Category Archives: Uncategorized

Jun2

Of Tragedy and Old Friends

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I stopped by Kentucky Grilled Chicken (?!?!?) today for a three honey BBQ snacker snack at lunchtime. I was done with the tater wedges and halfway through my second snacker when an old friend showed up in the KFC (KGC . . . KGB . . . ???). Now when I say “old friend”, this chicka is quite possibly my second oldest friend in the world. She and I literally have known each other from right near the cradle. We went through twelve years of grade school and K5 together. I distinctly remember talking her out of playing with the toy kitchen set in Miss Coggins’ room so she would come play in the sandbox with me. Birthday parties, McDonald’s parties, swimming dates. We go way back.

For the purpose of this story, her name will be Nadia. First, I don’t want her real name plastered all over the Internet because she’s a private person and second, I didn’t go to school with anyone named Nadia at any time that I can remember, so people won’t be running to the old yearbooks (as if they cared) to see who I’m talking about.

Nadia was one of my first kindergarten crushes. I thought she was beautiful with china blue eyes and long snowy blond hair, but even more, she was cute and funny. She was a lot like me. Her parents were the first couple in my dinky little home town to get divorced after mine broke the ice. It wasn’t much of a loss for the family since her dad was, as Papa used to put it, “not worth the powder it would take to blow his brains out.” Still, not much ever seemed to get her down. She was the middle child of three, then the second oldest of four when her mother got a bit of a surprise when Nadia and I were beginning sixth grade. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the only surprise Nadia’s family would get that year.

Nadia was the most graceful gymnast I knew in my short life. She was athletic all around — great runner, champion swimmer, etc. — but her true gift lay on the floor exercise platform. I still recall our sixth grade talent show when she did her floor routine and absolutely floored everyone else. Her dream was the Olympics. She had her sights set on Los Angeles and 1984 and none of us, young or old, doubted her ability or commitment. We joked in math class about how much tickets to LA would cost. Our closest airport wasn’t even equipped for that kind of trip then. Nadia had big dreams and we all dreamed with her. Somewhere boxed up I’ve got a wallet sized picture of her in her leotard with her rhythm hoop. She’s smiling that spotlight smile and looks for all the world like she was posing on the podium getting the gold medal.

If iPods had been around in 1982, I don’t doubt for a minute she’d have made LA. Nadia, her mother, her mother’s best friend, and Nadia’s three sisters, including the baby, were on their way home in a car driven by Nadia’s oldest sister, who had just gotten her permit. The cassette they were listening to reached the end and automatically ejected. It came out of the player and fell to the floor beneath the sister’s feet. When her sister glanced down to mark where it fell, the car was in the beginning of a curve and drifted into the path of a fully loaded gravel truck  from the local quarry.

The Highway Patrol statement said there were no skid marks visible from either vehicle. Neither driver had touched a brake pedal. The truck was stopped by climbing atop the car and sliding several hundred feet until both vehicles went into the ditch. The truck driver was physically unscathed and everyone, including Nadia, have always maintained there was nothing humanly possible he could have done to avoid the collision. In any event, I heard the accident drove him to the bottle. Whether that is true or not, I can’t say. You’ll hear anything in a small town.

What is a fact is Nadia’s Olympic dream ended in a tangle of sheet metal and diesel fuel. Her spine was severed right below her belly button. She would never walk again. Her mother, the friend, oldest sister, and the baby, who wasn’t in a car seat because she didn’t have to be in those days, all died at the scene. Nadia’s next sister, seated at impact between the friend and Nadia, walked away with a cut over her left eye that required five stitches.

I don’t know many well adjusted grown men and women who could have withstood a tragedy of that magnitude with all mental flags flying, but Nadia seemed to. I don’t pretend to know what nightmares have ridden roughshod through her dreams these last thirty years, but I know she took to her wheelchair like the proverbial duck to water. After some therapy, she was riding rings around her grandmother and grandfather’s home. She even came back to school and finished the year.

In those pre-Americans with Disabilities Act days, our beloved principal and several of the more “handy” fathers came to the school several days over the winter break and built ramps to every place they could imagine Nadia wanting to go. She was given a key to the faculty bathroom because it was the only restroom in the school large enough to accommodate her and her wheelchair. One of her trusted friends would always accompany her in case she fell making the transition from chair to commode and back. That’s how we did it back then. We took care of each other.

Nadia was the first handicapped person I knew up close and personal. She could have been the poster child for how to deal with the biggest poop sandwich I’ve ever seen handed to one person in one lifetime. She was, and still is, a survivor. She and I graduated the same night and I lost track of her for some time. Then I started running into her at local stores and such. She was still pretty as ever. In time’s due course, she married a very kind and decent man. He was with her today. They have four children and the oldest was graduating tonight, just as his mother and I did these twenty years gone.

So I told y’all Nadia’s story to tell you, and myself, this little tidbit — it could ALWAYS be worse. What’s more, when it GETS worse, it’s up to you how to handle it. If anyone in this world has ever had a right to end up hooked on drugs or completely depressed or suicidal, Nadia was that person. That wasn’t how she rolled, pun intended, though. One dream and most of her family had died, but the woman I saw today still had a head held high and her china blue eyes still sparkled. The snow blond hair had some grey streaks, but mine does as well and my life has been a cakewalk compared to Nadia’s. So don’t take anything for granted folks. Life moves at the speed of love and it moves by very fast. Nadia is moving right along with it. She’s been an inspiration to me for going on thirty years now. I hope her story inspires some of y’all as well.

