Month: October 2015

A CONVERSATION

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And now we are saying there is a racist aspect to Star Wars?

cigarman501's avatarRavings of a Mad Southerner

The arrest of fifteen Georgia residents who SUPPOSIDLY crashed a black neighborhood birthday party while flying Confederate Battle Flags, brandishing weapons and shouting racial epitaphs has once again ignited discussion about our Southern heritage and hate.

During a conversation with a really good friend, one whose opinion I respect a great deal, it suddenly became apparent that I had misrepresented myself. Our conversation was about the Confederate Battle Flag that recently was removed from our State House dome. From some of my previous post, she mistakenly believed that I was of the opinion that the flag was one of the reasons Dylann Roof decided to pull the trigger that took nine lives earlier this summer. I don’t believe that any more than I believe the gun was at fault. What I do believe is that both of these inanimate objects were a part of the same environment that spawned him…

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A CONVERSATION

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The arrest of fifteen Georgia residents who SUPPOSEDLY crashed a black neighborhood birthday party while flying Confederate Battle Flags, brandishing weapons, and shouting racial epitaphs has once again ignited discussion about our Southern heritage and hate.

During a conversation with a really good friend, one whose opinion I respect a great deal, it suddenly became apparent that I had misrepresented myself. Our conversation was about the Confederate Battle Flag that recently was removed from our State House dome. From some of my previous posts, she mistakenly believed that I was of the opinion that the flag was one of the reasons Dylann Roof decided to pull the trigger that took nine lives earlier this summer. I don’t believe that any more than I believe the gun was at fault. What I do believe is that both of these inanimate objects were a part of the same environment that spawned him. Does he suffer from some type of insanity? Probably, and that insanity, cultivated by a fertile environment of racism and cultural division, was pointed at his targets just like his gun.

His environment was one that included a belief in white supremacy and the belief that Blacks, Jews, and Orientals were taking over. It is a variant of the argument that I believe, was used prior to the Civil War to create support from Southern non-slave owners. The belief that if we had not supported slavery we would be living with them, competing for jobs, and marrying off our daughters to them.

My recent rants have not been so much about the flag itself as it was about the attempt to explain the flag in a light of love and heritage, and in doing so marginalizing the effect slavery had on the South and the Civil War. Non-apologist were spouting information that made me wonder if I had read the wrong research as an undergrad history major. It was “Lost Cause” propaganda that the war was only about the state’s rights, independence, and unfair tariffs, not slavery. There is a kernel of truth in that belief but these posters seemed to be forgetting that one of those state’s rights was the right to continue and expand slavery…and the independence to do so.

It is interesting that their defense of the flag rarely speaks to the events that occurred after the Civil War other than to say it was about heritage and not hate. I was born just after the Dixiecrats first hijacked the flag and grew up during the end of Jim Crow, Brown, and the Civil Rights movement. I began my teaching career just two years after the forced desegregation of schools. It wasn’t pretty but I thought we were past most of it. The aftermath of Charleston, Ferguson, North Charleston, the deaths of too many police officers and theatergoers, and a myriad of other places and issues proved to me that we had simply covered it up and ignored it as many posts I have read have proven to me. Black Lives Matter, White Lives Matter, Police Lives Matter, and All Lives Matter seemed to move toward no lives matter unless it is mine. The “us versus them” finger-pointing continues today and has expanded to include gays, Christians, Muslims, police officers, white trash, and any other group or person we disagree with or support. With plenty of fake news sites, anyone’s particular object of hatred could be fed.

I admit to having worked in an insulated environment all my adult life as a teacher. Teaching is not working in the real world, it’s MUCH MORE challenging than that. Ninety percent of my friends of African descent come from that sector as either former students, teachers, or administrators. With few exceptions, they are intelligent, hard-working, and solid citizens in every way. They are also professionals who will tell you that Jim Crow and racism are still alive and well and located in many places other than just the South. The Jim Crow of today has become de facto instead of de jure but it’s there none the less. They will also tell you that, as white Americans, we owe them nothing more than the truth and an honest chance…the same as everyone else.

Even though I have descendants who fought and died under the Battle Flag, I could not support it. I even have some sympathy for the girl who climbed the pole and took it down because fifty-four years is a long time to wait. You might need to know I was in high school during the Civil Rights protests and in college during the height of the Viet Nam protest era. Those protests made a lasting imprint and the right to peaceful protest is ingrained in me no matter how reprehensible it might be. Should she have taken it down? No. Nor should flags be pulled down from private homes or monuments defaced but again I believe that it’s about white supremacy and I would add, the black racism that it has helped to create.

There are fear and lack of trust that both races have for each other in South Carolina and other Southern states that have grown since the Civil War. It is well earned. Throughout the rest of the country our track record with Blacks, Native Americans, Asians and Hispanics has been just as bad and has been widened to include gays and lesbians, Muslims, the Pope and those of us who believe that being unconcerned about political correctness is just an excuse for middle schools like name-calling and bullying. It is time for the name-calling to end but I fear it is just as ingrained as our racism and our cultural and political divide.

THE FRONT GATE PART TWO

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I have spent over forty years involved in athletics and have a love for great expanses of well-manicured Bermuda grass. My wife does not share that love. Compromise is a necessary component of a solid marriage but as I look through the gate I see nothing that is well-manicured. I see a tangled expanse of…jungle. Glad I was able to compromise. Our yard would be best described as a wildlife preserve…all at Linda Gail’s insistence. Any weed that puts off a pin-sized bit of color is a flower to be prized, a stalk that a butterfly or humming bird might avail itself to must be preserved. Any twig found near a morning glory must be pushed into the ground to support that most favored flower. Milkweed is in abundance for the Monarch butterflies. Lord preserve me from the wrath of my wife if I happen to cut one. Plants of all types are found together with no rhyme or reason and she has created a haven for animals of all types…even some who have become unwanted visitors to our home. I consider myself to be truly blessed despite my earlier “Donald” moment and smile at the memories of my bride sprinting naked from our old-fashioned bathroom. Sprinting and yelling, “Snake! Snake! Snake!” I imagined the snake, a six-foot-plus black rat snake, yelling in my head, “Naked Woman! Naked Woman! Naked Woman!” as it tried to escape up the wall behind her.

