Environmentalists
claim toilet
paper is worse
on the Earth than
driving Hummers. One thing's certain:
Substituting a Hummer as
toilet paper not
a reasonable
option.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
Laundry
Laundry
day means
collecting dirty clothes,
separating by textile blend,
color, weight, degree of softness,
remembering that time and
Tide will wait
for no
man.
day means
collecting dirty clothes,
separating by textile blend,
color, weight, degree of softness,
remembering that time and
Tide will wait
for no
man.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
The Redneck Chronicles: Bubba Does England
The Redneck Chronicles
Bubba Does England
(Not England, Arkansas. The BIG one.)
Time and diarrhea wait for no man! --Oliver Cromwell
Getting to Manchester, England is not as easy as eating a peanut butter and Spam sandwich, It's a far piece and takes some doing just to get there. Few people go to Manchester unless they get a free trip, which is exactly why I am "doing" England.
My spousal unit was awarded this trip because of her work with a sporting association that is the No. 1 sport in the world. No, not NASCAR. Futbol! Soccer!
An insurance company paid for 44 people to fly from all over the U.S. (Louisiana to Michigan and from Alaska to South Carolina) to fly to England to watch Manchester United play soccer.
The plane ride over was just great, if you don't count the Manchester girls behind us on their way home and who demanded we un-recline our seats because it infringed on their space. My better self forbade me from telling them that airplane seats recline so people can rest and not fret about getting a terminal case of air rage and kill fellow passengers who made stupid demands.
I also declined to lower myself to the primordial level of swamp slugs and tell them to SPEAK ENGLISH. NO, NOT THAT ENGLISH, GOOD ENGLISH LIKE WE SPEAK IN ARKANSAS.
In addition to their sing-song cadence, they were Double A's: Adenoidal and annoying.
I knew before hieing off that Great Britian and other uncivilized and illogical entities (Australia, South Africa, Hong Kong, New Zealand, Japan, India, Pakistan and Nigeria, among others) drive on the left.
What I didn't know is that their divided highways also run bass-akwards. Sitting in the front of a bus the first time the driver turns on one of those things will scare the holy pudding right out of you.
Someone should tell these backward countries that whatever reason caused them to drive on the wrong side is no longer a real reason. Ships pass on the right. Courteous pedestrians pass on the right. The exception is people walking in malls. Or expectant mothers. Get between the Gap Baby store and a pregnant woman with a gift certificate and all bets are off.
The Romans built major thoroughfares where chariots and marching hordes passed on the right. Hordes, dadgummit! Get your mind out of the gutter.
Why, then, are certain countries wrong-headed about driving in the wrong lane? As one Manchesterian said when asked: "Well, that's just the way it's done, isn't it?"
With an attitude like that it's a wonder they ever even had an Empire.
Went looking for scones and clotted cream at a fashionable restaurant. The Slug and Lettuce restaurant was out. The Grammy's Bustle was also sconeless. So was Chauncey's Live Bait. Seems the clotted cream delivery truck had a wreck with the scones delivery truck.
One of the two vehicles was driving on the wrong side of the road.
Told ya!
(To be continued)(Not England, Arkansas. The BIG one.)
Time and diarrhea wait for no man! --Oliver Cromwell
Getting to Manchester, England is not as easy as eating a peanut butter and Spam sandwich, It's a far piece and takes some doing just to get there. Few people go to Manchester unless they get a free trip, which is exactly why I am "doing" England.
My spousal unit was awarded this trip because of her work with a sporting association that is the No. 1 sport in the world. No, not NASCAR. Futbol! Soccer!
An insurance company paid for 44 people to fly from all over the U.S. (Louisiana to Michigan and from Alaska to South Carolina) to fly to England to watch Manchester United play soccer.
The plane ride over was just great, if you don't count the Manchester girls behind us on their way home and who demanded we un-recline our seats because it infringed on their space. My better self forbade me from telling them that airplane seats recline so people can rest and not fret about getting a terminal case of air rage and kill fellow passengers who made stupid demands.
I also declined to lower myself to the primordial level of swamp slugs and tell them to SPEAK ENGLISH. NO, NOT THAT ENGLISH, GOOD ENGLISH LIKE WE SPEAK IN ARKANSAS.
In addition to their sing-song cadence, they were Double A's: Adenoidal and annoying.
I knew before hieing off that Great Britian and other uncivilized and illogical entities (Australia, South Africa, Hong Kong, New Zealand, Japan, India, Pakistan and Nigeria, among others) drive on the left.
What I didn't know is that their divided highways also run bass-akwards. Sitting in the front of a bus the first time the driver turns on one of those things will scare the holy pudding right out of you.
Someone should tell these backward countries that whatever reason caused them to drive on the wrong side is no longer a real reason. Ships pass on the right. Courteous pedestrians pass on the right. The exception is people walking in malls. Or expectant mothers. Get between the Gap Baby store and a pregnant woman with a gift certificate and all bets are off.
The Romans built major thoroughfares where chariots and marching hordes passed on the right. Hordes, dadgummit! Get your mind out of the gutter.
Why, then, are certain countries wrong-headed about driving in the wrong lane? As one Manchesterian said when asked: "Well, that's just the way it's done, isn't it?"
With an attitude like that it's a wonder they ever even had an Empire.
Went looking for scones and clotted cream at a fashionable restaurant. The Slug and Lettuce restaurant was out. The Grammy's Bustle was also sconeless. So was Chauncey's Live Bait. Seems the clotted cream delivery truck had a wreck with the scones delivery truck.
One of the two vehicles was driving on the wrong side of the road.
Told ya!
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Revised English weather report
Weather
in England:
Blinks of sunshine
followed by cloud guffaws
and depressions of rain showers,
punctuated by moistened air.
Sunshine again? Don't
count on
it.
in England:
Blinks of sunshine
followed by cloud guffaws
and depressions of rain showers,
punctuated by moistened air.
Sunshine again? Don't
count on
it.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Same tired faces
Barack
swept into
office on waves
from ocean of hope.
He promised America positive change.
Turn on the television.
Same tired faces.
Nancy and
Harry.
Viewing
the posturing
of lackluster heathens
reminds the viewer of
Newt, Phil, Dick and Donald.
On the Democratic front,
it's obvious more
change is
needed.
Pundits
decry the
waste in Democrat
plan, do not comment
on Bush laying waste to
billions of bucks in
grab for praise
from right
wingnuts.
History
will proclaim
intrinsic value of
current batch of pols
and won't treat them kindly.
Meanwhile, taxpayers (you, me)
work to salvage
badly bankrupted
nation.
swept into
office on waves
from ocean of hope.
He promised America positive change.
Turn on the television.
Same tired faces.
Nancy and
Harry.
Viewing
the posturing
of lackluster heathens
reminds the viewer of
Newt, Phil, Dick and Donald.
On the Democratic front,
it's obvious more
change is
needed.
Pundits
decry the
waste in Democrat
plan, do not comment
on Bush laying waste to
billions of bucks in
grab for praise
from right
wingnuts.
History
will proclaim
intrinsic value of
current batch of pols
and won't treat them kindly.