So, love y’all bunches and now that summer’s here, when y’all come in from chasing fireflies, don’t forget to wash your feet! 🙂

May25

In Memorium 2009

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As you read this post, I ask that you please leave your politics at the door and join with me to remember Lexington, Yorktown, Lake Erie, New Orleans, Shiloh, Antietam, San Juan Hill, Santiago, Belleau Wood, Ypres, Argonne, Pearl Harbor, Guadalcanal, Anzio, Normandy, Inchon, Chosin, Khe Sahn, Da Nang, Saigon, Kuwait City, Baghdad, Fallujah, Tikrit, Kabul, and a thousand other bloody fields famous, infamous, or maybe forgotten where American men and, lately, women have spilled their blood to dye the red stripes of Old Glory and keep her waving high.

They did not have the luxury of picking their wars or their battles. The veteran of the jungles of I Drang could not switch places with his forebear at Iwo Jima. One who stormed the beach at Sicily cannot walk through the Sunni Triangle. At this time and on this day, let there be no debate over whether their cause was just . . . they fought and they died for their comrades in arms, their families back home, and for their country.

Please do not demean or belittle the names on the black granite scar because they did not free the world of tyranny as their comrades enshrined a few hundred yards away did. They went where they were told to go and they all, from the colonial militiaman taking aim at a Redcoat to the squad of Marines creeping house to house in Iraq, died under arms to make this country — for good or ill — what it is today.

General Sherman said that war is indeed hell, but, sadly, war and death will always be necessary so long as Lady Liberty lifts her light in New York Harbor. This country will always be hated for what we stand for, warts and all. So let us look with awe upon the rows of white stones at Arlington, the sea of white crosses overlooking the beaches at Colleville-sur-Mer, the monuments in over a hundred cemeteries here and abroad where brave men and women lie still and cold in the earth’s embrace that liberty and freedom might burn hot and active across this country.

Never forget them. Never forget the price they paid. They are our fathers and mothers, our brothers and sisters, our relatives and friends.

They are the honored dead.

Remember them.

In Flanders Fields

By: Lt Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

May24

What Does Pelosi Know About This?

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Okay, so Friday, The Reason I Get Up In The Morning and our adopted 30 year old girl child wanted to go to the local Vietnamese Embassy nail parlor to have that quintessential rite of womanhood relaxation — the pedicure. I, being the manly man, stayed in the car with my iPod and played Solitaire — that quintessential rite of manhood relaxation.

Well, the days are beginning to heat up here in the South after a particularly wonderful spell of unseasonably cool and non-humid weather and the Midnight Blue of the Santa Fe began to draw a mite too much heat for my comfort. So, when the sweat rivulets began to form, I struck my flag in surrender and went into the nail parlor where it was cooler.

Once I recovered from the assault on my nose from whatever noxious and probably toxic chemicals were venting into the air, I settled down on a pagoda armed chair and went back to my Solitaire game. I looked up every now and again just to maintain an air of situational awareness and the last time I looked up, my two female charges were head to head with the diminutive owner of the business. Once glance in my direction and I knew the day was about to take a turn for the strange.

Sure enough, the ladies had bought me a pedicure. Now I could have stood my ground and battled for my manly rights to grocery store feet and lack of daintiness, but it was two and a half against me and I just didn’t have the energy to mount the necessary defense. So, in the name of science (at least that’s what I told myself) I mounted the raised platform and sank into the depths of a surprisingly large and comfortable Naugahyde recliner with a foot basin at the bottom. No sooner had I settled in than said basin began filling with fizzy blue water. This piqued my interested because the fizzy blue water was exactly the shade of fizzy blue water that Granny Wham went to great lengths to keep my feet — and other body parts — out of when I was younger. Of course, that water had been contained in a basin of a different material and makeup, thus the difference. Still, the cognitive dissonance was there.

Once the basin was filled and the water jets were jetting, a tiny, tiny, tiny ageless but seemingly young and definitely dainty Asian lady came up to me, smiled at me and, by pointing, made me to understand I was to put my feet into the fizzy blue water. I did so. Then I sat marinating my prized grocery store feet in fizzy blue water for ten minutes.

At the end of the aforementioned marinating time, the aforementioned animated doll came up and seated herself on a stool at my feet. Then she opened a drawer next to the basin. This drawer was filled with a variety of implements that I had not seen since the final torture scene of Braveheart. My apprehension grew, fueled not only by the sight of the drawer of horrors, but also by some nagging thought that I should remember something that was gnawing at the fringes of my consciousness. This seemed singularly important, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not bring the memory to recall.

So, somewhat confused over my nagging memory, I put myself into the hands of the dainty picture at my feet. She again smiled sweetly and touched my right calf in a manner that I assumed, correctly it turned out, meant, “please take this huge beef shank out of the fizzy blue water and place it on the stand in front of the basin.” I complied and she picked up some metal and plastic tool closely resembling a piece of two by four with sixteen penny nailed studded throughout it. Budge told me it was a callous file. In any event, the precious lady at my feet grasped the “file” in one hand and clamped down on my right foot in a grip of iron. It was at that moment I remembered what my brain had been trying to tell me for the last twenty minutes.