The summer of our first year living as farm owners we returned late to our yet-to-be air conditioned farmhouse. The late July heat and humidity were still evident when Linda Gail decided to bathe. Believing that the bright overhead incandescent light bulb simply added to the heat, she had entered the bathroom in the dark and, after beginning to run her water, stripped, reached down and plugged in the small lamp that sat next to the lavatory. As the light dimly flooded the small bathroom, she found herself staring at the snake that was coiled below the short electrical cord. Typically male, my attention was drawn to the vision of a fit, well-shaped woman with fabulous…eyes running naked through the house and not on the snake that was trying to escape in the other direction. There is always a price to go with the vision I was enjoying. Someone had to remove the snake…but first I had to find it.

Years later, after a series of renovations that included air conditioning, we decided to build a deck off our new upstairs bedroom suite. One morning we observed a large raccoon taking advantage of seeds that had dropped from bird feeders that I had hung from the deck. “OOOOH! Isn’t it cute? She really is big. Look at her little well-formed hands. OOOOH.” We loved her…until later that night. When we renovated, Linda Gail decided she wanted double French doors and a big deck…off of our upstairs bathroom. For some reason I have always thought it was odd to locate a deck this way but it was the only way to have a deck off of the bedroom…and what Linda Gail wants…. That cute raccoon decided she would use her cute little hands to open the French doors and try to make off with a large bucket of cat food. Discovered in the act by my darling, a tug-of-war ensued over the bucket, until Rocky Raccoon was popped with a towel when she refused to back off.

As you can tell, a lot of our lives has revolved around Linda Gail’s love for animals. We have always had pets – multiple dogs, a cat or two and, of course, that rat snake that lived in our attic along with its mate and what turned out to be a family of flying squirrels. ”Honey, we have to get them out. They might chew through an electric wire and burn down the house.” “Oh, we will cross that bridge if we need to.” Need to? Couldn’t that involve having to build a new house? Oh yes, they are still there and I shudder to think how many generations have joined them. Maybe with the snakes…please don’t suggest anything of the sort to Linda Gail or I will find myself on a snake safari in our attic.

Even when we have attempted to portray ourselves as actual farmers, more times than not, we have found ourselves in a cross between American Gothic and a gothic horror story…or gothic comedy. I remember standing in front of this same gate one afternoon after returning from a nearby coaching clinic. I stood in confusion as I wondered why there were sheets strung like hammocks between the hemlock trees in our front yard. When we first moved to the foothills of the Blue Ridge I made the mistake of commenting that since we had a chicken coop we needed to get a few laying hens. The mistake was saying it in front of Linda Gail’s dad, Ralph. “You know? There’s a guy down the street from me trying to get rid of a couple of chickens.” Thirty hens and two roosters later I had to say “Enough with the poultry.”

A mixed bunch from several different sources, our game hens took offense to our robbing their nest for eggs and decided to take advantage of our free range farming techniques. They just disappeared and after a while we believed that they had been kidnapped by Br’er Fox who had been shopping for dinner. Imagine our reaction to hearing the “peep, peep, peep” sounds of baby chicks emanating from the squirrel nests high in our hemlock trees. Temporarily struck stupid in amazement, we never considered how they would make their way to the ground. Their mothers hadn’t considered it either. Chickens, at best, are not the brightest animals God created and they fly only slightly better than rocks. Chicks? They don’t fly at all but simply make a sound reminiscent of a nut being cracked when they hit the ground. Linda Gail decided that sheets strung under the trees was a better option than running around trying to catch them with a butterfly net that we didn’t have. She is one of the brighter animals that God created and was able to save most of them.

When we met I knew there was something special about her. She had an inflated pumpkin on her head and was hiding behind a bar. She was my roommate’s former girlfriend and even after their last breakup I was slow to grasp that she was feeling the same spark that I had been feeling. After a most pleasing and unexpected face-sucking session after an impromptu stop off at a local “watering hole,” I still did not push the issue. It had to be the alcohol and she was my ex-roommate’s ex-girlfriend after all. I should have been concentrating more on the ex-part than the girlfriend part. After fumbling the chance, I got one more opportunity when she stopped by at the end of a football practice and asked if I would take her to The Casablanca, a blues club on River Street. She wanted to hear an old friend of hers sing and play the piano. Sounds exotic doesn’t it? The Casablanca on River Street sounds sexy…but it was not! It was a rundown brick building and not a white house at all. There was no view overlooking a river, and it was anything but exotic, unless you find Harley Davidsons exotic. No, while the name invoked visions of “Rick’s American Café,” I did not see anyone who resembled Humphrey Bogart or Grace Kelly. Previously having read an advertisement stating that “proper dress is required” I decided that I must dress somewhere between casual business and formal funeral parlor i.e. sport coat, dress pants but no tie. I’m glad I didn’t go for a “Casablanca” inspired dinner jacket and bow tie. As we walked through the door, the first view I had was of a tattooed lady of ample girth, in a hiked-up denim skirt, sprawled on a pool table trying to make a shot without benefit of a bridge. I would guess there was a Marlboro stuck to her lower lip but was looking up the wrong end to see. Women that large can get underwear in rose prints? Who knew…I hope it was a rose print. I tried not to stare but it was almost like watching the wreck that you knew was coming. I could not tear my eyes away until I realized that the three long-haired, tattooed, and denim-clad gorillas with her were staring at yours truly ogling at her. “Linda, what have you gotten me into?”

Since walking through this gate the very first time I have asked that question a lot. We have survived tornadoes, an ice storm with a hurricane attached, and a goat in our well. Yes, a goat in our well but that is a story to be told later along with the story of the goat in the bathroom. Most importantly we have survived with each other. Now with retirement we might have to survive being with each other too much. I stood thinking how lucky I was when I heard our two blue heeler puppies begin to bark heralding Linda Gail’s entrance into the yard. “What are you doing? You are standing there like a dope.” I explained that I was debating whether or not to throw my cap in the yard. As she cocked her head side I explained, “I figured if it didn’t come flying back out it was safe to come in.” She just looked at me and said, “When has it ever been safe?” That is a pretty good summation. Interesting, exhilarating, exhausting, confusing, the descriptors can go on and on but will never include the word safe…except it does. It was time to walk through the gate to my “safe harbor” and begin to create some new memories. I am sure none will be boring.

