

The sad thing about an older neighborhood is that we’ve watched as neighbors have moved or passed on. That leaves several empty houses. A house that is abandoned too long loses its life. It’s almost as if the structure sags in loneliness. At one point this summer, five houses were empty on the second street. All but one owner had died. The families were left with the task of boxing up or throwing out a lifetime as they cleared the houses. I've done that heartbreaking job more than once. With every stick of furniture or pile of clutter that is hauled out, the life of that place dims a little more.  

The good thing about those empty houses is that they bring new neighbors to our little subdivision. We accept all: Black, Hispanic, and young. New homeowners revive a house. They give inject new personalities to places. Some who have moved in have small children whose laughter and screams bring a smile to those of us who grew up here in the fifties. 

For a while, this old neighborhood was looking sad. I worried that it might become like so many in the area: rundown and lifeless. However, our new neighbors have poured plenty of love and sweat into making these places their own. I’m glad they are here. Welcome new neighbors and friends!  

When Amy and I are gone, I’m not sure what will become of this house. Lacey and Dallas will have to make decisions that are best for them. If they do decide to sell, I hope a young family with energy and enthusiasm and love settles here. The thoughts that our house will remain and lively and happy are comforting. It’s important that this place remains a home.  

SWEET REVENGE

 Summer nearly burned us up a couple of weeks ago, but the rain arrived in the nick of time.  The weather forecast for the coming week lets us know that summer isn’t finished with us yet. August brings the beginning of school, and children wear new clothes and trudge down hallways with pack backs filled with supplies. August’s humid and scorching days take the starch out of those new clothes and sap the energy of even the most active child. 

The other things that August seems to bring with it are plenty of critters that have stingers. As young boys, we spent most of our time outside. Sometimes we’d wear old pairs of Keds with the toes cut out or just go barefoot. Without a doubt, one of us would step in a big batch of clover and feel the excruciating pain of a stinger. We’d squall as if we’d been shot and run to the house for Mother to make it better. She’d stop the crying first and then apply a poultice of baking soda and water to the areas and tell us to go sit down for a while. 

On one occasion, a bumble bee whacked me, and someone, I think one of my mamaws, both of whom dipped snuff, put some of that nasty stuff on the sting. Although the smell of the saliva-soaked snuff stunk, it provided almost instant relief. I later found out that tobacco from a cigarette worked as well and could be dampened with water instead of spit.  

In the seventh grade, I stood by the windows of the classroom before science started. Suddenly, two fighting wasps divebombed me via the collar on the back of my shirt. The stings began and so did the yells, but I made no attempt to remove my shirt. Letting kids in class get a glimpse of my fat stomach was worse than what the wasps were doing...for a few seconds. Then I tore off that blue and white shirt that Mother had made me to set the flying demons free. There I stood half naked, but not a single person laughed or pointed or even snickered. I prayed it was sympathy that kept the quiet bur fear it might have been shock from seeing such big rolls of flesh around my middle.  

While our house was under construction, a man operating a backhoe suddenly jumped from the rig and ran down the road. He reached his truck, stopped the string of curse words, and walked back up the street with a five-gallon can of fuel. He poured the entire contents into a hole that must have been the location of a yellow jackets’ nest. The man took one step back and tossed a match. A small boom and shooting flames came next. He smiled and dared any of the stingers to make a move again.  

Jim came to help me clear the lot on which we built our house, Although it had been a place where we played a boys, years of neglect led to an overgrown mess. We crawled through the overgrowth and began clearing an area. In just a few minutes, Jim let out a loud “OH,” followed by another one, and then he sprinted through brush, briars, and saplings. As he reached Mother’s yard, he tore at his shirt, followed by his pants. He’d unfortunately set out clearing an area right on top of a nest of yellow jackets. The inside of his pant legs were lined with the critters, and they had every intention of eating him up. That was his first and last day of helping me with that chore.  

Over the years since then, I run over at least one nest a year; the stings ache more than they used to and seem to settle in the nearest joint on my body. I’m careful with them, but my fear no longer runs me inside. I just avoid those places until evening. Then I take my own can of gas and pour the fuel in those holes. Revenge has never been sweeter.  

FIRST YEAR AWAY FROM HOME

 Caden Rector, like many young people, left for college the other day. He’s attending Western Carolina, where he signed to play baseball. Although he’s Jim’s grandson, the boy was on my mind, so I sent him a text message, wished him well, and told him to enjoy his college years. I suppose he was already in the swing of things since his reply came a day later: “Than you.” Isn’t that one of the standard replies on cell phones? At any rate, I began to reminisce about that first year of college. That’s what we older folks do: remember the good times from years gone by. 