The bottoms of my feet are ungodly ticklish.

For as long as I can remember, anyone wanting to torment me who could manage to contain my size and adrenaline would grasp my ankle and proceed to run fingers or a feather or anything lightly over the sole of my foot. I would explode into paroxysms of laughter and involuntary spasms of jerking and kicking. As a child, it was the favorite pastime of my beloved Uncle Larry to hold me off the ground dangling upside down by one foot while he tickled said foot and watched me turn blue. Once, however, he made the mistake of doing this not knowing I’d eaten a half-gallon of Rocky Road ice cream right before he arrived. Granny Wham and Aunt Cathy were none too happy at the resulting inverted geyser. But I digress.

The foot therapist’s touch immediately triggered the old reactions and it was only at the last second and only by brute force that I managed not to unleash a front kick that would have no doubt propelled my attendant through the air and probably the far wall. For the next fifteen minutes, thirty if one counts the repeat performance on the left foot, I fought back insane laughter and jerky twitches of my poor assaulted feet. To make matters worse, my beloved and our girl child sat next to me visibly shaking as they tried to contain their laughter.

Finally, it was over, or so I thought. She released my feet into the fizzy blue water and I took a breath for the first time in nearly half an hour. Then she turned to her assistant and said something in the melodious sing song that is the Vietnamese language. I soon found out that her words loosely translated into, “Please bring me two asbestos bags of molten lava to help soften and rejuvenate this poor sap’s feet.” Of course, I didn’t know at the time that the beautiful amber liquid in the plastic bags the assistant brought was the temperature of the Sun’s corona. So, I unthinkingly and meekly put both feet into the bags . . . and watched through tears as my toenails melted off. As the “paraffin” hardened like so much basalt around my poor feet, I thought of how I was going to crawl to the car and, once I reached home, I’d have to rename the blog “Granny Beads and Grocery Store Ankle Stumps”.

Then, as quickly as the whole process began, it was over. The bags were removed from my feet, my calves were massaged with fragrant lotion, and my torturess was remarking how much she’d enjoyed working me since I was a “big man, like [her] husband.” I thanked her and told her that was wonderful and the intimate contact we had enjoyed with her at my feet made us husband and wife in several cultures, but irony doesn’t translate well.

So, we paid our bill and I walked out to the car on callous free feet as far from grocery store grime as the day I was born. In retrospect, the feeling was delicious and I can totally see how ladies become addicted to the experience. Perhaps next time, I’ll go for the hot stone massage . . . we’ll just have to be very clear on our definitions of “hot.”

Until then, wash your feet in fizzy blue water!

Love y’all 🙂

May20

Midweek Drama!

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It never ceases to amaze me just exactly what people put each other through. I look around and see all these folks eating at each other and tearing each other down and more often than not, the worst perps are the ones who claim to love each other the most. I’ve always maintained that if your family cannot drive you insane, you cannot be driven insane. Here’s my case in point about the painfulness of love.

I went to eat with Mama today at the Waffle House. After I had my waffle, hashbrowns, and Diet Coke, I headed back to the house. It was 9:30ish. I pulled into the neighborhood and was greeted by an interesting parade. A woman, looking around mid twenties, was booking it at a power walk pace up towards the main road. She had a small girl-child on her right hip and was clutching the hand of a slightly older girl-child in her left hand. This wee one had to jog to keep up with the woman’s frantic pace. To make the image even more surreal, a small dog — possibly a chihuahua or a Jack Russell — was cavorting madly around the two walkers’ feet, yapping its head off the whole time. The woman had what I can only describe as a maniacal look on her face. She was all wild-eyed and her hair was a disheveled mop atop her head. We made eye contact briefly and she looked possessed by some hidden insanity.

Twenty five yards or so back of her was a swarthy complected guy with a buzz cut, muscle shirt, and tattoos on his right bicep and right and left forearms. He had two clear plastic bags full of stuff thrown over his left shoulder and was obviously trying to catch the diminutive Amazonian who had just gotten to the entrance of the subdivision. His pace was steadier and slower than hers and he seemed to be patiently following.

I went by, pulled into my driveway, sat there for about fifteen seconds, then backed out to go see what I could do to help the situation. To anyone out there who may be contemplating a similar move, may I respectfully request that you refrain from doing so. I am a professional nutcase and have absolutely no idea what I am doing in cases like these, but I am driven by some inner Saint Bernard spirit to help — even against my better judgment. Just remember that of all the dangerous situations law enforcement officers find themselves in, the one they fear the most is a domestic disturbance call. Anything can happen.

So I pull back through the neighborhood and take a left. The woman is still nearly running on up ahead and the guy is still patiently plodding along after her. I pull up alongside him, roll down the window and ask “Dude, you need some help with something?” He turns and smiles wearily and says, “No thanks.” I jerk my head towards the woman and say, “Y’all in a fight or something?” He nods and I nod and drive on up the road. He doesn’t need my help. Things are well in hand. I pass the woman, who is now trying to flag down ANY passing vehicle, and pull through the local Stop and Steal to make a u-turn and head back to the house.

