PARK WHERE IT'S LEGAL

 I’m a big fan of You Tube. Changing things that I enjoy watching is easy, and most videos are short, a fact that suits my shortened attention span. One of the best “channels” is “Everything Auto.” The company featured is in Gatlinburg; it tows vehicles in the area and accomplishes difficult tasks as if they were child’s play.  

Jeff and his wife are the owners of the business. Their son now works with them as well. My wife bought me a t-shirt for Christmas at their lot, and she said the place wasn’t that big. Still, those wreckers are on the road at all hours of the day and night.  

Most of us in this area have traveled to Gatlinburg, and we know that the traffic from Pigeon Forge to the town moves slowly and sometimes doesn’t move at all. When car shows are held, both places look more like parking lots. Folks don’t want to pay to park, so they find nooks and crannies to put their vehicles. That’s not a good idea. 

Business owners call Everything Auto to tow illegally parked vehicles from their lots. Condo developments call for the same reason. Especially frustrating are the tow requests that come late in the night. On some occasions, Jeff and Kristin answer calls throughout the night as irate car owners demand their cars immediately. The couple sometimes oblige folks and meet them at the lot. However, when an owner is rude or overly demanding, Jeff will politely tell the individual that he will meet them during business hours between 8-5. 

I shouldn’t be, but often am stunned at the actions of people. Visitors to that area act as if they can’t read. Signs are posted at most locations where vehicles are towed. Yet, drivers ignore them and park. How’s that possible? I’m a rule follower. If a place doesn’t allow parking, I find another spot. My wife has asked me to pull into the fire lane so she can go into the store, but I won’t do it. I find a parking place or drive around the lot until she comes out. Friends make fun of me for following rules. If for no other reason, I do it to avoid paying fines and fees.  

I blame much of this illegal parking on entitlement. It’s that same attitude that people display in too many situations. They simply do as they please and deny that any rule applies to them.  

What’s worse is the anger when cars are hauled away. Yes, the cost of retrieving a car is steep, as it should be. The signs that were posted served as warnings. The fee for bailing a car out is more like a knock on the thick skulls of a violator. Sometimes a kick in the seat of the pants is needed to get the attention of a person who does as he pleases.  

Most rules are established to protect people or places. Sure, a few of those rules are absurd, but most establish order. Those who fail to park in the right places in Gatlinburg and the national park deserve whatever fines that are given. The way to avoid those negative things is to park in the right place or pay to park in a public lot. It’s the simple things that stump some people. Others just never learn. 

 

 

NO INTEREST IN AWARD SHOWS

 I’m snuggly tucked into my porch office. Since the room has no HVAC vent, the tiny heater I use is working overtime to keep the cold away. The Grammy Awards are playing on the television in the family room, but I have no interest in watching even a second of it.  

Why should I watch? I took a look at the list of nominees in different categories, and I can honestly say that I’ve listened to music from one artist: Lady Gaga. I scrolled through all the lists and did recognize a few names in the country music section, but I couldn’t identify a single song on the list that I’ve heard.  

One reason I don’t know today’s music is that I fortunately have Sirius radio in my car. My selection of channels includes the 60’s, the 70’s, classic country and the blend station. Those stations play songs from my earlier years, beginning when I began listening to the AM and FM stations in eighth grade. By the mid-80's, I had moved to country music during the heydays of such artists as Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers, and Randy Travis.  

My interest in new music ended when electronically-alter voices and another strange noises were introduced. I prefer normal instruments and human voices in the music I hear. My mind cannot decipher what other devices are trying to add to music. 

The next comment I make will offend some folks, and for that, I apologize. I don’t like rap, hip-hop, flow, or MCings. They are all names for the genre. I consider this category as art, but not music. Talking with a beat in the back isn’t what we oldster consider true music. Yes, it is a prejudice, but not a racial or cultural one. I prefer to label it as a choice of music.  

I remember when I was a child and went to stores with elevators. Most of the MUZAK selections were tunes from my parents’ generation. I dreaded being trapped in a small space and being forced to listen to that stuff. No doubt, those who like RAP feel the same way when the music I like blares from speakers. Of course, I avoid listening to talking that is so fast that I rarely understand what is being said.  

I pay no more attention to The Globe Awards, Emmy Awards, and Oscar Awards. I know more of the actors and actresses in those media, but that knowledge is limited to the older entertainers. I just don’t care who wins. I like shows and movies for themselves, not for the performers. Rarely are the awarded movies ones that I would choose to watch. Most of us don’t pay good money for “art” in movies; instead, we pay to be entertained.  