 I wasn’t one bit excited about going to Tennessee Tech. Yes, Jim was going; my older brother Dal and his wife were already there. My best friends from high school were also making the 100- mile trip to Cookeville. Ask my wife or anyone who knows me well; I’m not much of a traveler. Home was a comfortable place where I have all that I need. The irony about college was that I wanted to stay home with the familiar, but I also wanted to see what life was like as a college student. 

Mother drove us to Tech, we emptied our things from the car, and she visited Dal and Brenda for a while. Then she was gone. I’ll bet she smiled and sang the entire trip home. She’d struggled with three boys after Daddy died when Jim and I were thirteen. Now she was free to do as she pleased. I hope she enjoyed those years because she’d earned them. 

Jim and I shared a room, so life was normal in that way. However, as a music major, he had rehearsals and other demands on his time, and I usually onIy saw him was in the evening. After the first quarter, He headed back home to marry Brenda. That was fifty years ago (Happy Anniversary!). My brother was the only person with whom I’d ever shared a room, and I had no intentions of acquiring a new roommate. I scooted both beds together to make one big one. The first guy saw that and told the head resident he wasn’t about to stay in that room. The second guy came after I was instructed to move the beds back to their original places. This person had no plans for graduating. All he was interested in was staying out late every night and enjoying the healing effects of “medicinal plants.” I never learned the names of either boy. 

I had early classes, so I decided that I needed to get up especially early every morning. The clock I had couldn’t have been louder if it were in a metal wash pan, and I always let it ring for a few minutes before turning it off. I’d shower and dress, all the while making as much noise as possible to annoy my new dorm buddy. He covered his head with a pillow and cursed. In about a week, I returned to my room to find it empty. I never saw the guy again.  

My fear was that I would not be able to find my classes and would be late. So, I set out to find those rooms and the buildings where they were located. Every day, I was always at least half-hour early for classes. It’s an OCD thing that has remained with me through the years.  

I made few friends during that first quarter. Studying was important to me because I didn’t want to do  poorly and disappoint Mother. It is amazing how much more important good grades are when one has to pay for the classes he takes. I met two girls in one of the god-awful education classes required. Sandra and Sharon were best buddies, and for some reason, they took me in. I had no chance of dating them since both had boyfriends. The girls commuted from Baxter, and we’d hang out in the student union between classes. I’d love to know what became of them. 

Unfortunately, I met a girl named Jacque in the old student union. On that day, the place was packed, and she invited me to sit. We struck up a conversation, and then began dating. The problem was that she had a boyfriend. He was a football player at MTSU. He came looking for me one night, but I made myself unavailable. Jacque went home for winter break and never returned.  

Plenty of other things transpired during that first year of college. It was the beginning of big changes in my life. I hope that Caden’s time will be just as memorable when he reaches my age. Hang in there, kid! The best days of your life are the ones in college.  

ARE WE PATRIOTIC ENOUGH?

 Well, evidently, the more things change, the more they stay the same is a true statement. Our world seems to take one step forward and two steps backward. The US is having a bit of trouble gaining its footing in so many areas. Sometimes I wonder if we can survive the turmoil.  

For the last 20 years, this country has fought a war in Afghanistan. During that time, we’ve sent thousands of soldiers to fight, and too many young men have come back either serious wounded, mentally scarred, or dead. I understand the beginning of that dispute was to find and destroy the persons responsible for the 9/11 attack. I also know that another goal was to stop the spread of terrorism that had its base that country. 

First President Trump announced the withdrawal of all troops from Afghanistan, and then President Biden reiterated the end of US involvement. As troops withdrew, the Taliban swooped in to fill the void, and they did so with increasing violence and cruelty. Everyone seemed surprised at the speed with which they moved and established themselves. 

Some people have complained that we deserted allies. Some people have said we failed to keep our promises to that country. I wonder how long the US is supposed to remain in a place where their actions have had such weak results. Afghanistan is no different than it was hundreds of years ago. They are driven by violence against each other. The war lords and Taliban have patiently waited for 20 years until America decided enough was enough. Not deaths of innocent people and US troops have made much of a difference for the country. Reports tell of many of the three hundred thousand troops deserting or joining the Taliban in its takeover. The trillions of dollars spent by the US has done little to change things. The fact remains that no amount of money or involvement can or will change a culture that lives on the edges of barbarianism. We can’t remake Afghanistan into a democracy when its people are used to a different type of life. 