Up ahead, the woman has stopped a green Toyota Corolla and hurled both children AND Spike into the car. Now, both of those girls should have been in car seats, but I sensed that was the least of the issue at the moment. I could see the woman inside gesticulating wildly at the driver who stepped on the gas. The guy then stepped in front of the car. Luckily, she screeched to a halt in front of him and went to turn around him. He shifted to stay in front of the vehicle. At this point, the Tony Stewart wannabe driving the car throws it into reverse and comes barrelling back towards ME. I perform some sort of vehicular ballet to avoid being made road pizza as the Corolla executes a J-turn that would make a highway patrolman proud and zooms away.

I look over at the guy who has walked into the driveway of a shutdown business and dropped his physical burden. From the look on his face, though, what he’s carrying inside is much heavier than what he’s got in those two sacks. I pull over and roll the window down again and call out, “NOW do you need some help?!” He gives me a weary smile and brings the bags over. I give him a quick lesson in how to open the passenger door of a Honda Element and he’s inside and we’re all good, considering.

“So, ” I start, “where can I take you to regroup?” He smiles again and asks me if I can take him to the end of this particular road. Well, I’m not taking medicine and I don’t have a watch to stand, so I pull out and head towards where he points. I don’t say anything so he starts. Here’s the gist of the story.  He’s 27 from Puerto Rico via New Jersey (talk about a stranger in a strange land), out of work, and as he puts it, “having a really bad Wednesday.” Wild woman is 25 and is his children’s mother. The girl she was carrying was released from the hospital on Monday after a bout of pneumonia that nearly killed her. She still has a PIC line in her chest and as my passenger put it she’s “supposed to be on the way to the doctor right NOW for a followup”

One of the bags contained several dozen packages that I recognized as nebulizer packets for breathing treatments. The other sack held the machine, wrapped in a quilt. Anyway, the mother is supposed to be taking medicine for her “head” because she “goes a little loco sometimes,” but she’s “stubborn and won’t take it like she’s supposed to so she gets like this.” She had gotten into an altercation with her grandmother, whom the couple was staying with, that ended with her shoving the grandmother down, throwing a chair throught the sliding glass door, and storming out with the children. He said, “I’m just trying to get to her because my daughter has to have one of these treatments every 90 minutes and she’s due for the next one right now.”

I just listened. I’ve seen this before and I know what happens when a person who’s supposed to be taking anti-psychotics or anti-depressants doesn’t follow the prescribed regieme. A bad situation actually gets worsened by what was supposed to improve it. I told him that, in my opinion, following her was useless at this point and what he needed to do was get somewhere safe with people he could rely on and form a plan. He agreed and twenty minutes and a life story later, I dropped him off at what he described as his aunt’s home. I asked him what he was going to do and he told me of his intention to call his sister to come pick him up and the two of them would go find the mother and the children (and Spike too, I hope).

As he left, I gave him a $20 bill and said, “Take this so you can buy your sister’s gas. It’ll keep her in a little better mood while y’all are hunting.” He took the money reluctantly and thanked me over and over again. I told him not to worry about it, just find his daughter and take care of her.

I told Budge about it and she reminded me I was going to get shot one day pulling stunts like that. I told her I knew but when that time came to remember that I didn’t want to be buried in a suit and I wanted to wear my favorite pair of lime green Crocs.

So that was my Wednesday morning. Maybe what I did was crazy, getting in the middle of a “domestic dispute.” Still, I figure we are all traveling together on this little blue marble in space. We have to help one another out if we’re gonna make it. So wash your feet, y’all, and be good to each other.

May16

Some Novel Butchery

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The Reason I Get Up in the Morning and I share a love of movies. Now our tastes in movies differ, sometimes significantly, but then that’s what girlfriends and man-dates are for, now isn’t it? Anyway, Summer ’09 is shaping up to be one of the best movie seasons in my recent memory. TRIGUITM and I had already seen Wolverine and Star Trek, and, last night, we caught  the 6:30 showing of Angels and Demons. So far we think Hollywood is three for three. I have thoroughly enjoyed each of the last three weeks’ opening offerings. Since two of these three blockbusters have their genesis in print, we rode home discussing some of the better novel adaptations (Angels and Demons was very gracious to the novel) and then turned to some of the travesties that have come out of SoCal over the years.

I thought the latter would make an interesting post and so, without further ado and for your eddification, here’s my list, in somewhat particular order, of the worst examples of butchering a novel to every grace the silver screen. Share your own thoughts about my accuracy, or lack thereof, in the comments!

The Prince of Tides (from the novel by Pat Conroy): Okay, the novel was one of my favorites, not least because it was by a fellow South Carolina boy with a personality that I find very much like mine. Truth be told, the movie was not horrible, but the movie wasn’t about the book. The book, I thought, was the story of a family. The movie was a love story. It’s hard to remain faithful to a novel when the movie pretty much leaves out the main character, in this case, Tom Wingo’s older brother, Luke.

