Call Me_______________!

Fellow teacher Bill Shinn and I were talking in the mailroom recently, and he mentioned that his daughter was pregnant and expecting the baby in June. I told him that Lacey was expecting in May. His daughter Becky and my daughter Lacey were in the same graduating class at Karns, and we both shook our heads at the fact that our daughters were soon to become moms. Next Bill and I shifted our conversation to the “wonders” of grandparenthood. Neither of us quite “get it,” a fact of enormous comfort to me. When he discussion turned toward grandparent names, we both rolled our eyes at the absurdity in coming up with one.
My grandparents were working class folks who had little time for foolishness. I doubt that they much cared if their grandchildren called them anything. They were from a generation that believed that “children should be seen and not heard.” That meant they didn’t much care what names were used for them; they didn’t want to hear little voices yapping all the time.
We called both grandfathers “Papaw” and both grandmothers “Mamaw.” To distinguish which one, we used the last names “Rector” and “Balch.” That was it. Amy is from Cookeville and never heard those to tags for grandparents until she came to East Tennessee. (It’s hard to educate outsiders to the “right” ways things are done, the East Tennessee ways.)
Our kids called my mother Mamaw, but a different one came out for my Amy’s mom. I don’t know what adults were trying to teach Lacey and Dallas, but what came out was “Nini.” That sounds a bit strange, doesn’t it?
That’s my point. Adults have grand plans for teaching little ones names, but those toddlers have ways of screwing everything up. In the end the names that come out are terrible. One woman wanted to be called “GiGi.” It was a name that cracked up some people in the other side of the family because they once owned a dog by that name. A granddad was called “P-P;” I consider that name an excellent choice because it brings up something to which small children and old men think about much of the time.
Amy has already stated that she IS NOT a Mamaw. I’m not privy to the list of names she prefers, I have no doubt that they are elegant ones that fit the elegant woman that my wife is. She needs to be careful, however. Too many times, slick names are mispronounced so that they become ridiculous-sounding words. Some grandparents begin to answer to sounds that more resemble grunts than names. All the while, they are smiling and talking about how wonderful their grandchildren are.
I’ll admit that I have a hard time with any grandfatherly name. I viewed my grandparents as old. They didn’t have much of a sense of humor either. The idea that a new name might be associated with being old and grumpy doesn’t appeal to me in the least. Becoming a grandparent seems to be another one of those steps toward the finality of life, and I just naturally resist that, no matter how futile the struggle might be.
So, in about six months I’ll be a grandparent. It would be all right with me if we taught this coming child to call me “Joe.” I’ve also compiled a list of other names from other languages: Yeh-Yeh (Chinese), Nonno (Italian), Tito (Spanish), Farfar (Swedish), and Daadaa (Urdu/India). Isn’t it amazing how each of these sounds as if the person is a bit off kilter? Come to think of it, all those names sound as if they were first uttered by a child who was just beginning to speak. I’ll let you know what new name is assigned. Send me some suggestions that I can try to teach this new person.

We Owe an Apology

When my daughter was in college, one song summed up her life better than any other. The Dixie Chicks sang “Wide Open Spaces,” and each line echoed the events of our family. I still can’t listen to the lyrics without tearing up, and I appreciate that group for giving the public such a song.

Since that time, I’ve been a fan of the Dixie Chicks, but not everyone has remained that loyal. Natalie Maine spoke out against President Bush and the war in Iraq in 2003. Immediately, she was vilified by those with political axes to grind. Fans unceremoniously dumped the Dixie Chicks. Radio stations refused to play their music, and right wing organizations took the opportunity to aim their sights at the musical group and to publicly excoriate them.
The citizenry was no better. Many protested and made signs with hateful comments. They dumped Dixie Chick cd’s in trash cans or in fires built to “cleanse” communities of so-called “godless, unpatriotic actions.”

The Dixie Chicks suffered mightily for Maine’s comments. The group went from being one of the most popular country music groups to pariahs. Sales of their music plunged. Concert ticket sales slumped, and many who bought tickets attended in order to boo and otherwise harass the singers. Even the residents of their own communities turned their backs on the three.

I have to admit that I was none too pleased with Natalie’s comments. No, I’ve never been a big supporter of the president, but at that time, I wanted my pound of flesh for the wrongs that were done to the innocent victims of September 11th. I hoped that our country would present a united front as our soldiers fought in Iraq. I never bought the connection between 9/11 and Saddam Hussein, but I figured our military surely wouldn’t wage war without adequate intelligence about the former thug-dictator’s complicity in the mess.