THE FRONT GATE PART ONE

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I had just reached my turnaround. It was not my halfway point – today it was my turnaround. I had walked through my front gate pissed off and had left a wife as upset as I was. What it was about doesn’t matter. It was petty and it was my fault…even if it wasn’t. I hate that I share a first name with “The Donald!” Now I feel I share his personality… THE JERK! I stormed out to run my seven and a half miles anyway with choice words thrown over my shoulder as I pushed my way out of my old front gate. A couple of miles into my run I had a sobering thought. “What happens if I get hit by a car, have a heart attack, get eaten by a bear or abducted by aliens?” My last words to the woman I love, my companion for the last thirty years, would have been said in anger. I know I won’t be around to know but I don’t want to leave that legacy any more than I want to be eaten by a bear. As I began my run back home I climbed inside my memories and forgot about cars, heart attacks, bears and aliens. There was not a lot room left for anything else as I thought about my life with Linda Gail.

Linda Gail is a pretty, well-put-together brunette who is my third and hopefully final chance at “marital bliss.” Had you asked me what would be your “perfect” marital partner, I probably would not have described anyone like Linda Gail. That is because sometimes men don’t know what is good for them. After thirty years I guess this marriage is going to “take.” She spent thirty years teaching physical education and coaching which is another way of saying that there are at least two Type A personalities residing in our household. If you were to ask her what she coached she will answer “kids and my husband!” Specifically she coached basketball, tennis, softball and her husband. There were many nights after baseball or football games that were spent listening to her critique my game plan and its execution.

What she lacks in height she more than makes up for in personality and attitude. I have described her as a “humming bird on steroids” as she flitted from child to child in her classes or on the basketball court. For reasons that escape me this morning, I see a coltish mustang galloping in the sunshine, her curly long dark hair flowing out behind her and shining in the morning light. After thirty years of marriage this is still the Linda Gail that I see, a wild unbroken mustang ready to metaphorically stomp you to death with her hooves. No that is unfair. Persona has much to do with attitude and Linda Gail, despite our age, still views the world through the eyes of a child…most of the time. This morning her attitude was more like the wicked witch of the west…or maybe it was mine “Trumping” hers.

Happily I made it back without an encounter of any kind, much less the third kind. There were no aliens or bears, despite my fears. As I stand in front of the gate that I have stood in front of so many times over the years I wonder if Linda Gail has forgiven me and if she will ever allow me to get the Japanese Honeysuckle under control. Silently I answer both of my questions in the negative. It was almost thirty years ago that I first stood in front of this gate feeling like I had stepped into the set of “Green Acres”…”fading into the fog of time…”

…I look nothing like Eddie Arnold and Linda Gail would not be caught dead in one of Eva Gabor’s chiffon outfits. She might be caught dead in some of Eva’s jewelry but not her outfits. Even then, less than a year into our marriage, Linda Gail leaned more toward athletic wear or overalls. A diamond necklace would look great accessorizing her overalls or replacing the whistle lanyard over her sweats. Yet, despite this thought, as we first stood at the gate of a chain link fenced in yard, I was having a “Green Acres” moment gazing at the old farm house that my wife had just fallen in love with. The chain link fence enclosed a yard that was filled with hemlock and black walnut trees and was inhabited by the requisite canine, although this one looked more like a small bear. It turned out that Bear was his actual name. Bear lay in the sun and gazed at us with wary eyes until he decided we were not a threat and went back to his mid-morning nap. I did notice that while his eyes were closed, his ears were at attention and I had no doubt that should we attempt to breach the fence he would be there to impede our efforts.

Linda Gail and I had been out exploring, something that we still do on occasion, and we seem to always find some new, or at least forgotten, pig trail to travel down. She had seen the for sale sign as we drove by and forced me to turn around and go back. We were sort of house hunting and looking for a home to fix up that sat on five acres of land. Something had to be done, we were living in a condo with three Boykin Spaniel mixes who were about to poop us out of house and, if not home, a small patio backyard. This old farmhouse appeared, at least on the outside, to fit the bill. With the heavily wooded yard and surroundings, white clapboard siding and tin roof, it certainly had the ambience. The problem was no one was home. A phone call to the realtor deflated my wife’s euphoria. The house had a contract written and signed on it with a closing date just a few days distant. The realtor told us that the owner, the Reverend James Copeland, had said that if we wanted to come out and look the place over, he would love to show it to us. Odd I thought. If you are days away from closing why would someone want to show it? Odder still was Linda’s response, “We’ll be right there!” Knowing better than to question her, I decided to go along for the ride, something that I have been doing for nearly three decades. This was not the first nor the last time I would ask myself, “Linda, what are you getting me into?”

A very gregarious and personable Mr. Copeland met us at the gate and led us inside. Linda immediately became smitten with the seventy-seven years young, Mr. Copeland, a retired Methodist minister who had purchased the home in 1956. The feeling appeared to be mutual. With his blind first wife, he immediately began to renovate. The home had sat empty for many years, had no electricity, indoor plumbing or heat other than its five fireplaces. The original outhouse was and is still on the property although now it serves as a tool shed. With help, from his “good Baptist brethren” heating, electricity and plumbing were added to the home that had been originally built in the late eighteen eighties or early eighteen nineties. South Carolina Scenic Highway 11 actually was constructed through the original two-hundred-acre tract of land and separated the home from its red barn which still stands on the wrong side of Highway 11. It does give me an opportunity to break a commandment every so often as I walk outside and look across the road. I wish that barn was….