The Bridge on the River Kwai (from the novel by Pierre Boulle and based on a true story): Well, I loved the movie and “Colonel Bogey’s March” that the British soldiers are whistling as they come into the POW camp gets in your head as only “It’s a Small World After All” usually can. Having said that, the movie, and the novel to a great extent, are a slap in the face of every brave POW who worked and died building the two real bridges in Burma over the Kwai River. Not only does it take liberties with the novel, but this movie also has the kind of historical value that The Patriot would make famous decades later. For the real story, get and watch a copy of The History Channel’s excellent documentary.

Starship Troopers (from the novel by Robert Heinlein): This pairing is one of those that’s about as bad as it gets. Director Paul Verhoeven and screenwriter Edward Neumeier admitted they only read the first chapter of Heinlein’s seminal science fiction novel. As a result, they made a typical Hollywood “shoot ’em up” set in space rather than delving into the political science and ideology that are really at the heart of Heinlein’s novel. Of all the books to movies I’m discussing here, if you haven’t read Heinlein’s novel, but you HAVE seen the movie (and it IS a fun movie) you owe it to yourself to read the book. You may not agree with Heinlein’s politics, but you will admit Hollywood lost something in translation.

The Secret of NIMH (from the novel Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH by Robert C. O’Brien): The 1972 Newbery Award winning children’s book was completely rewritten for this animated feature. The movie did start like the book did and they both have NIMH in the title and that’s pretty much it. The characters are the same, but their fates and motivations are not. I like to call this movie a “book report buster” because if a child makes the mistake of writing a book report (gods, what a horrible fate anyway) and bases it on the movie alone he or she is busted. Both are good works in their own rights, but the movie butchers the novel.

Eragon (from the novel by Christopher Paolini): I do not usually advocate violence, but directors who foist such grave damage onto such an incredible book should be shot, or at the very least be forced to read the book. I have read that Paolini was “quite happy” with the movie adaptation of his novel. All I can say is, if that’s the case, he doesn’t care much about what folks do with his work.  Or, maybe he just likes the idea of being rich. If the latter is the case, he should have followed the lead of J.K. Rowling, who, though not one of my favorite people in the world, managed to make sure that the movies that would add “filthy” onto the “rich” in front of her name were reasonably accurate depictions of what went on in her novels. I was stoked to see the movie when it came out. I have only been more disappointed in one other movie based on a novel and that movie was

The Golden Compass (based on the novel Northern Lights by Phillip Pullman): Oh the chances wasted. I don’t like Phillip Pullman, not because he is an atheist, but because he is an arrogant evangelical atheist. Arrogant evangelical anybodies get on my nerves. America is called land of the free for a reason. Having said all that, the man wrote a wonderful novel. I mean, talking BEARS that WEAR ARMOR and FIGHT?! What’s not to love? After listening to the excellent audio version of the book on my way to work, I was, once again, stoked to see the movie. Budge was even more hyped up than I was! She’d read all three novels in preparation for the movie. When we saw the previews, we just knew this was going to be an amazing movie — star studded cast, cutting edge CGI — we were ready. We also came unbelievably close to walking out halfway through the movie. It was that bad. The TALKING, ARMOR WEARING bears? Very, very important to the novel. Did I mention they WORE ARMOR, TALKED and FOUGHT? Extremely, unbelievably cool! Very little time on screen. The novel was the first of a trilogy, but the way the movie bombed, don’t hold your breath for a sequel.

And finally,

The Wizard of Oz (From the novel The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum): Heresy! You think I should be burned at the stake for such a terrible suggestion? Well, actually, no. While the Wizard of Oz is one of my Budge’s favorite movies and is one of the most beloved films of all time, as well as one of the best, it showed very little faithfulness to Baum’s novel. The differences are multitudinous and the vast majority can be put down to the fact that Baum’s novel had political undertones that were outdated by 1939, still, changing silver slippers to ruby and a clear glass city to emerald green would have to be considered considerable poetic license with the original text. In this case, though, the movie has eclipsed the novel many times over. Had the studio waited a year to release the film, it probably would have wracked up at the Oscars. As it lay though, Oz lost out in almost all of its many, many nominations to another little film based on a novel. Perhaps you’ve heard of Gone with the Wind?

Hope you like the list! Now, scrub your necks and wash your feet, then tell me what y’all think!

Love y’all 🙂

May14

10,000 Views!

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Right now I’m extraordinarily happy and that’s a big deal for me. I just did my nightly check of the blog stats before bed and today “Grocery Store Feet” broke the 10,000 viewings mark. Crazy as that sound, ten thousand people (or maybe one person ten thousand times? MAMA!!) have clicked on a link to read what I’ve written. If nothing else shows me the power of what librarians call Web 2.0, this figure does. Ten thousand people read this. That’s more than the population of my home town by a factor of ten. That’s like every person at a good sized university reading my blog.

I know that pride goeth before a fall and I know I’ve just changed directions somewhat on what I’m concentrating on, but I can’t help hoping the traffic increases. Now, I don’t figure I’ll ever be a “Boing, Boing” or a “Lifehacker”, but I wouldn’t mind being a Southern version of a “Blue Skunk”! Maybe I should change the name to “The Blue Possum Blog”?

Wonder what Doug would think about that 🙂  ?

In any event, folks, I thank every one of you who has viewed and read what I’ve had to say and I hope y’all will stick around to see if I get better with time and practice. Until next time, love y’all and remember to scrub your necks and wash your feet.