Meanwhile, taxpayers (you, me)
work to salvage
badly bankrupted
nation.
Life Lessons Learned
Reveille: A story of survival, war, family
(Unpublished historical fiction novel about a New Orleans orphan who served as a drummer boy with the Ninth Connecticut Regiment. The teenager was my great-grandfather.)
Chapter 12
"There are endless sufferings to endure
and endless lessons to learn."
Chinese proverb
Downtime in the winter camp was an invitation for creative thinking for many of the men of the Ninth. Around roaring campfires – shortly after breakfast call to taps, between must-drills, other chores, foraging, finding, gathering, and splitting wood – the men talked or played card games (some with rules, others made up on the spot). They rolled bones for money (real and imagined), talked of their past and future lives, and made up tall tales for the sheer entertainment value.
Charles didn’t often join in the games. Too many of the games demanded talking – bidding, over-bidding, being asked seemingly innocuous questions. The talk was mostly benign early in the day, but seemed to turn malignant and dark as livers floating in foul-smelling liquor when darkness descended. Offered a drink of “plum punch” on a lazy evening in the late fall, Charles took a tentative sip, then a healthy swig, smacked his lips loudly, and within minutes . . . was praying for a quick death.
The “punch,” concocted of plums gone bad and allowed to ferment in a wayward canteen, then cut with grain alcohol snagged from the hospital tent when the surgeons and assistants were at mess, and sassafras root, was like “drinking the Devil’s piss,” one soldier cried as his stomach tied itself in knots.
But, if the intent of the elixir was to graduate its partakers from sober to drunk in eye-blink time, it was a fine brew indeed.
Charles held his stomach as if he expected his guts to fall out in a cascade on the cold ground. Trying to focus eyes that seemed to be trying to meet each other at his nose, Charles floundered out of the campfire light. He made his way into a nearby pin cushion of oak saplings, and promptly puked. When his stomach was drained, he dry-heaved for what seemed longer than Job endured his trials. His guts in a twist, Charles groaned, cursed silently, cursed loudly, and screamed at man and God for relief.
A friendly soldier who had passed on the potent potion – “I done had it onest ‘while back and that were ‘nuff.” – half-carried, half-dragged Charles to the hospital tent, roused a sleeping hospital steward, and asked for his assistance. The man – August Ruhl, a former rifleman from Norwich who was a recent transfer to surgeon aide detail – took a long look at Charles, shook his head and said, “This ‘un he’ll have to pay for. The cure may be worser than the ailment.”
Ruhl walked to the backside of the tent and after rummaging around a spell in a large, plain, pine chest, produced a great dark bottle with a wooden stopper. Using his teeth, he extracted the stopper, which he spat on a nearby table. Charles, in severe pain and feeling he was going to pass out any minute, never took his eyes off the bottle swaying at the end of the man’s long arm.
“What . . . is . . . it?” he asked with gulping breaths.
“Ipecac. It’ll clear you right up, most probably.”
Ruhl put the wooden stob on a nearby table before pushing the bottle’s mushroom lips to Charles’ mouth. “Hold his nose,” the steward said to the soldier, “then grab his arms. He’s gonna fight some, most probably.”
“Fight?” Charles said, “Why wo . . . “
Ruhl quickly pinched his Adam’s apple as the soldier grabbed his nose. A large glug of the dark, sticky liquid slid down Charles’ throat.
In spite of his best efforts, he coughed, sputtered, tried to spit, and then swallowed. His taste buds initially refused to register the taste but when they did . . . Charles felt his stomach roil once, twice, then a upside down waterfall of ipecac and bile came up twice as fast as it went down.
Once, twice . . . five times, Charles’ body tried to turn itself inside out as the two men held him down and did funny, side-step dances to avoid the spewings.
When the series of incredible tidal waves of cramps had passed, Charles was awash in a swooning sweat. He fell down on the long table and was passing into blessed unconsciousness when he said, “Why did you give me . . . that? I had already throwed up?”
“You have to get the poison out, boy, or you will feel real bad for a long time. That’s what ipecac does. Cleans you out.”
There’s gotta be a better way to go about it than poisonin’ a fellow.
His last thought was partially lost in the slamming darkness:
How do them other fellas . . . ?
The next day, well after reveille, Charles woke up. Or tried to. Then wished he hadn’t. His head was a cannonball pressuring up about to explode. He had apparently slept in a tight ball due to on-and-off stomach cramps; the muscles in his back, legs, neck, and arms were tight.
As tight as Dick’s hatband. And sore . . . Oh, God! . . . to boot.
Ruhl hovered nearby. “How’re you feelin’?”
“Better than last night. But then, I was about to die, so anythin’ has to be better, oui?”
“Oui, yes, and surely.”
Charles was quiet for a spell, thinking. “So, bein’ a surgeon and all, you know a lot of medicines and such, right?”
“I’m no surgeon, not even a ‘sistant. I volunteered into the army but wasn’t a very good soldier and knew it. I might want to be a doctor someday after the war. If it ever does end. So I volunteered myself to come over here and help out wherever I can. I could never be a sawbones. Cuttin’s not for me. I know it and the army knows it. But the army needs to have a warm body fillin’ a set slot in the ranks. I do the best I can and that’s all I can do.”
“Do you know medicine? Can you teach me some?” The question was direct, not hesitant; it was bold for Charles, but contained no hint of begging or pleading in his tone or mannerisms.
“You want to be a doctor?”
“Truly? I don’t know. I seem to be goin’ through life findin’ out things I don’t want to be and I want to find somethin’ I do want to be even if I don’t know what the somethin’ is just yet.”
Ruhl paused, staring at Charles, studying him. “Hmmmm. That sounds like a right smart plan, when you get right down to it.”
(Unpublished historical fiction novel about a New Orleans orphan who served as a drummer boy with the Ninth Connecticut Regiment. The teenager was my great-grandfather.)
Chapter 12
"There are endless sufferings to endure
and endless lessons to learn."
Chinese proverb
Downtime in the winter camp was an invitation for creative thinking for many of the men of the Ninth. Around roaring campfires – shortly after breakfast call to taps, between must-drills, other chores, foraging, finding, gathering, and splitting wood – the men talked or played card games (some with rules, others made up on the spot). They rolled bones for money (real and imagined), talked of their past and future lives, and made up tall tales for the sheer entertainment value.
Charles didn’t often join in the games. Too many of the games demanded talking – bidding, over-bidding, being asked seemingly innocuous questions. The talk was mostly benign early in the day, but seemed to turn malignant and dark as livers floating in foul-smelling liquor when darkness descended. Offered a drink of “plum punch” on a lazy evening in the late fall, Charles took a tentative sip, then a healthy swig, smacked his lips loudly, and within minutes . . . was praying for a quick death.
The “punch,” concocted of plums gone bad and allowed to ferment in a wayward canteen, then cut with grain alcohol snagged from the hospital tent when the surgeons and assistants were at mess, and sassafras root, was like “drinking the Devil’s piss,” one soldier cried as his stomach tied itself in knots.