After a tour of the home and a history lesson, the very spry and physically fit, Mr. Copeland decided that we should go on a hike to see the land the house sat on. While we had been looking for five or so acres, this particular parcel of gently rolling heavily forested land was eighty-seven acres. If you are looking to purchase land and see the description “gently rolling” don’t believe it any more than you should believe a doctor who says, “This might sting” or a dentist who says, “You might feel a pinch.” Gently rolling means up and down a lot. With seven streams cutting through ravines, dense hardwoods and vines obstructing our path, along with both a humidity and temperature over ninety, it was a tough three-hour hike for a guy who thought he was in shape. Mr. Copeland hardly puffed at all; instead, he simply “walked us into the ground” despite being over twice our age.

We enjoyed our time with Mr. Copeland but left with a “day late and a dollar” short feeling. Linda Gail was particularly deflated. The closing was at hand and it appeared that there was nothing to do but keep looking for our little piece of heaven. Sometimes fact can be stranger than fiction or if you believe in the power of prayer… The day after the date of the closing, we received a phone call from the realtor asking if we still wanted the place. Mr. Copeland had backed out of his original contract. His reasoning was that he liked us better and believed that we would love the place as much as he. After thirty years we are still here and still love it and believe no one could love it more. We continue to fix things up and have boxes in the attic yet to be unpacked.

Part two of the Front Gate will be blogged on Monday.

SALAMANDERS AND FIREFLIES

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Salamanders and Fireflies

In the fall of 1987, my wife and I would make the decision to leave the relative ease of a condo for “the country” and a hundred plus year old farmhouse that had been the possession of James Copeland. A retired Methodist minister, Mr. Copeland had bought “The Brammlet Place” in 1956 and along with his “Good Baptist Brethren” had begun a renovation of sorts to the old farmhouse that had sat empty for a decades. Renovation might be stretching what they did. They did add electricity, heat and a bathroom with running water.

One of the challenges of our little “place in the sun” was our water system. Located in the woods, across a wide stream and about a football field’s length from the back of our house was our well. Well not a well exactly, it was a cistern consisting of a brick dyke built into the ground where a spring found its way to the surface from under a very old oak tree. Mr. Copeland and his good Baptist brethren had constructed the system and placed a water tank and pump inside of a brick pump house on top of it all. Smooth river rock had been placed in the bottom of the cistern along with a pot that the pump nozzle sat in. The cistern itself was covered by corrugated metal sheets placed on top of the dyke.

Mr. Copeland bragged about how sweet and pure the water was but we still had to get a chemical analysis to prove it. Just as soon as we had uncovered the well, the young chemist who had been sent to collect water samples exclaimed, “Oh I can tell your water is okay.” I asked if he had undergone some type of divine enlightenment and he explained that we had salamanders. “Salamanders won’t live in anything but good water,” he said as he knowingly nodded his head. I could not help but point out that I was concerned what the salamanders might be adding to the water. The young man assured me that it was okay because the government standards allowed for a certain amount of salamander pooh without it effecting how potable the water was. I guess that is no worse than the allowable amounts of rodent fecal matter in hot dogs and the little red and black amphibians were so cute…and great to fish with.

While being interesting and a conversation starter, the water system was as high maintenance and contrary as Mary, Mary of nursery rhyme fame. If the power went off, the pump had to be primed. For those of you who have no clue, primed meant that water had to be poured down a pipe into the pump to create suction and I kept a pitcher full of water available for just that possibility. It was very inconvenient and a bit scary if it took place in the middle of the night. We have bears and coyotes along with bobcats and “painters.” A painter is a local term for the mountain lions or panthers that live in the area. I have only seen one bobcat and heard one panther. After hearing the panther, I have decided that I only want to see them in photographs. When you are walking down to the cistern in the middle of the night one might imagine that the area around the stream and cistern might be inhabited by ghost, spirts and haints. Hummmmm, vampires, werewolves, zombies and a T Rex might inhabit the area also.

Late one evening, after a spring thunderstorm had knocked off our power just long enough for the pump to lose its prime, I made the trip down to the spring and began the process to prime it. As I bent over and tried to concentrate on the process rather than my fears, I felt rather than saw that I had company. When I looked up I beheld an eerie sight as fireflies began to come out of their winter hideaways and blink their little message “Come here! I am ready for you to find me. It is time for us to propagate the species.” Not very romantic but we are talking about fireflies. What was eerie was that they had risen no higher than three feet off of the ground and were all blinking in sequence with each other. I was amazed and just a bit fearful.

Twenty-eight years later they still make their appearance in early May but I’ve never seen their group emergence since that night. A once in a lifetime occurrence? If it was, it was worth it. We have since done some of our own renovations that included a new underground well. While it needed to have been done it was not replaced on purpose but because a storm had put a huge oak down on the well house. SPLAT! My pump now is just outside my house, one hundred feet below ground. I don’t mind not having to prime the pump but I do miss the fireflies and the salamanders.

Image Tsuneaki Hiramatsu, photograph of flirting fireflies during mating season outside Niimi, in Japan’s Okayama prefecture

THE PINK IPOD

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THE PINK IPOD is an excerpt from FLOPPY PARTS which may be purchased through Amazon at http://goo.gl/Saivuu

I have a pink IPOD which for some reason has become the object of debate. I realize that I don’t coach in one of the more progressive areas of the world but find it thought provoking that even the mature kids that I coach ask, “Why do you have a pink IPOD?” They ask this while giving me the old fish eye and nodding as if they know something that I don’t. Well, they probably do know something that I don’t but they do not know the reasoning behind the pink IPOD. I do not know why some men and boys have a homophobic fear of the color pink. I have several gay friends who nicely counterbalance the homophobic friends that I have, and none of them wear pink any more, or less, than anyone else. I also have no femininity issues unless they are latent. What if they are? I am in perfect tune with my feminine side and do not feel the urge to wear frilly feminine underwear…at least not yet. So, what is the reason for a pink IPOD? I know you are all on the edge of your seat anticipating the answer. Drum roll please! TA – DAH! You see, I can find it more easily when I lose it. Unless I have lost it on a pink flamingo or pink Cadillac, it is easily seen. No other reason at all. It is easy to find! Now if you feel the need to discuss pink being one of my favorite colors or my lack of concern when I wear pink knit shirts, pink ties or flowery Hawaiian shirts in pink motifs, we can talk about it. I do so love pink flamingoes and would offer a body part to own a Fifties model pink Caddy convertible. I just believe that I am a progressive thinker. Okay, not THAT progressive! It would have to be a body part that comes in twos.