May13

Turn the Page

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Well, I don’t know quite how to say this delicately, so I guess I’ll fall back on the old standby of just blurting it out. My days as a school librarian are most likely over. The district I was working in closed two schools in three years and ended up with five schools and six librarians. That made me odd man out. (Literally, odd MAN. I was the only guy librarian in the district). Of course, the year doesn’t end until June 4 and my contract technically runs through June 30, but that’s all “on paper” stuff, really. State testing started yesterday and I’ve got more days of leave accumulated than there are school days left. Add to all that some simmering bad blood between me and a couple of colleagues and, well, let’s just say I’ll be using all those “sick days” regardless of if I want to or not. I meet with the personnel director tomorrow morning at 9:00 to discuss exactly how I’ll be spending the last three weeks of this school year, but I’d advise all you who are betting types out there to put your money on “paid administrative leave” and, believe you me, I’ll be more than thankful if that’s all it turns out to be. So I’m officially back in the job market and I’m pretty sure my next source of income won’t be a school district. This will be the yet another time I’ll have left my metaphorical bridges pretty much the same way General Sherman left Atlanta.

So, I’m going to take the blog in a little different direction. As you can see if you’ve been a reader before, I’ve already changed the name a bit. Basically, I’m dropping all pretext of being an expert in anything, especially an expert librarian. I’m going to focus more on what comes naturally to me and that’s storytelling and commentary. I spent a big chunk of my early formative years in the back room of Papa Wham’s auto parts store listening to crusty veterans of World War II swap war stories, fishing stories, and a few stories that Granny Wham would have blistered my hide just for standing around to listen to.

Each of those elderly gentlemen is gone now, and I fervently hope they achieved a well-deserved rest, but their stories and the stories my grandparents and other older relatives told me during family reunions, church suppers, and power outages left me with a tremendous appreciation for word and phrase. As I’ve grown older, I’ve acquired more than a few stories of my own and I hope to share those with you as well.

So there you have it. Grocery Store Feet walk on, just in a slightly different direction. I hope those of you who began this journey with me find it worthwhile to stay with me. Hopefully, I’ll make it worth your while. Until the next time, don’t forget to wash your feet, y’all! 🙂

May2

Those Were The Days: A Meme

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The Reason I Get Up In The Morning and I had a great morning and early afternoon out together today and one of our stops was getting her faithful steed washed (not that it does much good with all the falling pollen, but I digress). As I watched the Santa Fe disappear into the maw of the wash bay, I thought about when I was little and how I used to ride the car through the bay and marvel at the water slapping against the windshield. Alas, those days are no more. Our litigation-happy culture has rendered many things once quite fun to a child, or at least interesting, completely off limits as business owners try to protect themselves from business ending lawsuits.

So I got to thinking some more about bygone past times that are off-limits today, but at one time were quite common. I’m going to list my few rememberences and tag three of you to do the same 🙂

#1) Sneaking a carload of people into the drive-in movies by riding in the trunk.

Actually, this one wasn’t just litigious, it was illegal, but in that “pesky teenagers” realm of illegality. Today, though, no one is sneaking into drive-in anymore, mainly because drive-ins have gone the way of the Great Auk and the Tasmanian Tiger. That’s a real shame, too. I still remember summer of 1977 being six and a half (remember when being “and a half” was REALLY important!) and sitting on the vinyl roof of Mama’s 1976 Gran Prix watching a cheap flick that no one expected much of. I can still see “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away . . . ” crawling in fuzzy blue letters up the screen at the old Augusta Road Drive-In. The movie turned out to be fairly successful. Unfortunately, that drive in is now paved and buried underneath the Augusta Road on / off ramp of I-85.

#2) Going up on the repair shop hydraulic lift while inside the car.

So maybe I’m the only one who ever did this, but I used to LOVE going with Papa (either Papa) to get the oil changed or the tires rotated on one of their cars. If I asked nicely and remembered my manners (and promised not to tell Granny or Mama) I could stay in the car while it went up on the lift. The view was pretty good for a short kid. I know the repair shops have pretty good reasons not to allow this “ride” anymore, but it was fun. You have to remember, I was from a dinky town. We had to have fun where we could.

#3) Riding on the “back shelf” in the rear car window.

Okay, this is another one of those things we can chalk up to “not being around anymore.” After all, a 1969 Buick Electra 225 (“Deuce and a Quarter” for those “in the know”) had enough room to lay down in. Shoot, Mrs. Catherine’s gold 225 had more room in the rear window than some single beds I’ve slept in. A 2005 Toyota Camry? Not so much. Add to the lack of room a seat-belt law attaching a $50 fine for the pleasure and, well, it’s just not as much fun as it used to be.

#4) Jumping off the High Dive at public swimming pools.

Now I never did this one, but I had the option. The neighborhood pool where my Aunt Cathy and Uncle Larry lived for the first 20 years of their marriage had like a 20′ deep section with a 15′ diving board. It was a test of mettle to climb up the ladder and just jump, much less attempt any sort of real dive. Since, as I’ve stated before, I swim as well as a ’59 Cadillac, I never even attempted to go over there, but I had a lot of fun when I was eight and nine watching the teenage boys try to impress the teenage girl lifeguards. Now though, I can’t recall the last time I saw any diving board at a public pool, much less a real high dive. I blame the lawyers.