But, if the intent of the elixir was to graduate its partakers from sober to drunk in eye-blink time, it was a fine brew indeed.
Charles held his stomach as if he expected his guts to fall out in a cascade on the cold ground. Trying to focus eyes that seemed to be trying to meet each other at his nose, Charles floundered out of the campfire light. He made his way into a nearby pin cushion of oak saplings, and promptly puked. When his stomach was drained, he dry-heaved for what seemed longer than Job endured his trials. His guts in a twist, Charles groaned, cursed silently, cursed loudly, and screamed at man and God for relief.
A friendly soldier who had passed on the potent potion – “I done had it onest ‘while back and that were ‘nuff.” – half-carried, half-dragged Charles to the hospital tent, roused a sleeping hospital steward, and asked for his assistance. The man – August Ruhl, a former rifleman from Norwich who was a recent transfer to surgeon aide detail – took a long look at Charles, shook his head and said, “This ‘un he’ll have to pay for. The cure may be worser than the ailment.”
Ruhl walked to the backside of the tent and after rummaging around a spell in a large, plain, pine chest, produced a great dark bottle with a wooden stopper. Using his teeth, he extracted the stopper, which he spat on a nearby table. Charles, in severe pain and feeling he was going to pass out any minute, never took his eyes off the bottle swaying at the end of the man’s long arm.
“What . . . is . . . it?” he asked with gulping breaths.
“Ipecac. It’ll clear you right up, most probably.”
Ruhl put the wooden stob on a nearby table before pushing the bottle’s mushroom lips to Charles’ mouth. “Hold his nose,” the steward said to the soldier, “then grab his arms. He’s gonna fight some, most probably.”
“Fight?” Charles said, “Why wo . . . “
Ruhl quickly pinched his Adam’s apple as the soldier grabbed his nose. A large glug of the dark, sticky liquid slid down Charles’ throat.
In spite of his best efforts, he coughed, sputtered, tried to spit, and then swallowed. His taste buds initially refused to register the taste but when they did . . . Charles felt his stomach roil once, twice, then a upside down waterfall of ipecac and bile came up twice as fast as it went down.
Once, twice . . . five times, Charles’ body tried to turn itself inside out as the two men held him down and did funny, side-step dances to avoid the spewings.
When the series of incredible tidal waves of cramps had passed, Charles was awash in a swooning sweat. He fell down on the long table and was passing into blessed unconsciousness when he said, “Why did you give me . . . that? I had already throwed up?”
“You have to get the poison out, boy, or you will feel real bad for a long time. That’s what ipecac does. Cleans you out.”
There’s gotta be a better way to go about it than poisonin’ a fellow.
His last thought was partially lost in the slamming darkness:
How do them other fellas . . . ?
The next day, well after reveille, Charles woke up. Or tried to. Then wished he hadn’t. His head was a cannonball pressuring up about to explode. He had apparently slept in a tight ball due to on-and-off stomach cramps; the muscles in his back, legs, neck, and arms were tight.
As tight as Dick’s hatband. And sore . . . Oh, God! . . . to boot.
Ruhl hovered nearby. “How’re you feelin’?”
“Better than last night. But then, I was about to die, so anythin’ has to be better, oui?”
“Oui, yes, and surely.”
Charles was quiet for a spell, thinking. “So, bein’ a surgeon and all, you know a lot of medicines and such, right?”
“I’m no surgeon, not even a ‘sistant. I volunteered into the army but wasn’t a very good soldier and knew it. I might want to be a doctor someday after the war. If it ever does end. So I volunteered myself to come over here and help out wherever I can. I could never be a sawbones. Cuttin’s not for me. I know it and the army knows it. But the army needs to have a warm body fillin’ a set slot in the ranks. I do the best I can and that’s all I can do.”
“Do you know medicine? Can you teach me some?” The question was direct, not hesitant; it was bold for Charles, but contained no hint of begging or pleading in his tone or mannerisms.
“You want to be a doctor?”
“Truly? I don’t know. I seem to be goin’ through life findin’ out things I don’t want to be and I want to find somethin’ I do want to be even if I don’t know what the somethin’ is just yet.”
Ruhl paused, staring at Charles, studying him. “Hmmmm. That sounds like a right smart plan, when you get right down to it.”
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Visting Miz Pearl
(I grew up in Avery, Texas, population 332. Avery was a stable population town, and as a 1950s comedian could of said: "Every time a baby is born, some man leaves town. Avery was a poke-and-plumb town: Poke your head out the window and you're plumb out of town." As an industrial ADHDer, I always had a couple or five jobs. Newspaper carrier was one of them.)
Miz Pearl Williams was one the 92 paper customers who took both afternoon daily editions. She was one of the three stops I made on the route. On most days Miz Pearl offered me a couple of homemade cookies (sugar cookies or oatmeal raisin); when it was hot, there was lemonade or sugary ice tea; when it was cold, hot chocolate.
She always looked the same, dressed the same, near as I can remember: kind face with single-track, deep age-ravines down both cheeks; white hair pulled back tight, stoppered with a bun that was ordained not to come undone; dark dress with a white, crocheted collar.
Like most of the elderly women in Avery, she was lonely and seemed extraordinarily pleased that I would take a few minutes to stop and talk. (I liked her okay, but the cookies were the real drawing card.)
She was forgetful and when she couldn’t call my name, she’s look at me with her bird eyes -- pupils the size of lentils -- and nod and say, “Ed and Brownie’s boy.” It became a game we played.
The look and nod: “Ed and Brownie’s boy.”
Yes, ma’m,” I’d counter, “today and every day.”
And she’d throw back her head and laugh the silent laugh of the dentured elderly.
One wintery day, with a cold north wind ripping tears from my eyes as I pedaled as hard as I could to get through with the route, I fishtailed the Schwinn on her front lawn to parallel park it next to the warped, unpainted front porch.
Hot chocolate, here I come.
She pushed open the door before I could knock. “Hurry up, George. Don’t let all the warm out.”
Skittering through the opening sideways, I put the papers on the end table by her reading chair.
I eyed the plate of cookies sitting on the coffee table by the spavined couch.
“Get you a ginger cookie and I’ll get you something hot to drink. No problems on the route today, I reckon.” Without waiting for a response, she fluttered into the kitchen.
Ginger cookie? Ginger cookie? Where’s the oatmeal raisin?
A tentative nibble. Tart with a hint of sugar and an aftertaste of something tart-y. Not aversive, but not oatmeal raisin or sugar cookie either.
Miz Williams brought in a little tray and placed it on the coffee table. She handed me a cup with a finger hole only slightly larger than the eye of a needle. Afraid of not being able to hold the cup by the handled, I picked it up with both hands. Inside was a clearish, yellow-brown liquid with a small green leaf floating on the surface.
“Hot tea,” she said, I suppose in response to my facial expression. "Hot tea will warm you up better than hot chocolate on a day like this and it tastes better with ginger cookies.”
After blowing on it until I almost hyperventilated, I took a sip. Expecting something like iced tea only hot, the tea was . . . fruity with a hint of wood and a whop of something else.