My last year as a full time teacher, I shared a room during my planning period with Lola, a former Seventies “flower child.” I don’t know for sure that she was a “flower child” but she certainly looked the part, in a slightly industrial-sized way, and acted as if she had gone “one toke over the line” some forty or more years ago. I would venture to guess that she had continued as one for the last four decades. For those of you who grew up in the “Big Hair and Shoulder Pads” period, a “flower child” is another descriptor for “hippy” and a “toke” was the deep, held in inhalation of pot. I could almost see her sitting at the corner of Haight and Ashbury dressed in denim or gingham, singing “It never rains in California”…no, I see her more as a Janis Joplin type singing “Me and Bobby McGee,” – a cleaner Janis Joplin type.

Once I wore a pink knit shirt and several days later a pink oxford cloth dress shirt with a dandy purple print tie. She commented that “You seem to wear a lot of pink.” I was unsure what constituted “a lot” and I really didn’t think I had even worn them both in the same week. I had also sported the color blue three times that week and I was five for five wearing khaki. I probably should look into some trousers in colors other than bland. Rather than asking to see her fashion police badge I attempted to disengage from the conversation by answering, “No, not really” and shuffled the lab papers that I was trying to grade. It did not work.
She had recently remarried and I tried not to think about a story I had heard about the newlyweds “cavorting” at the previous year’s faculty Christmas party. By trying not to think about it I thought about it. If putting out my own eyes would get rid of that mental vision I was having I would gladly do it. Let’s just say that Lola was helping the new hubby unwrap an early Christmas present when they were discovered in the act while not locking themselves in the host’s bathroom. Kind of brings a different meaning to “be done in a minute.” I have just become a little queasy, and I know it has nothing to do with what I ate. Earlier in the year I had made the mistake of feeling sorry for Lola and was paying for it by “being her best friend”…actually her only friend it would seem. I am glad I wasn’t a BFF because forever seemed to get a little longer every time I was around Lola.

“’Herbie’ would never wear pink,” she said in her “little girl” voice. I knew I was going to hate myself but asked why anyway. “Herbie doesn’t believe it is manly even though I know differently. Herbie is quite manly. He is just afraid that other men might think that he is…uh…well, you know, Gay.” She tried to smile while biting on her lower lip and let her voice trail off. I tried to think of a way, in good taste of course, to stick a finger down my throat. Did I mention that Herbie looks like an overweight warthog wearing a Seventies lime green polyester leisure suit, complete with gold chains worn under a flowery unbuttoned shirt? He was a throw-back from an earlier period that I had tried to purge from my own memory. Before I could excuse myself to find a place where she wasn’t, Lola went on to say that Herbie had made her return a pink shirt she had bought for him and then questioned if I thought that was normal. Normal? Absolutely not! There was nothing about this conversation that was normal.
Few of my homophobic friends, or homosexual friends for that matter, have a fear of wearing pink …that I know of. I do find it humorous that some of my homophobic friends, one especially, are so adamant about “I don’t want them coming around me!” In my wisest teaching voice I ask, “Ken, are you afraid it is going to rub off on you? You know it is not like the flu. You can’t catch it.” I loved it when he offered the explanation that, “I don’t want them coming on to me.” Why did I love it? Because I got to ask, “Do you have a problem with the women coming on to you, because unless you are having to beat them off with a stick, you are probably not going to have to worry about men coming on to you.” I know I just missed a wonderful opportunity for a pun.

I also question the concept of being against homosexuality if you are a heterosexual male. Doesn’t that improve the odds of hooking up with a heterosexual female? Mathematically that would be two guys you wouldn’t be in competition with. Shouldn’t men be railing against lesbianism? No, we all have this dream that we can convert them. Ken would say, “It’s Biblical.” I couldn’t help myself and asked, “What about ‘spilling your seed upon the ground’ Ken?” Ever been guilty of that? In a study I read, of the ten thousand men polled, ninety-nine percent admitted to doing it and I would suggest that the remaining one percent are liars. He looked pensive for a moment, nodded his head before turning it to the side and weakly asked, “What’s with the pink IPOD, man?”

FISHIN’