And finally #5) BB Gun Wars

Anyone who’s ever watched “A Christmas Story” for 24 hours on TNT on Christmas Eve knows what a genuine “Red Ryder Carbine Action 200-Shot, Range Model Air Rifle with this thingy that tells time and a compass in the stock” is. Now, we used to take those BB guns, put on motorcycle helmets with face guards, and shoot at each other in what can only be described as pre-pubescent chaos. Now, getting shot at close range with a BB gun doesn’t feel very good, but it isn’t fatal either. As the largest target in the kill zone, I can attest to both statements. Yes, when I was around nine or ten and got my first BB gun, my buddies and I used to try to shoot each other. Our mothers thought us insane and our fathers thought it was hilarious. Just as the story goes, it really all was great fun until a new guy moved in and busted up the game with a real pump up air rifle that would shoot right through a face shield, as a friend of mine found out one summer day. We call him “One Eye” Johnny now. Looking back, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. Now, though, between gun control and sue-happy people, it’s hard to even get BB guns in some places, much less shoot them at each other.

So there you have it, five memories from my childhood that can’t be relieved by today’s youth. Now, what can y’all add to the pot? To get things rolling I tag my buddy Cathy-Jo Nelson, my other buddy Doug Johnson, and finally, that Georgia Peach, the Unquiet Librarian.

Y’all give me some good ones, okay? Love y’all, and remember to wash your feet 🙂

May1

Of Footprints and Paths

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No, this isn’t a rehash of the famous Christian art work / poem “Footprints in the Sand.”

I was thinking more of how we go through life. Each of us leaves a mark – a trail of footprints – that show our course.

I think of Adolf Hitler. He left a clear trail of deep footprints, but those footprints led to a world in flames and deaths by the millions. Still, even today, many still follow in his crooked, but clear steps. The hatred he left in each tread still points legions towards venom and vitriol and violence. Many who follow in his steps would throw the world into the same chaos as Führer und Reichskanzler did these sixty, nearly seventy years gone.

I think of Marilyn Monroe. She left a trail of glamorous footprints that pointed straight down Hollywood Boulevard’s star-studded Walk of Fame. Her path seems a bright one, as many trails do in the early day’s sunshine, but by the end, night had fallen and her footprints fade into darkness and despair and self-destruction. Unfortunately, Southern California remains flush with the rosy cheeked, the lithely built, the blonde bombshells, who follow Norma Jean’s path. Many have already found the same end as she and many more still tread that uncertain path and who knows how many will yet fall to the same pitfalls that claimed her.

I think of all the celebrities. The famous. The infamous. Those that everyone knows from the movies to politics. The pop culture icons and the movers and shakers of the world. Each of them is blazing a path that will forever tempt others to come behind them and brave the perils of the path they pioneered in an attempt to reap the rare fruits of unqualified success.

I think of the footsteps I am following, stepping into as closely as I can to press the tread pattern down deeper and make it more lasting for those who, for whatever reason, would come behind me. I see my two Papas’ footprints ahead and I try to follow the path of gentleness and kindness and love for others that those two men laid out. I see Mrs. Peden’s faint footprints ahead and try to discern the path she left – the path of a second grade teacher who taught 50 years and three generations and loved my class – her last – as much as she loved her first class and all whom she loved as much as if we were her own.

The paths I follow were not blazed by great men and women as most would consider greatness. In their paths, though, I see something of greatness. I see the odd track of a Martin Luther, a Charles Lindberg, a Billy Graham, a score of others who laid out a path which some of those I follow, now follow. For the most part, those I choose to follow were common people – many teachers, several shopkeepers, a doctor, a county deputy, two coaches, a table full of curmudgeonly old men – who did not write their names large on the world’s canvas, but who tended their corner with diligence and care and love. Some never knew I was coming behind . . . some waited, took me by the hand, and led me a little ways on, personally.

Some leave greater marks than others, but, truthfully, the number of footprints is not nearly so important as the direction in which those footprints lead. Then, I think of us. We are the educators, the guardians of knowledge, the in loco parenti. What sort of path are we leaving? Where do our footsteps point? Who have we inspired to follow us? Who have we shown a clear path to follow? If not us, then someone reliable for a child, a tween, a young adult struggling with who they are and why they are here, to follow? I do not pretend to know all the mysteries of the universe. I have but vague hopes of what lies beyond the grave, but I do know our tracks live on after us, just as the fossilized footprints of the giant lizards that paleontologist treasure to find.

One thing I think most all of us, atheist, agnostic, or true believer alike, can agree on is that we are passing this way only once. We have only one chance to mark out our paths. Like it or not, as educators, parents, people, each of us has someone or some several someones following our footprints. Where are we leading them?

Love y’all, and make sure to wash the trail dust off your feet.

Apr28

Of Starfish

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I’ve been thinking about a lot of things and doing some intense soul searching over the last few weeks since finding out my position has been cut at school and I don’t have a job next year. To be honest, I’ve been seriously considering some field other than education just because the endless politics and prurience keep dragging me down. So I’m publishing this article that I originally wrote for my state association’s newsletter. I’ve been rereading it to try and boost my flagging spirits.  I hope y’all like it.