“Mint,” Miz Williams said. “The leaf is a mint leaf.”
(Ginger cookies and hot tea. What’s she gonna come up with next . . . hot lemon juice and kerosene, served with turnip turnovers?)
As always, she asked about my day at school and told me what had occupied her time. (Always the same: Breakfast, clean the house, read yesterday’s papers again, clean, lunch, clean and wait on the delivery of the afternoon papers.)
After two cookies and draining the thimble of tea, I told her I had to get back to work, knowing she would go into her goodbye spiel. Hot or cold, the goodbye speech seldom varied.
As I was putting on my jacket and thin gloves, Miz Williams directed my attention to a yellowed show bill poster near the front door. “You know, this is my son Billy, the band leader.”
Billy Williams was the leader of an orchestra that was a headliner in the 1940’s and 1950’s. Daddy knew of him and had even seen him once in St. Louis when his band was known as the Billy Williams Orchestra. He was the band that backed tenor Stubby Kaye. The band’s show bill motto was: “Swing and Sway with Stubby Kaye.”
“My Billy is coming to visit in the summer.”
In a town the size of Avery, a person as famous as Billy Williams visiting would be big news. I never heard of him visiting. I hope he did and I hope it made his mama happy.
Miz Pearl Williams was one the 92 paper customers who took both afternoon daily editions. She was one of the three stops I made on the route. On most days Miz Pearl offered me a couple of homemade cookies (sugar cookies or oatmeal raisin); when it was hot, there was lemonade or sugary ice tea; when it was cold, hot chocolate.
She always looked the same, dressed the same, near as I can remember: kind face with single-track, deep age-ravines down both cheeks; white hair pulled back tight, stoppered with a bun that was ordained not to come undone; dark dress with a white, crocheted collar.
Like most of the elderly women in Avery, she was lonely and seemed extraordinarily pleased that I would take a few minutes to stop and talk. (I liked her okay, but the cookies were the real drawing card.)
She was forgetful and when she couldn’t call my name, she’s look at me with her bird eyes -- pupils the size of lentils -- and nod and say, “Ed and Brownie’s boy.” It became a game we played.
The look and nod: “Ed and Brownie’s boy.”
Yes, ma’m,” I’d counter, “today and every day.”
And she’d throw back her head and laugh the silent laugh of the dentured elderly.
One wintery day, with a cold north wind ripping tears from my eyes as I pedaled as hard as I could to get through with the route, I fishtailed the Schwinn on her front lawn to parallel park it next to the warped, unpainted front porch.
Hot chocolate, here I come.
She pushed open the door before I could knock. “Hurry up, George. Don’t let all the warm out.”
Skittering through the opening sideways, I put the papers on the end table by her reading chair.
I eyed the plate of cookies sitting on the coffee table by the spavined couch.
“Get you a ginger cookie and I’ll get you something hot to drink. No problems on the route today, I reckon.” Without waiting for a response, she fluttered into the kitchen.
Ginger cookie? Ginger cookie? Where’s the oatmeal raisin?
A tentative nibble. Tart with a hint of sugar and an aftertaste of something tart-y. Not aversive, but not oatmeal raisin or sugar cookie either.
Miz Williams brought in a little tray and placed it on the coffee table. She handed me a cup with a finger hole only slightly larger than the eye of a needle. Afraid of not being able to hold the cup by the handled, I picked it up with both hands. Inside was a clearish, yellow-brown liquid with a small green leaf floating on the surface.
“Hot tea,” she said, I suppose in response to my facial expression. "Hot tea will warm you up better than hot chocolate on a day like this and it tastes better with ginger cookies.”
After blowing on it until I almost hyperventilated, I took a sip. Expecting something like iced tea only hot, the tea was . . . fruity with a hint of wood and a whop of something else.
“Mint,” Miz Williams said. “The leaf is a mint leaf.”
(Ginger cookies and hot tea. What’s she gonna come up with next . . . hot lemon juice and kerosene, served with turnip turnovers?)
As always, she asked about my day at school and told me what had occupied her time. (Always the same: Breakfast, clean the house, read yesterday’s papers again, clean, lunch, clean and wait on the delivery of the afternoon papers.)
After two cookies and draining the thimble of tea, I told her I had to get back to work, knowing she would go into her goodbye spiel. Hot or cold, the goodbye speech seldom varied.
As I was putting on my jacket and thin gloves, Miz Williams directed my attention to a yellowed show bill poster near the front door. “You know, this is my son Billy, the band leader.”
Billy Williams was the leader of an orchestra that was a headliner in the 1940’s and 1950’s. Daddy knew of him and had even seen him once in St. Louis when his band was known as the Billy Williams Orchestra. He was the band that backed tenor Stubby Kaye. The band’s show bill motto was: “Swing and Sway with Stubby Kaye.”
“My Billy is coming to visit in the summer.”
In a town the size of Avery, a person as famous as Billy Williams visiting would be big news. I never heard of him visiting. I hope he did and I hope it made his mama happy.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Help us, somebody!
It’s gasket-blowing time.
Are you upchuck-sick yet about partisan politics? You know, the type of politics where if I’m for something, you are automatically against it, regardless of what IT is?
The recent along-party-line vote Washington-on-the-Deficit on the Stimuless Package was so full of shameless vitriol it would curdle fresh milk.
In Arkansas, a hefty tax on tobacco passed – barely – with all but a couple of Republicans voting against the increase. Let’s put it in perspective everyone can understand: A vote against a hike in tobacco taxes is a vote for more people dying. A vote against a hike in tobacco taxes is a vote declaring that smoking is A-OK.
Smoking and smoke-related illnesses cause more deaths per year than alcohol and ncreases the health bill paid for by taxpayers into the fiscal stratosphere. Smoking is as addictive as crystal meth.
Understanding that making it illegal won’t work (it’s a replay of alcohol prohibition), using the deadly product should cost an arm and a leg (not to mention a lung or two) to create an environment of abstinence.
There is not one good thing about tobacco. Not one. Except taxing the fool out of it brings revenue to the state coffers.
Fun time in DeeCee
Talk about petty!
A photo of President Obama in the Oval Office working in his shirt sleeve has created a hissy-fit from Bushites.
Seems the Gone GOPers are upset at O’Bama’s casual approach – no suit coat at times – to providing decorum to the presidency.
Yeppers, that’s what I’d be doing if I had just been kicked in the teeth by the electorate, worry about something petty instead of about something serious. What would that be, you ask? How about the economy for starters.
If Obama can work through the nation’s overbearing ills better in a muscle shirt, Speedoes and sandals made from retread tires, then he should have our blessings.
What the president wears matters little when one rises above partisan pettiness and starts caring about the problems with which this administration was left.
Oh, just for the record, Bush never looked comfortable in a suit and tie. And he was photographed in shirt sleeves in the Oval Office on occasion.
Somebody, get the detractors of the new president a life.
Leggies are amazing
when they convene
Every time the Arkansas Legislature comes to town, it’s like watching one of those circus Clown Cars: Bumbleflew followed by Fussbudget followed Ms. Disaster followed by Shinola … ah, you get the picture.