I should have known better. George W. wanted to avenge his dad. He meant to end the war that his father began several years ago. His boys, including the vice president and a gaggle of advisors and aides, went along with the plan and passed along incendiary information that raised the ire of our nation. That the information was a conglomeration of half-truths and outright lies was of little consequence. This president and his crew decided somewhere along the line that it knew best what the citizens should be told. It looks as if lies were told to keep the agenda on track.

So, here our country sits in 2007. We’re mired in another war that we can’t win. Moreover, the citizens of the country being defended hate and sometimes attack our soldiers. As of October, 3,838 military personnel have been killed in Iraq. Newscasts tell us that the future costs of the war will exceed $1.4 trillion. Our presence in the region is assured for the next several years.
All the while, the Chicks continue to make music. They’ve written off the country music industry that turned its back on them. Still, their record sales are growing, as is their popularity. They are blazing new trails without compromise. The Dixie Chicks refused to bow down and beg forgiveness for what was said, and they shouldn’t have to. Our leaders claim to be fighting for democracy in Iraq. Isn’t it strange that we fight for freedoms for another country and squawk when someone practices freedom of speech at home?

What stings many who attacked the Dixie Chicks is the fact that they were right. The nation is tired of this conflict, and citizens are ticked off that the president and his administration lied to us. “Weapons of mass destruction” are words that boil the blood of Americans. George Bush’s approval rating is close to flat-lining. Many of the staunchest supporters of the president’s policy in 2003 are now speaking out about its failure.

How wrong was Natalie Maine for speaking out? Maybe she merely said four years early what the majority of Americans are saying now. The Dixie Chicks have withstood verbal assaults about their families, their beliefs, and their rights to live in this country. Shame on us! These women took a stand and refused to shrink from it. They should never have received the meanness that was thrown their way. Today, they don’t thumb their noses at the rest of us or tell us “we told you so.” What they deserve from us now is an apology. It’s long overdue.

A Good Time Of Year

October has always been a good month to me. As much as I like the heat of summer, I also enjoy the cooling temperatures of fall. Plenty of good memories come with the first full month of fall.
In the 1960’s we kids had been back in school about a month. Our lives had shifted gears from playing outside all day, staying up late, and sleeping in. Now, mothers called us in the morning, and we stumbled to the breakfast table to eat something as unappealing as oatmeal or as lumpy as cream of wheat. Then we put on our school clothes which were still stiff with newness. That stiffness made jeans especially uncomfortable.

When we arrived home at the end of the day, our first order of business was to change into our old clothes and to hang up our school apparel. Some kids had to finish homework before they could do anything else. Others might watch cartoon such as “Popeye,” “Yogi Bear,” or they might tune in the “Early Show” hosted by Rex Rainey. We boys always headed for some kind of sports competition and played whatever was in season. By October, most of the baseballs, gloves, and bats had been stowed away and the football was brought out. Our games were rough ones. No one wore a set of pads or a mouth piece, but we played tackle football anyway. Lips and noses quite often dripped with blood, and most every game ended with a fight between two boys. The time to quit playing came when the sun set, the ground became damp, and the temperatures dramatically cooled. Lots of time the call of “Supper” from our mothers served as the final whistle to the game.

October brings with it the scents of a new season. The perfumes from flowers are replaced with the pungent aroma of dying leaves. Pine needles and sap leave their signatures in the wind as well. Our gang spent time playing in the woods. Lean-to’s made from the limbs of pine trees were erected to serve as the centerpiece of our play area, and from that spot many ventures began as wars between cowboys and Indians or G.I.’s and Germans broke out. Crawling along the ground brought the smells of the vegetation to our cold, runny noses. Times were so good then.

Halloween was a much bigger celebration than it is today. Of course, then folks didn’t worry about whether their children would be poisoned by the treats they were given. Neither was the traffic so heavy that just walking down the street was a danger. Halloween meant bags filled with things that we didn’t have stockpiled at the house. Occasionally, someone would dump apples in our bags, but we said “thank you” and chucked them in an open field as we continued our journey. The best treats were homemade popcorn balls and those pieces of peanut butter candy enveloped in black and orange wrappers. We walked three of four miles to claim a modest amount of candy on Halloween. Subdivisions where parents dumped van-loads of kids until treat bags split open from the treats were anywhere to be found.