In the 1950’s and 60’s, polio scared the hell out of parents and children alike. I remember pictures of children with braces on their legs or of indviduals swallowed by iron lungs. Polio was a disease that respected neither age no sex nor race. It attacked anyone who dared to step in its path. We cheered with the development of a vaccine. Few children were excited about needles, but parents insisted that young people be immunized. Folks stood in long lines for hours to receive the vaccine when it was put into  sugar cubes. Army inductees didn’t make a fuss when they were lined up for several vaccines that were administered in both arms. IT was their duty to receive the shots so that they could protect themselves and serve their country.  

Today, millions of Americans refuse to take a single vaccine that will protect them from the Covid-19 pandemic. The people aren’t sure of the effects from the shots, nor are they so sure that the stuff doesn’t put them at risk to something else. They claim their rights to refuse the vaccine, even as news accounts describe another strain that might well shut our country down again.  

As for those people and their rights, I say theirs end where mine begin. My grandson has done everything he’s been asked to protect himself and his family from Covid. Yet, one of his friends tested positive, Madden has been around him, and he might be quarantined or required to complete more school at his home. It should be evident to all by now that this killer isn’t going away until we do our parts to send it packing. That means listening to science, not conspiracy theories, and taking the vaccine. In no time at all, the spread of the disease will stop, and all of our lives will be much better. 

I appreciate the concerns of people about the vaccine. It was developed so quickly that it seems impossible. However, it’s proven affective against this modern-day plague; the ones in health trouble now are folks who didn’t take the shots or whose children are exposed and vulnerable now. Throughout the existence of the US, citizens have always answered the call to action. Right now, it is the duty of each person to be vaccinated. Don’t worry about microchips or poisons or tracking devices. Just know that your small choice to take a shot can save the US and its way of life. Are we patriotic enough to do it? 

OFFICIAL OLD AGE MEMBERSHIP

 I’m officially declaring my entrance into the old age population. Yes, some of you will say my membership started several years ago, but only now am I willing to accept the fact.  

People now treat me like an old guy. They hold the door for me at stores. That’s something I’ve always tried to do for others, regardless of age. These days, it seems that folks don’t think I’m capable of holding a door open long enough to allow them to enter.  

I have returned to the “gym” to complete my workout. Three days a week I make the trip and complete a routine I’ve used for some time. My intention isn’t to body build and be ripped with muscles. Instead, I’m fighting the battles to keep from getting too fat and have that droopy skin that always appears on upper arms and other places. No one has laughed at me yet for the smaller amounts of weights I lift, maybe because they realize that I’m at least strong enough to use a five-pound bar to knock the smugness right out of them. 

Of course, my skinny legs are a dead giveaway to my age. They hurt from my hips to the ends of my toes. One day, my left knee has a pain in it when I climb stairs; the next day the right one takes a turn. My attempts at riding a stationary bike are moderately successful. I don’t last long before every joint and tendon and ligament is screaming in pain, and I admit that I call it quits for that session.  

More so than ever, I piddle.I t entails activities in which people engage when they have plenty of time on their hands. I’ve cleared a burn pile this summer, knocked down the rough edges of the ashes and dirt, and sown grass seed. My closet has been reorganized at least three times this spring, and I’m still not satisfied with it. I rearranged my office and built shelves on one wall. Just yesterday I finished making a seat from an old twin bed frame. Amy promises she’ll make a cover for a foam bad for the seat. My brother Jim just yesterday said he’d never seen my basement so clean and organized, and the same is true for my shop outside. 

I say my membership is official now because my memory is in disarray. I walk into a room but can’t remember why; I forget what I ate for supper the night before; The most frightening thing is being unable to come up with the right word or name. I teased Mother for these things, and I bet she’s having a wonderful time watching as karma kicks in. Oh, that particular word or that person’s name eventually comes to me, but by then, neither is relevant. 

So, I accept my place as an old geezer in this world. That doesn't mean, however, that anyone can treat me as one. I still have plenty of strength to complete outside chores or projects, even though the next day might be one filled with sore parts. I continue to have more than enough opinion on any topic that comes up, and I can argue with the any young whippersnapper. My prayer is that I not stay around if I lose my ability to be at least somewhat active or if my mind no longer continues to function as it should. I never want to be a burden to my family, and many things are worse than death.