Count on the legislature for three things: Eating free food provided by lobbyists, bringing forth some asinine bill that puts salve on individual lobbying efforts and practicing the not-so-subtle art of righteous indignation.
If you have never gone down to House of Foggynotion on the Hill (better known as the State Capitol) when the legislature is in session, now’s a good time to take in one of the true Arkansas sights.
Without attempting to be funny or mean-spirited, exhibits of common sense in the House and Senate are as evasive as the ivory-billed woodpecker. It’s all about me and mine when it’s voting time. Not much time left over to consider you and yours.
Are you upchuck-sick yet about partisan politics? You know, the type of politics where if I’m for something, you are automatically against it, regardless of what IT is?
The recent along-party-line vote Washington-on-the-Deficit on the Stimuless Package was so full of shameless vitriol it would curdle fresh milk.
In Arkansas, a hefty tax on tobacco passed – barely – with all but a couple of Republicans voting against the increase. Let’s put it in perspective everyone can understand: A vote against a hike in tobacco taxes is a vote for more people dying. A vote against a hike in tobacco taxes is a vote declaring that smoking is A-OK.
Smoking and smoke-related illnesses cause more deaths per year than alcohol and ncreases the health bill paid for by taxpayers into the fiscal stratosphere. Smoking is as addictive as crystal meth.
Understanding that making it illegal won’t work (it’s a replay of alcohol prohibition), using the deadly product should cost an arm and a leg (not to mention a lung or two) to create an environment of abstinence.
There is not one good thing about tobacco. Not one. Except taxing the fool out of it brings revenue to the state coffers.
Fun time in DeeCee
Talk about petty!
A photo of President Obama in the Oval Office working in his shirt sleeve has created a hissy-fit from Bushites.
Seems the Gone GOPers are upset at O’Bama’s casual approach – no suit coat at times – to providing decorum to the presidency.
Yeppers, that’s what I’d be doing if I had just been kicked in the teeth by the electorate, worry about something petty instead of about something serious. What would that be, you ask? How about the economy for starters.
If Obama can work through the nation’s overbearing ills better in a muscle shirt, Speedoes and sandals made from retread tires, then he should have our blessings.
What the president wears matters little when one rises above partisan pettiness and starts caring about the problems with which this administration was left.
Oh, just for the record, Bush never looked comfortable in a suit and tie. And he was photographed in shirt sleeves in the Oval Office on occasion.
Somebody, get the detractors of the new president a life.
Leggies are amazing
when they convene
Every time the Arkansas Legislature comes to town, it’s like watching one of those circus Clown Cars: Bumbleflew followed by Fussbudget followed Ms. Disaster followed by Shinola … ah, you get the picture.
Count on the legislature for three things: Eating free food provided by lobbyists, bringing forth some asinine bill that puts salve on individual lobbying efforts and practicing the not-so-subtle art of righteous indignation.
If you have never gone down to House of Foggynotion on the Hill (better known as the State Capitol) when the legislature is in session, now’s a good time to take in one of the true Arkansas sights.
Without attempting to be funny or mean-spirited, exhibits of common sense in the House and Senate are as evasive as the ivory-billed woodpecker. It’s all about me and mine when it’s voting time. Not much time left over to consider you and yours.
Blogging can be dangerous
When my spousal unit presented me with a "blog" for Christmas, she didn't tell me blogging could be dangerous.
A popular Chinese blogger had just finished a reading -- bloggers read their offerings? -- and a member of the audience got up and stabbed the guy numerous times.
theworldaccordingtogeorgesmith is suspended until further notice.
Sorry, but safety first is my motto.
Blogging
should not
include the possibility
of getting stabbed with
sharp objects, shot with pellets
made from lead or
incurring bodily
harm at
all.
A popular Chinese blogger had just finished a reading -- bloggers read their offerings? -- and a member of the audience got up and stabbed the guy numerous times.
theworldaccordingtogeorgesmith is suspended until further notice.
Sorry, but safety first is my motto.
Blogging
should not
include the possibility
of getting stabbed with
sharp objects, shot with pellets
made from lead or
incurring bodily
harm at
all.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Some things can't be fixed
Listerine
will help
bad breath if
you follow the directions.
Mouthwash by any other name
won’t help you if
you have a
really lousy
personality.
will help
bad breath if
you follow the directions.
Mouthwash by any other name
won’t help you if
you have a
really lousy
personality.
Monkey Management
My beautiful and talented daughter Mattie Cummins and I are writing a business management book titled "Monkey Management."
Synopsis:
The gentle art of Monkey Management has been around since recorded time. In theory, it is a simple logic-based process: Produce positive action by delegation. In reality, using the rules of monkey management can be more fun than, well, a barrel of monkeys.
Monkey management has but 10 basic rules:
1) Get the monkey off my back. When faced with a chore, project, directive or deadline, figure out the best, most simple, and fastest way to get rid of the entity.
2) Monkeys can be transferred from one person to another at any time. This is especially true of the givee is subordinate to the giver. The best method if to find a subordinate to take the monkey and run with it. The second best way is to find a co-worker with a kind and nurturing heart and make up some excuse they will buy to get them to take the critter.
3) A monkey which is not properly transferred with proper documentation and a receipt affirmed will return to its original owner in a mutated form. The trail of the monkey must be followed with paperwork. Corporations love paperwork. And, documentation also is the perfect CYA maneuver.
4) Any monkey returned to its original owner will have twice as many diseases, quirks and teeth, and claws as its original form. It will also be in a foul mood for as long as the original owner has it.
5) A second attempt at transferring the original monkey back to the same party is impossible. A new host for said monkey must be found to promote harmony in the work environment.
6) When successful transfer of a monkey is accomplished, the original monkeyhost is not absolved of responsibility. Regular checks on condition, health and progress of monkey is a requirement of the transfer process.
7) Monkeys readily change their form. They often masquerade as life-forms that either require little maintenance (i.e., slugs), or as cute and cuddly (kanagroos), or as harmless (koala bears). It must be remember they are all monkeys and can, at the slightest provocation, can cause anxiety, affect bowel movements and, in severe cases, can eat your face off.
8) The best monkey is that which is transferred and the only thing you ever hear about it again is a positive report on its progress. With this monkey, you appear work-sufficient and successful in the gentle art of Proper Monkey Placement.
9) The worst monkey is one transferred to you with orders not to transfer it to anyone else. This type of monkey usually comes with suction cup feet and poisonous fangs. It enjoys clinging to YOUR back and wants to stay attached forever. If you are lucky, you can lure it into a file drawer and hope for a company crisis that makes the monkey invisible.
10) The boss has no monkey.
Synopsis:
The gentle art of Monkey Management has been around since recorded time. In theory, it is a simple logic-based process: Produce positive action by delegation. In reality, using the rules of monkey management can be more fun than, well, a barrel of monkeys.
Monkey management has but 10 basic rules:
1) Get the monkey off my back. When faced with a chore, project, directive or deadline, figure out the best, most simple, and fastest way to get rid of the entity.
