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.
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.
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