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FISHIN’ is an excerpt from the upcoming book Pathways
My grandmother had what I would describe as a single mindedness about her work ethic. Little would get in the way of what she had scheduled to do. Monday was wash day no matter how cold it was just to get it out of the way. The only exceptions were on rainy days or during harvest season. During the late summer, Monday was also preparation day for Tuesday – CANNERY DAY. Tomatoes were peeled, okra cut, beans shelled or soup mix was readied to be canned the next day. Wednesdays and Thursdays were copies of Monday and Tuesday. One day was set aside to sweep the backyard under the privet, another to weed the rock garden and others to do what she hated most – house cleaning. Early, early mornings were spent milking the cow and some days work was rearranged to accommodate for the churning of butter and making buttermilk. During the early summer EVERYDAY was weed the garden and pick “critters” that might be chewing on plants. Nothing interfered except the meal preparations and finally the harsh late afternoon midsummer sun that would drive her into the shade…of her front porch to start processing vegetables. There was no rest for the weary.
I can see her distinctly in my mind’s eye standing in her garden and can clearly hear the “clinking” sound of her hoe making contact with the few small rocks that remained in her garden. She is wearing a cotton “sack” dress handmade from last year’s feed sacks, a broad-brimmed straw hat and old lady loafers that had been slit to accommodate corns and bunions. That was pretty much all she wore as I found out one day when a hornet flew up her dress causing her to strip in the middle of the bean field. There is no modesty when being stung by a hornet but young eyes should not see these things. Her face, arms and legs were as brown as the leather harnesses that PawPaw used to hook his old horse to the wagon and the rest of her…obviously had rarely seen the light of day. I think now how old I thought she was but she was just forty-eight when I was born. I was forty-nine when she died.
There were only two things that would drive her out of her garden – rain and fishin’. Fishing was something that she discovered after PawPaw died. I do not have one memory of her going fishing prior to his death although I remember hearing stories about trips to the river, a mile or so distant as the crow flies. I don’t think this was an example of “sport” fishing but was the setting and checking of trotlines in hopes of supplementing table fare…cheaply. Pan-fried catfish and catfish stew would replace the canned salmon that we often ate in the winter. Well, she made up for lost time as she entered her “semi-retirement” after moving in with us and then later with Aunt Joyce after my Dad remarried. It also did not help keep her in her garden that H.L. Bowers built nine or ten ponds and lakes between us and the river…and gave Nannie free entry…and me with her.
I was not her only fishing partner and she would not overuse the Bower’s lakes. I think she feared that the invitation might be revoked if she caught too many fish. There were also a plethora of people who would line up to go with her, many who would just call volunteering to take her to the lake of her choice. Some would call days ahead to make “reservations” to go fishing. The reason was simple. The Lord had blessed her with the ability to find and catch large quantities of fish. Miss Maggie would say, “She sho’ nuff’ can smell deem fishes.” She also thought Nannie might have sold her soul to the devil or might have practiced West African Vodun because she fished according to the signs of the moon, wind direction and weather forecast. Full moon, wind from the south or south-east with a rising barometer…time to go fishing. There were times Nannie ignored the signs and, likely as not, she would not be shutout.
Her fishin’ was fishing in its purest form. No high-dollar technology was employed. I once gave her a Zebco 33 rod and reel, maybe the all-time easiest reel to use. She never used it; instead, there would be a thin cane pole or three, all strung with heavy twenty pound test line and a small split shot crimped a foot or more above a small gold hook. Rarely did she fish with a bobber. All of her extra gear, hooks, weights and line were carried in a paper poke. I remember when she graduated from a “croaker” sack to put her fish on to a line stringer and then finally to a metal stringer. An earthworm, cricket or a wasp larva was lightly presented to where she thought bream were bedding, allowed to sink a bit and then moved in a slow side to side arc. Wham! That strike would likely be the resulting outcome and into the croaker sack a fish would go! For those of you too young or too Yankee to know, a croaker sack was a porous burlap feed bag “repurposed” to put fish or frogs in to keep them alive or, in the gigged frog’s case, wet. The bag would be laid into the water. Frogs—croakers. Get it? Yes, frog legs do taste like chicken.
I would ask her “Nannie, how do you know where the fish are?” She would answer “Can you not smell them?” Uh, no I couldn’t but I can now and she taught me to look for the “pot holes” that the bream made when they were on the bed. That doesn’t explain how she caught fish when they weren’t on the bed. Maybe Maggie was right about the voodoo thing but I suspect it was the fact that she had studied fishing the same way she studied her Bible or the almanac.
Nothing was too big to go in her frying pan and, sometimes, nothing too small. I guess it goes back to being poor during the depression. Small fish were brought home and, if not cleaned, became a part of her garden. The two and a half pound bream or the nearly eight pound largemouth she caught did not go on her wall. No, that was pure foolishness. An eight pounder could have fed a Chinese family for a month and we were not going to waste it. Hand-sized bream were always my favorite to be pan fried in Crisco using corn meal breading…at least I think it was Crisco…it might have been lard. I’ve tried pan frying them and I just can’t seem to get it right.
There was one August afternoon that Nannie decided to take Maggie and yours truly to Bower’s Big Lake. That’s what we called it. The Big Lake was twenty-five acres of fishing heaven. Bream, catfish and largemouth bass seemed to always be hungry and this day all of the signs were in place. We walked the three-quarters of a mile to the lake, scooted under the gate that cut the River Road, and started to fish from the closest access to water. For the next two hours we did not move and had it not been so late in the day we might not have left then. Seventy-seven double hand-sized “breeeeeems,” as Maggie called them, over filled our stringer. There had to be nearly forty pounds of fish and, for an eight or ten-year-old boy, a near sixty-year-old grandmother and, who knows how old Maggie was, it was a tough trek back to the house…followed by a couple of hours cleaning the fish. It was worth it the next day as the smell of frying fish permeated the air.
I remember the last time I took Nannie fishing. She was in her late eighties and a bit feeble, but not much. Linda Gail and I loaded her up in my old ’72 FJ 40 Land Cruiser and took her to the dock at Bower’s Big Lake. The weather was terrible for fishing. Cloudy and windy, a gale blew from the wrong direction as the barometer plunged but she hung a couple and we have a picture of her holding a “whale” still decked out in her broad-brimmed straw hat. She had at least started to wear pants by this time and I imagine a cotton “sack” dress would have been a little cool. What I remember the most was her laughter, something that I heard so rarely. When I think about Nannie seldom do I see her smiling. This was a special day as were all of the days when we went fishin’.
I miss her terribly and just don’t seem to get the enjoyment from fishing that I did during those days. I still try to get the spark back and will continue to do so. Sometimes I think to do otherwise would somehow be letting her down. The same is true with my garden. I know I could buy produce from the money I spend on seed that I actually raise. Fishing, even when they are not biting, is a little like therapy or maybe meditation. I have found it to be a pathway that leads me to memories that I sometimes didn’t even know I had.

DARK FORCES AMONG US

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DARK FORCES AMONG US

I really miss the good old days – the days when we knew who our enemies were. The days when a lab experience involving sodium and water gone wrong could be laughed at; when potato guns and exploding gas-filled hydrogen balloons were tools used to engage students instead of weapons of potential terrorist activities. When fertilizer was fertilizer and not a potential bomb. I also hate it when a kid walking into a school with a clock gets arrested. I understand it and agree completely with what the school did because of the dark times that we live in. It hurts me to have to say that. It also hurts me to see the venom directed toward a child named Ahmed and a president named Barack in the aftermath. This is our Christian society?

It seems that everything provokes an argument. Not an argument waiting to happen but argument that already exists. I visualize both the far left and far right-wingers waiting for POTUS to finish his morning poop so they can argue over the consistency of his stool and whether it is light or dark enough, firm enough or soft enough, or whether it does or does not contain enough pork to prove that he is or is not a Muslim. No, I don’t believe he is a Muslim. I do believe he was born in the United States. Those of you who disagree have fallen under the influence of dark forces. We are six and one-half years into his presidency. You are beating a dead mule and it stinks!