2) Monkeys can be transferred from one person to another at any time. This is especially true of the givee is subordinate to the giver. The best method if to find a subordinate to take the monkey and run with it. The second best way is to find a co-worker with a kind and nurturing heart and make up some excuse they will buy to get them to take the critter.
3) A monkey which is not properly transferred with proper documentation and a receipt affirmed will return to its original owner in a mutated form. The trail of the monkey must be followed with paperwork. Corporations love paperwork. And, documentation also is the perfect CYA maneuver.
4) Any monkey returned to its original owner will have twice as many diseases, quirks and teeth, and claws as its original form. It will also be in a foul mood for as long as the original owner has it.
5) A second attempt at transferring the original monkey back to the same party is impossible. A new host for said monkey must be found to promote harmony in the work environment.
6) When successful transfer of a monkey is accomplished, the original monkeyhost is not absolved of responsibility. Regular checks on condition, health and progress of monkey is a requirement of the transfer process.
7) Monkeys readily change their form. They often masquerade as life-forms that either require little maintenance (i.e., slugs), or as cute and cuddly (kanagroos), or as harmless (koala bears). It must be remember they are all monkeys and can, at the slightest provocation, can cause anxiety, affect bowel movements and, in severe cases, can eat your face off.
8) The best monkey is that which is transferred and the only thing you ever hear about it again is a positive report on its progress. With this monkey, you appear work-sufficient and successful in the gentle art of Proper Monkey Placement.
9) The worst monkey is one transferred to you with orders not to transfer it to anyone else. This type of monkey usually comes with suction cup feet and poisonous fangs. It enjoys clinging to YOUR back and wants to stay attached forever. If you are lucky, you can lure it into a file drawer and hope for a company crisis that makes the monkey invisible.
10) The boss has no monkey.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Remembering the goodness
By the time I was twelve, I had read the Bible cover to cover – twice. Once was to win an award at the Baptist version of Bible Olympics in a conclave known as the Royal Ambassadors; the other was because I wanted to see if what I read the first time made sense with a second reading.
The Royal Ambassadors youth group was a requirement of small-town Baptist churches, being there was not much to do and going to church meeting and memorizing Bible verses kept a whole passel of us from going to kid prison.
I was what English teachers pleasantly called “a reader.” My recognition came in the sense of “You know he’s a mean, little s^*t, but . . . he IS a reader.
I would read practically anything that had words printed in it or on it. In addition to reading the ingredients on Mom’s lotions and feminine hygiene products, I read the Bible more than most folks, except preachers, one can suppose. I didn’t read just the sexy part about he-ing and she-ing and incest and murdering and bloody battles. Proverbs. Psalms and Song of Solomon had nice phrasing on occasion and were the only Old Testament books I gave a whit about. I took particular pleasure in finding discrepancies between various New Testament chapters, i.e., the burning bush scene as told by two different disciples, and the Last Supper seating arrangement mix-up in Matthew and Mark, which could have easily been eliminated with name cards.
I read Revelations one summer and was so shocked, I read the sucker again. Without a doubt, that chapter was a biblical afterthought. In my mind, it was the Scary Clown chapter of a pretty good book. After the second scan-through, I thought: Why? Why is it in the Bible, and if it’s got to be there, why isn’t it in the Old Testament? That’s where most of the faith’s worry-wart words found a home.
Based on the Revelations stories, I made my first free-thought religious decision and announced it during a Sunday School class full of high school students.
Missus Beatitude Flounce (pronounced Flounc-say) was getting heavy into the story about Samson and Delilah when, without thinking, I exclaimed: “Revelations is just plain dumb and ought to be torn out of every Bible there is. And that includes the St. James version.”
She stopped talking about Samson’s shorn locks and looked at me. If “chagrin” could be a face, she had it.
“Wha-what?”
I repeated the statement word for word, adding, “Who ever wrote it is a slap-dab idiot and if it’s got to stay in, then it needs to be moved up a couple of hundred pages somewhere south of Deuteronomy.”
Missus Flounce gave a squeak, a sound akin to a mouse that got caught under a rocking chair runner. “Why, why, why . . . that’s blasphemy!” She said the word like a cuss word, but I couldn’t quickly conjure up a single good cuss word that had three syllables. Most of the good ones jumped from one syllable to four. I finally thought of one with three syllable, but it made me think of the story of Sodom and I shuddered and cast the word right out of my consciousness.
Being 15 and a hormonal smartass, I bowed up. “When’s the last time you read it? I read it this week and it makes no sense for it to be in the New Testament. It should be tossed out or moved up there with the Old Testament where the hell and firestone and brimwhatever is.”
Without saying another word, she streaked out of the room.
“Why’d you go and say that for?” Titus Mitchell asked. “She was just getting to the good Samson and Delilah part, where she comes in and ‘lays’ with him. That’s my favorite part.”
“Have you read Revelations?”
He shook his head.
“Then shut the hell up!”
He squeaked and slapped hand muffs over his ears. The entire class leaned back from me. Cussing in church was expected to draw a vengeful lightning bolt and was reserved for visiting evangelists trying to make a point. You know, like in “GOD! Damn SIN!”
I was trying to explain my position to my mortified classmates – “If you read it, you’ll see what I’m talking about. It’s a bunch of crap.” Not getting turned into a fried crispy critter from a heavenly lightning bolt with the first cuss word emboldened me.
The teacher charged through the door, pulling the preacher in her wake, using his tie as a come-along. Reverend Josiah Ben Beecham didn’t look happy. He didn’t look particularly mad. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but in that Sunday School room.
Missus Flounce’s face was red, her neck and forehead veins pounded, saliva dripped from the right side of her mouth. She pointed an arthritic pointer finger at the space between my eyes and screeched: “Tell Reverend Beecham what you said! Tell him!”
All the other kids were looking for escape holes in case she exploded.
“What did I say? I just mentioned casually that Revelations is not my favorite book of the Bible and that, in my opinion, it could easily be a part of the Old Testament.”
Her red face flushed purple. “Liar! Blasphemer!” she screamed, propelling a wad of gooey spit on my new pants. She turned on the reverend. “Well?” Except it wasn’t a normal “Well?” This “well” came with four syllables: “We-aa-ll-ll?”
The preacher wrinkled his face up like he smelled a rotten egg. “George, get up and come with me.” He turned to Missus Flounce. “Beatitude, let me handle this. I know exactly what to do,” he said, while looking like he didn’t have a clue.
I thought he was going to take me to his office and beat the living devil right out of me. He could, you know. Preachers and school principals could beat just about anybody but girls in the days before beatings were outlawed for some strange reason or another. Instead he led me out the side door of the church, and around back to his car, a 1956 Ford Fairlane. Black and white with contrasting fender skirts, curb feelers and a miniature fuzzy Bible hanging from the rear-view mirror.
Motioning me to go to the passenger’s side, he got in, cranked up the car he called “Leviticus” and drove out of the grass parking lot.
Oh, God! I thought. He’s taking me to Avery Lake and going to drown me and make up a story about how I died during a baptizing practice!