“Of Starfish”

Starfish and coffee, maple syrup and jam;

butterscotch clouds, tangerines, side order of ham.

If you set your mind free, baby, maybe you’d understand

Starfish and coffee, maple syrup and jam. (Music and lyrics by Prince Rogers Nelson)

Most everyone in education has or has read the poster / cup / screensaver about the young boy throwing starfish back into the ocean as the older gentleman watches him and comments on how useless the boy’s efforts are. Many of us, especially after a hard day when the children (and faculty) have tried our patience, are sustained by the hopeful last line of that free verse that says, “It made a difference to that one.”

We all have starfish in our careers. They are our life’s blood and they keep us going; their very existence validating our best efforts and giving us the desire to come back in August even if we left in May or June swearing we’ll “never come back again.” Our starfish, our precious students and even teachers, in whose lives we have made a noted, tangible difference, are the most valuable revitalizing resources we possess.

I got to pondering starfish last Saturday after eating with my wife at one of the nicer Italian restaurants in town. Our regular waiter at that particular eatery happens to be one of my first, and still one of my most beloved, starfish. Jason (not his real name) was a sensitive, broody young man in my honors English class during a particularly bad year for me professionally. He thought deeply of subjects far beyond the purview of many of his classmates. He pondered much more than proms, power, and the popular crowd, of which he was an abject outcast. Jason had problems at home where a burly stepfather insisted he play football even though Jason had precious little athletic aptitude and even less interest. To make his life even more stressful at the time, Jason was also extremely confused about his sexual orientation. For some reason, he chose to confide in me. In all honesty, it wasn’t a subject I liked, was comfortable with, knew much about, or wanted to discuss, but something in me knew that Jason wasn’t going to go to anyone else, at school or out.

So, I listened before school, after classes and at the end of the day as he talked through what he was feeling. I felt terrible because I didn’t think I was being much help other than as a sounding board. Then one day, whether by luck, intuition, or some latent librarian skill, I gave him a copy of a book that had come to me in a box of classroom library donations. The title character was a teenaged boy with an emotionally abusive stepfather and confusion about what sexual orientation he had. It wasn’t a famous book; if someone put a gun to my head and demanded I tell him the title, I’d be shot dead.

Be all that as it may, the book seemed to be a key for Jason. He took solace that someone, even a fictional someone, had similar thoughts to his own. I don’t know why, but whatever the reason, he seemed to regain a little more life and a bit of zest. I remained his unofficial father confessor through his senior year and he stopped by quite often during his first year of junior college. We lost touch for about two years until he walked up in his spiffy waiter’s uniform and apron to be our waiter one night about two years ago. Between the breadbaskets and the ice cream desserts, he told Budge and me that he’d dropped out of college, gone back, dropped out again, started waiting tables in good restaurants and got certification as a physical therapy masseur. He now has a wonderful live-in girlfriend, whom I have met, so apparently, as I’ve kidded him, he has a handle on his orientation. We see each other about once a month, either at the restaurant or at a bookstore or ice creamery. He mentions those bad times every now and then, but no matter how many times he says it, I still get shivers and Budge says my face lights up when Jason says, “Coach, you listened when no one else did . . . I appreciated it so much.”

Jason was my first memorable starfish, but I’m glad to say, not my last. I hardly have space to talk about the wonderful parade of miscreants and misfits, talkative and taciturn, popular and pauper who have made my career as a teacher and now as a librarian incredibly interesting and unbelievably fulfilling, like the five boys who demanded I sign their diplomas because they felt I was the only reason they got them or the young lady and her beau who asked that I perform their wedding after graduation. Then I had the two tough middle school football players who say I’m the only one who could ever get them to read a book, the list could easily go on. They are all my starfish.

I suppose my reasons for focusing so much on starfish have a lot to do with one particular young student I knew well once upon a time. He was very overweight and had pasty white-pink skin. His middle school playground nickname was “The Great White Marshmallow.” Overly smart for his age, non-athletic to the extreme, bookish, he was simply not a success in the shark tank of middle school. I can see him now in sixth grade huddled in the back of the small library poring over a copy of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit, hoping earnestly that the large eighth grade jocks wouldn’t come inhere after him.

The young man’s best ally was the school’s librarian. She was the picture of kindness to him, even lending him her personal first edition of The Fellowship of the Ring because the school’s library didn’t have one. Looking back, he can understand how incredibly busy she was at the time and he knows now that she was going through tough times of her own, but she always took as much time he needed to talk about elves and dwarves and hobbits.

Because of the love of books and learning she imparted to one lonely starfish, that starfish had the desire to go on to college, then to library school and become a librarian himself. The librarian is now at the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory as a psychometrician on the venerated faculty of Harvard University, but the boy starfish is now a middle school librarian and he’s never forgotten what it felt like to be burning up on life’s beach only to have a caring set of hands take him back to the cool ocean.

In closing, my esteemed colleagues, remember your starfish. Some of them may drive you crazy while some may make you smile and laugh, but either way, remember you never know the difference you make in someone’s, some starfish’s, life.

Love y’all and don’t forget to wash your feet.