I have always considered myself a moderate, center of the road kind of guy. I CAN’T FIND THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD anymore! I know that the middle still exists and that the majority of the people of the United States are there. But where is it and why are we so quiet?

I guess I have gotten “jaded” in my old age. WHERE IS THE SO-CALLED MORAL MAJORITY? I don’t mean the hate-spewing far right, in their own mind, moral majority. You do realize in another time, Hitler was firmly on the far right. How did that work out for him and the world? Yes, I did compare SOME CHRISTIANS to Hitler. They are the ones who hate lesbians and gays, Jews, Muslims and blacks with a venom I hope I never understand. They also believe that the Second Amendment entitles them to purchase a fully-armed tank or an ICBM.

A post piqued my interest and, in search of truth, I found myself on a site called TruthTV.US. I’ll be honest, after looking at it, I feel a little dirty and in need of a shower. I had the same feeling years ago when I researched the American Communist Party for a lesson plan I was doing, not that I was thinking about joining. I hope that Homeland Security was not monitoring me this time. On this site I saw videos by David Duke, a video entitled “The Monkey Who Became President”, and all types of racial, cultural and government hate-spewing. The problem rattling around in my head is that some of their tenets and videos I saw seem to be in line with posts on Facebook from people I care about.

Dark forces have kidnapped the middle! Within two hours of identifying the UCC shooter I saw posts “proving” that he was a Muslim, citing a link on a social media account (Breitbart). Others (Examiner and Huffington Post) were claiming he was a Nazi fanatic with ties to the IRA. Later a third (The Inquisitr) quoted from the shooter’s “manifesto” and described him as being a young man who “would die friendless and a virgin.” There was a time when I feared the same thing but I never shot anyone. Far right versus far left and all are lies or, at least, misinformation…except for The Inquisitr. Other news services reported he was a hater of organized religion and a misguided, mentally ill man with a bunch of guns. Another site accused CNN of “lightening” his picture to make him look more “white.” His dad is white but why should it matter? Well, the right says it should matter even though lately most school shootings have been carried out by mentally ill white kids. His mother is black and there are plenty of left-leaning sites blaming her for his love for guns and the Second Amendment. FACT: He was a mentally disturbed, Army washout who was allowed to play with too many guns and those nine people are still dead. Dark forces, including our politicians, are pushing their agendas while the bodies had yet to be buried.

The one post that really upset me was the one from the European Union Times which reported the shooter’s name had been on a terrorist list offered to us by the Russians, a list President Obama refused to accept. I have seen nothing to support it yet a former teaching bud shared the post. I’m sure he wasn’t the only one but he should know better. Do you think the Russians sent President Obama an email warning him? We ARE getting along so well. The European Union Times was characterized by Rational Wiki as xenophobic, anti-Sematic, and racist, as well as, Obama bashers. Then there is the question as to how reliable is Rational Wiki? Another question is how xenophobic, anti-Sematic, and racist are the people sharing this.

There are dark forces hiding in every shadow. Why do WE ALLOW these dark forces to do their dirty work? Do we not realize that it is our country that they are trying to destroy? A Facebook friend of mine, Don McCorkle, posted a quote about a mental malady called cognitive dissonance proposed by Franz Fanon, a psychoanalyst.

“Sometimes people hold a core belief that is very strong. When they are presented with evidence that works against that belief, the new evidence cannot be accepted. It would create a feeling that is extremely uncomfortable, called cognitive dissonance. And because it is so important to protect the core belief, they will rationalize, ignore and even deny anything that doesn’t fit in with the core belief.”

Some of us are allowing dark forces to play on our prejudices, our preconceptions, and our fears thus feeding our cognitive dissonance. Some are blindly passing off lies as the truth without one bit of research or conscience. Many times these lies are spread in the name of God. There are liars and agitators who are poisoning our way of life and turning us against each other in hopes that we will destroy ourselves and we are allowing it. Somehow the rational middle must get control of their imaginations and address their fears before that happens. We who have not been duped must hasten to expose these dark forces to the cleansing light of day before it is too late.
Image from http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/grim-reaper-dad-spooked-after-6268150

WASTE NOT

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WASTE NOT is an excerpt from the soon to be released book PATHWAYS

When did we become such a disposable society? I wish people would quit disposing in my front yard. When did planned obsolescence become…planned? I remember ranting to a science class about wasting resources before I even knew what planned obsolescence meant. Does that make me clairvoyant? No, it probably makes me Clarabelle the Clown. Just because we can throw away a plastic bottle should we? Why do we change fashions every season? Hems go down, go up, then go down again while ties get wide then narrow then wide again. How many of you actually wear something until it wears out? Blue jeans maybe. How many of you really drive a car until the wheels metaphorically fall off. I’ve tried often. Linda and I bought an ’86 T-Bird with sixteen miles on it. It was a beauty. Two hundred and sixteen thousand miles later, thinking we had “licked all of the red off the candy” we traded it for a Mustang. A local teenage boy bought it…and the now father of three is still driving it. Presently I am actually attempting to see who can hit a quarter million first – me or my ’97 Cherokee “Bessie Mae.” We just cracked one hundred and ninety thousand on the “Bessie Mae” but I may be slightly ahead. Am I the only one to name his cars?

My grandparent’s generation were the ultimate recyclers and repurposers. My grandmother was also huge on sayings, “Early to bed, early to rise”, “a fool and his money” and one that I heard maybe daily was “Waste not, want not.” She lived it. Old plastic Clorox bottles were carefully cleaned, holes punched in the bottom and a hole cut about a third of the way up from the bottom. Why? It would become a martin house that would join a colony of Clorox bottles suspended over the garden providing homes for birds that became part of Nannie’s insect control. Buttons were cutoff of unrepairable clothing that would be later repurposed into patchwork quilts with matching pillow covers. The buttons themselves were put into an old Quaker Oats container for future repurposing when I didn’t play with them. My first set of drums were old Quaker Oats boxes and a really magical “comeback” toy. Shoes were “half-soled” repeatedly, old overalls that had finally given up the ghost were cut into patches to extend the lives of this generation’s overalls and blue jeans.