He reached under his seat and I grabbed the door handle, ready to throw myself from the car if he came out with a gun or knife or tire tool. When he finally drew his hand from the shadowy floorboard area, it held only a partially crushed pack of Pall Malls. “Punch in the lighter, will ya?” he asked offhandedly as he popped one cigarette out with a practiced twirly-wrist maneuver. He retrieved the ready lighter, lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, held the smoke deep in his lungs, and exhaled a bilious cloud of blue-gray smoke. It hung on the ceiling like a cloudy apocalypse.
Two blocks later he turned onto Highway 82. “Revelations is not my favorite book of the Bible either. I agree with you about it being in the Old Testament or altogether rejected.”
He said other stuff about how the Bible must be taken in its entirety and how for everything there is a season, blah-blah-blah, and how some people get comfort from parts of Revelations although he personally didn’t understand that. But by that time I had quit listening.
I remember the important part: The preacher agreed with me.
I didn’t expect him to proclaim that fact from the pulpit. Then or ever.
And, he did not disappoint me.
He drove back to the church, hit around back and parked. As I started to get out, he put his hand on my shoulder. “Please try to not get on Missus Flounce’s single nerve. She might have a heart attack and before she died, I’ll have to listen to her talk about God saving a seat for her on the Train to Heaven. If you promise not to upset her I won’t preach a single sermon on the evils of self-gratification or juvenile fornication for a whole year.”
Reverend Beecham should’ve been in sales.
The Royal Ambassadors youth group was a requirement of small-town Baptist churches, being there was not much to do and going to church meeting and memorizing Bible verses kept a whole passel of us from going to kid prison.
I was what English teachers pleasantly called “a reader.” My recognition came in the sense of “You know he’s a mean, little s^*t, but . . . he IS a reader.
I would read practically anything that had words printed in it or on it. In addition to reading the ingredients on Mom’s lotions and feminine hygiene products, I read the Bible more than most folks, except preachers, one can suppose. I didn’t read just the sexy part about he-ing and she-ing and incest and murdering and bloody battles. Proverbs. Psalms and Song of Solomon had nice phrasing on occasion and were the only Old Testament books I gave a whit about. I took particular pleasure in finding discrepancies between various New Testament chapters, i.e., the burning bush scene as told by two different disciples, and the Last Supper seating arrangement mix-up in Matthew and Mark, which could have easily been eliminated with name cards.
I read Revelations one summer and was so shocked, I read the sucker again. Without a doubt, that chapter was a biblical afterthought. In my mind, it was the Scary Clown chapter of a pretty good book. After the second scan-through, I thought: Why? Why is it in the Bible, and if it’s got to be there, why isn’t it in the Old Testament? That’s where most of the faith’s worry-wart words found a home.
Based on the Revelations stories, I made my first free-thought religious decision and announced it during a Sunday School class full of high school students.
Missus Beatitude Flounce (pronounced Flounc-say) was getting heavy into the story about Samson and Delilah when, without thinking, I exclaimed: “Revelations is just plain dumb and ought to be torn out of every Bible there is. And that includes the St. James version.”
She stopped talking about Samson’s shorn locks and looked at me. If “chagrin” could be a face, she had it.
“Wha-what?”
I repeated the statement word for word, adding, “Who ever wrote it is a slap-dab idiot and if it’s got to stay in, then it needs to be moved up a couple of hundred pages somewhere south of Deuteronomy.”
Missus Flounce gave a squeak, a sound akin to a mouse that got caught under a rocking chair runner. “Why, why, why . . . that’s blasphemy!” She said the word like a cuss word, but I couldn’t quickly conjure up a single good cuss word that had three syllables. Most of the good ones jumped from one syllable to four. I finally thought of one with three syllable, but it made me think of the story of Sodom and I shuddered and cast the word right out of my consciousness.
Being 15 and a hormonal smartass, I bowed up. “When’s the last time you read it? I read it this week and it makes no sense for it to be in the New Testament. It should be tossed out or moved up there with the Old Testament where the hell and firestone and brimwhatever is.”
Without saying another word, she streaked out of the room.
“Why’d you go and say that for?” Titus Mitchell asked. “She was just getting to the good Samson and Delilah part, where she comes in and ‘lays’ with him. That’s my favorite part.”
“Have you read Revelations?”
He shook his head.
“Then shut the hell up!”
He squeaked and slapped hand muffs over his ears. The entire class leaned back from me. Cussing in church was expected to draw a vengeful lightning bolt and was reserved for visiting evangelists trying to make a point. You know, like in “GOD! Damn SIN!”
I was trying to explain my position to my mortified classmates – “If you read it, you’ll see what I’m talking about. It’s a bunch of crap.” Not getting turned into a fried crispy critter from a heavenly lightning bolt with the first cuss word emboldened me.
The teacher charged through the door, pulling the preacher in her wake, using his tie as a come-along. Reverend Josiah Ben Beecham didn’t look happy. He didn’t look particularly mad. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but in that Sunday School room.
Missus Flounce’s face was red, her neck and forehead veins pounded, saliva dripped from the right side of her mouth. She pointed an arthritic pointer finger at the space between my eyes and screeched: “Tell Reverend Beecham what you said! Tell him!”
All the other kids were looking for escape holes in case she exploded.
“What did I say? I just mentioned casually that Revelations is not my favorite book of the Bible and that, in my opinion, it could easily be a part of the Old Testament.”
Her red face flushed purple. “Liar! Blasphemer!” she screamed, propelling a wad of gooey spit on my new pants. She turned on the reverend. “Well?” Except it wasn’t a normal “Well?” This “well” came with four syllables: “We-aa-ll-ll?”
The preacher wrinkled his face up like he smelled a rotten egg. “George, get up and come with me.” He turned to Missus Flounce. “Beatitude, let me handle this. I know exactly what to do,” he said, while looking like he didn’t have a clue.
I thought he was going to take me to his office and beat the living devil right out of me. He could, you know. Preachers and school principals could beat just about anybody but girls in the days before beatings were outlawed for some strange reason or another. Instead he led me out the side door of the church, and around back to his car, a 1956 Ford Fairlane. Black and white with contrasting fender skirts, curb feelers and a miniature fuzzy Bible hanging from the rear-view mirror.
Motioning me to go to the passenger’s side, he got in, cranked up the car he called “Leviticus” and drove out of the grass parking lot.
Oh, God! I thought. He’s taking me to Avery Lake and going to drown me and make up a story about how I died during a baptizing practice!
He reached under his seat and I grabbed the door handle, ready to throw myself from the car if he came out with a gun or knife or tire tool. When he finally drew his hand from the shadowy floorboard area, it held only a partially crushed pack of Pall Malls. “Punch in the lighter, will ya?” he asked offhandedly as he popped one cigarette out with a practiced twirly-wrist maneuver. He retrieved the ready lighter, lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, held the smoke deep in his lungs, and exhaled a bilious cloud of blue-gray smoke. It hung on the ceiling like a cloudy apocalypse.
Two blocks later he turned onto Highway 82. “Revelations is not my favorite book of the Bible either. I agree with you about it being in the Old Testament or altogether rejected.”