I remind myself of my mother when it comes to television watching. She thought “Matlock” re-runs were the best shows on television. My choice of viewing most often is You Tube. I suppose my attention span is shortening. I would rather watch several different clips than invest large blocks of time watching a boring movie. However, “Pitt” is a fantastic series, and movies with Denzel Washington captivate me. I’ve even been watching a series featuring Will Smith on National Geographic. My years are making me jumpy when it comes to television viewing.  

Congratulations to the winners of the Grammy Awards. Don’t bother tell me who they are because I won’t know them anyway. 

WORK WON'T KILL YOU, BUT IT MIGHT COME CLOSE

 Yes, I’m a “Baby Boomer.” My time on this earth began in May 1952. Most younger folks aren’t interested in what we old guys write. In fact, later generations are sick and tired of our comments of “when we were young, we....” They just don’t care. 

 I can’t blame them much. We existed without cell phones, computers, video games, and all the other marvels that this technological world has introduced. Our phones were on tables in living rooms or on walls in the kitchen. Televisions weighed a ton, as did stereos, and no one had earphones for personal listening.  

Al Gore had not yet created the Internet. Communications with long distance friends and neighbors required writing letters or making expensive long-distance phone calls. Instead of texting with friends, we met face-to-face and talked, argued, or fought, whatever the situation demanded. Bullying was done in person; no shaming took place by typing mean messages on a small screen.  

I was obsessed with television as a child. Daddy didn’t have the money to buy a special antenna, so our viewing was limited to NBC and ABC. Programming ended after the “Late Show.” The profile of an Indian chief appeared on the screen after the “Star Spangled Banner” played. Eventually, the profile disappeared in a blizzard of “snow,” and the screen stayed blank until the next morning. 

My brother Jim and I played outside whenever we could. Our yard was large, and boys in the neighborhood came to play baseball and football games. We played tackle without pads and shared bats and gloves. Most every game was interrupted by a fight. When fists stopped swinging, play resumed. Those contests ended either when darkness came or supper was on the table. Then, boys would hop on their bikes and pedal home.  

We rode miles on those bikes. One friend lived in Hardin Valley, a rural community a few miles down the road. On the trip to his house, we might encounter a couple of cars, but most of the obstacles during the ride were in the form of dead skunks and chasing dogs. Those bikes had no gears. Their speed was determined by how fast we could pedal. We learned to zigzag when biking up a hill and to coast safely down the other side.  

Mother and Daddy assigned tasks around the house. Each Saturday, she would cook pancakes, and after breakfast, we divided up the rooms of the house and began cleaning. Vacuuming and dusting were required, and Mother would have us redo areas that hadn’t met her approval. We turned on the stereo, that was a huge piece of furniture with a record player inside. The volume was cranked up so we could hear artists, such as The Diamonds, The Four Tops, The Temptations, Perry Como, and Tennessee Ernie Ford, over the roar of the vacuum.  

Daddy always had my older brother “Dal Gene” mow the yard. As I said, the area was more than an acre, and he had to cut the grass with a push mower that was weighty. Jim and I were never allowed to use the mower. Our parents feared we were too rambunctious to complete the job without cutting a foot off. Instead, we were handed pairs of hand shears and instructed to cut the grass around the foundation of the house, flower beds, and driveway. At other times, we raked grass with a short-tooth rake. When truckloads of dirt were brought to level the area we called the “lower lot,” Jim and I spent hours raking locks out of the red clay dirt.  

Mother stayed home until Jim and I began school, and then she worked as a teacher. Daddy worked at a paper mill and ran blenders that turned wood into cardboard. His was dirty work that used poisonous chemicals that later made Daddy sick. On the first day of our eighth-grade year, August 31, Daddy died of lung cancer. Life changed in so many ways on that day.  

Money was tighter that before. We were a lower-middle class family before Daddy passed, and then we were maybe even close to poverty. I don’t really know, and I wonder how my mother made ends meet on a teacher’s salary and social security. Somehow, she did, and she made sure her three sons went college and earned degrees, something that was so important to our Daddy whose own education ended after the sixth grade so that he could help parents bring in enough money to survive.  

What we learned from our parents at an early age is that work is necessary to have even the basics of life. The three of us began working early in life, and we were better for it. The work was often hard with long hours, sunburns, and blistered hands, but we pitched in as much as possible to pay for our own entertainment and education.  

This book is a look at the side jobs I’ve held during my lifetime. To this day, I’m still working a part-time job. So is Jim. It is my hope that recalling the things that took place at these jobs might bring back memories for some readers and explain things to others. Some things are funny; some are unbelievable, but I promise that all is true to the best of my ability to accurately recall.