Fall would herald another type of recycling. Dried corn and beans were gathered, the best put into burlap cloth sacks and suspended from the high rafters of the crib. There they would wait until the spring to be shelled out and replanted to provide the next year’s bounty. Potatoes were spread and separated from each other on old newspapers in the darkest corner of the crib waiting to be made into chowders, salads and mashed potatoes. Those that survived the winter were cut, dividing the eyes, and replanted in the spring to start the cycle of life all over again.

Late in the fall an odd-looking truck would show up. It was the miller’s truck, not to be confused with the Miller’s truck. This was cutting edge technology for the period. Instead of taking your grain to be ground up, the truck showed up to grind your grain. This would be preceded by a flurry of activity as corn was shelled from the cob, dang that really hurts your fingers. Corn was ground into cornmeal and grits and no I had never heard of polenta. Even the cobs were ground into a fine powder that was mixed with water to be fed to our hogs. None of this could be done until my grandmother had chosen her feed sacks. This was the ultimate repurposing. She would use the emptied feed sacks to make “sack” dresses that she sewed on her foot-operated Singer treadle sewing machine. Rarely, until later in life, did my grandmother wear anything other than homemade dresses, many made from old feed sacks. Later they would be repurposed into cleaning rags or tie ups for the tomatoes. If they were a particular favorite they would be put into her scrap bag to become a part of a quilt.

The first fall frost would signify another “waste not” moment as a hog would be slaughtered. If you have a weak stomach or really don’t want to know how your food is processed, you might not want to read any more of this paragraph. I was amazed at how little of the hog was left after it had been processed. It began with a “crunch” as a heavy hammer was used to dispatch the hog. My uncle didn’t want to scramble the poor hog’s brains with a bullet even though the brains would be scrambled with eggs later. The hog would be hung by its rear legs, its throat cut and blood would be drained to be used later in blood pudding or other recipes. All of the recognizable parts of the hog were butchered and all of the unrecognizable parts were turned into sausage, liver mush and souse meat. Yuck! Anyone ever read the ingredient list on liver mush? Hint, liver is not the first ingredient…or the second. I really don’t want to even think about souse meat. The bones and the head would be boiled, the broth used to flavor soups and beans. Later the bones would be ground and used as fertilizer. Hog tallow (lard) would be stored and used in the making of candles, soap and biscuits. I liked eating the biscuits better than the soap that was used after I uttered an “expletive.”

While I don’t slaughter my own hogs (actually I don’t raise them), I did pick up some of my grandparents’ frugalness and their belief in environmental safekeeping. At the very least, I ask the question, “Is there anything I can use this for?” I’ve turned two liter bottles into bird houses or feeders, old pots into strange artwork, and Jack Daniel’s bottles into lamps. I have a pair of jeans that have patches on top of patches…only because they feel sooooooo good. Kitchen waste goes into a compost bin to join grass clippings and black print newspaper in my garden. Glass, magazines and plastics are separated and placed into recycling bins at our local trash dump.

Without really trying, my grandparents taught me to be a good steward of my world. As I constantly pick up trash from my roadside, I wish others had been taught as well or had paid better attention.

STUPID MAN TRICKS

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Excerpt from the book FLOPPY PARTS which may be purchased at http://goo.gl/XdazVA

RJ was a bit of a thrill seeker. He would have been a perfect fit to play the Tom Cruise character in the movie Top Gun because RJ always “felt the need for speed” whether it was fast women or even faster cars. Since this was before a desire for fast women, RJ would satisfy himself by climbing the highest tree or swinging out the farthest on the school swing before ejecting himself for a crash landing. All of this would serve him well. When I left for Newberry, RJ left for the Navy, specialized in avionics and anti-submarine detection before retiring to a very high paying private sector job in avionics. This would lead to his obtaining a pilot’s license and an airplane. I feel sure the airplane came first.
The trouble began when we watched Roy giving chase to the bad guy who beat Roy over the head with his tommy gun before jumping in his car and racing out of town. Roy, now conscious but still stuck on a second floor balcony, whistled for Trigger and with nary a grunt jumped onto Trigger’s saddled back, saving enough time to chase down the bad guy and shoot out his tires. RJ was mesmerized. “That was great! I’m gonna do it.” I was mesmerized to but for a different reason. Roy did all of this without losing his hat and despite a loaded Thompson sub machine gun on the seat next to the villain. Immediately I pointed out that we had no horses and I knew of no second story balcony except the Nesbitt mansion and it was too far to ride to on an imaginary horse.
Not to be deterred, RJ had a plan– otherwise known as a “stupid man trick” and the reason bicycles should come with warning labels. When we played “Cowboys and Indians” we always pretended our bikes were horses. RJ decided that his bike would be his horse and that I would be his faithful Indian companion who would make sure his steed remained upright and in place. Can you visualize “Kemo Sabe” jumping off of the barn loft and into the saddle of his bike? RJ would then peddle off after imaginary desperados. It did not quite workout that way because for at least once, Kemo Sabe meant “dumbass” white boy. RJ actually missed the first time and landed butt first in the piled up hay we had used to help break his fall. We should have piled up hay on his bike saddle because he didn’t miss the second time. Who knew someone’s eyes could get that big and that your “floppies” were somehow attached to your vocal cords. He landed upright but didn’t remain that way. With his eyes as big as pie plates, his breath exploded from his lungs and he toppled sideways with his hands cupping his…you know. For the next fifteen minutes RJ was struck mute. When he finally found his voice, the first words that came out of his mouth were “If you ever tell anyone about this I will beat your ass.” Well RJ, it’s been over fifty five years and you are welcome to try.
I went to Wally World today and found myself in sporting goods looking for a new rod and reel. I did not find what I wanted but I also did not find any warning labels on their shiny new bikes that I stopped to look. I doubt there is one on my bike either but there should have been one and it should have read “Warning: Jumping into the saddle from excessive heights may render you sterile for life and speechless for fifteen minutes.” I will let you determine what is excessive.