The cooler evening meant fogged up car windows for teens during the weekend. Yep, couples that parked and sparked steamed up every piece of glass in the vehicle. Roads where new housing developments were being constructed were crowded with parked cars as teens spent just a few minutes “talking things over.”

During my senior year in college October became an especially memorable time. My wife Amy and I had known each other for a year before we ever dated. By the time October arrived, we’d been out a couple of times. The temperatures that year were cool in Cookeville. I can’t give the exact date, but sometime in that month, Amy and I walk along the intramural fields and ROTC marching fields. It was during that walk that I knew for sure that this was the woman I’d waited for. Only after dating about a month, we both realized that our lives were meant to be spent together.

October holidays include Columbus Day, which offers a day off to only a few, and Halloween. The rest of the month is left for us to make what we will of it. I have over the span of my life. October has become a favorite of mine because it has given me so many positive memories. This year is brought news of the coming in May of our first grandchild. I look forward to what else the month’s thirty-one days offer.

I SHOULD HAVE

I walked out to get the paper half asleep the other morning, plopped down in the chair to eat a bowl of oatmeal, and scanned the news. An obituary notice knocked me from a half comatose state and shook my world. It also started my thinking about doing things.

I met Jim Pinkston during the spring of 2007. He and his wife Kathy raised mules, and I was fortunate enough to write a story on two of them named Pat and Pearl. All tolled, I probably spent no more than an hour and a half with the couple, but it only took that short time for me to like the man as well as anyone I’d ever met. Jim had a dry, quick wit. Although we’d never met, he began to tease me and give me plenty of grief from the outset. Then, Jim would grin from through that cowboy mustache to let me know that he was having a wonderful time at my expense.

At the beginning of summer Jim and Kathy nursed twin mules that had been born prematurely. In fact, they turned the farmhouse into a pre-natal ICU for the newborns. I’d gone to visit one Saturday with my wife, mother-in-law, and aunt in tow, but we missed the Pinkston’s. For the last couple of weeks, I’d planned to stop by to write up a story on the twins and the makeshift hospital facilities.

What shook me so violently that morning was Jim Pinkston’s picture in the paper. It was followed by his obituary. From what I could gather, Jim had suffered a heart attack and died suddenly. I sat stunned as I read in disbelief. Then I felt like the biggest jerk that had ever drawn breath.

I had allowed the opportunity to write another story about a unique character and good man slip by. What bothered me most is that my procrastination had deprived me of ever having time with a person whom I truly enjoyed. Sure, I had been busy with the start of the school year and other things that required my attention. Still, I could have scheduled the visit. In fact, the Saturday before Jim died I had told my wife I was going to call and take her with me to visit. I SHOULD HAVE done that. Instead, I put things off for another day. Plenty of other days would be available to go by the Pinkston farm and spend time. Now, I’m sitting here in a state of shock over the man’s passing. At the same time I am beating myself up for not having taken the time to do the things I SHOULD HAVE done.

This is another lesson for me along the trail. Each of us takes life for granted. We assume that there’s always plenty of time to do things with and for those about whom we truly care. Life sometimes gets in the way of what is really important. We think that visit to a parent or that call to a friend can wait. However, when unexpected things happen, we catch ourselves midst the grieving saying things that begin with “I SHOULD HAVE.”

I have few regrets for the time I’ve spent with family members who have passed. I made my peace with them long before they left. When my parents and brother died, I knew that I had been there throughout their illnesses; I hadn’t neglected to see them. Jim Pinkston isn’t family member, but he was someone I assumed I would have plenty of time to get to know and befriend. His sudden death leaves me filled with regret and guilt. Most of all, Jim’s passing once again opens my eyes to the things that are truly important in this world.

I plan to spend more time with family and friends. I want to make myself available to those folks who are so important in my life. Maybe that means making more trips to Nashville and Chattanooga to see the kids. It includes driving a hundred miles to Cookeville to see my 85 year-old mothers-in-law. That even means driving just a couple miles to see my brother and his family.

I can’t use the excuse that life’s too busy or that there will be plenty of time later to do those things. I don’t want to again say, “I SHOULD HAVE.” From now on, I need to say “I’VE DONE.”