He said other stuff about how the Bible must be taken in its entirety and how for everything there is a season, blah-blah-blah, and how some people get comfort from parts of Revelations although he personally didn’t understand that. But by that time I had quit listening.
I remember the important part: The preacher agreed with me.
I didn’t expect him to proclaim that fact from the pulpit. Then or ever.
And, he did not disappoint me.
He drove back to the church, hit around back and parked. As I started to get out, he put his hand on my shoulder. “Please try to not get on Missus Flounce’s single nerve. She might have a heart attack and before she died, I’ll have to listen to her talk about God saving a seat for her on the Train to Heaven. If you promise not to upset her I won’t preach a single sermon on the evils of self-gratification or juvenile fornication for a whole year.”
Reverend Beecham should’ve been in sales.
Games kids play
Economy
sucks with
little immediate hope
in sight with politicians
playing with their Partisan Toys:
Liberal Dolls, Conservative Guns,
all costing taxpayers
too much
money.
sucks with
little immediate hope
in sight with politicians
playing with their Partisan Toys:
Liberal Dolls, Conservative Guns,
all costing taxpayers
too much
money.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Might as well laugh
For some strange reason there are people who are still blaming Bill Clinton for the mess this country is experiencing in the Year of our Lord 2009. They hate the man with the passion of a rabid ferret.
And, for some strange reason there are people who can not get over the fact that George Bush is no longer president. Beating him up incessantly about his foibles and assorted faux pas and left-behind examples of Dubyaspeak isn't doing a thing to get the country out of the mess it's in.
American heroes, presidents and major political figures, have always had their time in the spotlight examined closely. Some quotes from history serve as a reminder that these men and women were just common folks like us.
As John Hancock shouted to a friend after the British was made aware of the signing of theU.S. Declaration of Independence, "I didn't do anything wrong. They made me sign the durn thing! It was all of them against me!"
As Mahatma Ghandi once said to a British commander for losing control over India, "Get over it!"
As Abraham Lincoln said one day during a walk around the White House with little, short, round whatzername, "People are blaming me for things I have not done yet are not praising me for the good deeds. Wow, what a bummer! Wanna go to the theater?"
As Herbert Hoover exclaimed as he exited the White House: "What? Me worry?"
As Franklin Roosevelt said as he left the White House for the last time:
Clinton made mistakes. All presidents do. As he said was heard to say in a stage whisper upon leaving the White House, "Except for the fat girl deal and lying under oath part, everything pretty much went okay, don't you think?"
Bush made mistakes, too. The fact that he made more than most living human beings (not to mention presidents) and didn't seem to understand that the presidency is like inertia: Things at rest stay at rest until a force is applied onup it and things in motion tend to stay in motion until ....
When asked to sum up his presidency, Bush was quoted as saying, "Overall, except for the terrorists deal and the wars and the baseball steroids deal and and mispronouncing 'nu-clur' and all that, it was ... oh, yeah, and, you know, the economic thing goes in there too ... a pretty good jig."
No one is going to change the Clinton-haters minds about the former two-term president.
Same with Bush. Even if the nation goes further in the economic toilet that we have to call in Suisse RotoRooter, Barack Obama will take the immediate heat because he has the political "hammer." Bush is gone ... Obama has the helm.
A random thought: Think about how easy it would have been for Bill post-presidency if he had just been slick enough to stick Bush with the fat girl fallout.
And, for some strange reason there are people who can not get over the fact that George Bush is no longer president. Beating him up incessantly about his foibles and assorted faux pas and left-behind examples of Dubyaspeak isn't doing a thing to get the country out of the mess it's in.
American heroes, presidents and major political figures, have always had their time in the spotlight examined closely. Some quotes from history serve as a reminder that these men and women were just common folks like us.
As John Hancock shouted to a friend after the British was made aware of the signing of theU.S. Declaration of Independence, "I didn't do anything wrong. They made me sign the durn thing! It was all of them against me!"
As Mahatma Ghandi once said to a British commander for losing control over India, "Get over it!"
As Abraham Lincoln said one day during a walk around the White House with little, short, round whatzername, "People are blaming me for things I have not done yet are not praising me for the good deeds. Wow, what a bummer! Wanna go to the theater?"
As Herbert Hoover exclaimed as he exited the White House: "What? Me worry?"
As Franklin Roosevelt said as he left the White House for the last time:
Clinton made mistakes. All presidents do. As he said was heard to say in a stage whisper upon leaving the White House, "Except for the fat girl deal and lying under oath part, everything pretty much went okay, don't you think?"
Bush made mistakes, too. The fact that he made more than most living human beings (not to mention presidents) and didn't seem to understand that the presidency is like inertia: Things at rest stay at rest until a force is applied onup it and things in motion tend to stay in motion until ....
When asked to sum up his presidency, Bush was quoted as saying, "Overall, except for the terrorists deal and the wars and the baseball steroids deal and and mispronouncing 'nu-clur' and all that, it was ... oh, yeah, and, you know, the economic thing goes in there too ... a pretty good jig."
No one is going to change the Clinton-haters minds about the former two-term president.
Same with Bush. Even if the nation goes further in the economic toilet that we have to call in Suisse RotoRooter, Barack Obama will take the immediate heat because he has the political "hammer." Bush is gone ... Obama has the helm.
A random thought: Think about how easy it would have been for Bill post-presidency if he had just been slick enough to stick Bush with the fat girl fallout.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Begone, fear!
As a small child, I was deadly afraid of thunderstorms. Lightning, thunder, hard rain ... they all would force me under the covers and I would get in a fetal position and shake until the storm passed.
I was about eight or 10 when a big thunderstorm approached Sutton and my grandfather, Daddy George, could see that I was getting antsy. He went out the back of the house to the barn and came back with an old oil canvas or tarp and put it on the front porch. The storm got closer and closer and as it was starting to tear up jack close by, he took my hand and said, “Come on.”
Of course, I went. Daddy George said to.
He grabbed the tarp, which was about 12 x 12, and we went off the east side of the porch. He spread the tarp on the clear ground just north of the garden, folded it over even and motioned me to crawl under it. I balked ... so he crawled under it first. A big lightning bolt split the sky and I remember diving under the tarp.
That storm rolled in and Daddy George pulled the tarp tight around. With him holding up the front of the tarp like a canvas porch roof, we watched that storm together. He talked about lightning and thunder and how such a storm was a good way to clean the air and the ground.
From that day on, I have loved thunderstorms and even built a tin roof over a deck outside the bedroom so I can be one with the rain.
And with every rain storm, I spend a little time with Daddy George.
I was about eight or 10 when a big thunderstorm approached Sutton and my grandfather, Daddy George, could see that I was getting antsy. He went out the back of the house to the barn and came back with an old oil canvas or tarp and put it on the front porch. The storm got closer and closer and as it was starting to tear up jack close by, he took my hand and said, “Come on.”
Of course, I went. Daddy George said to.
He grabbed the tarp, which was about 12 x 12, and we went off the east side of the porch. He spread the tarp on the clear ground just north of the garden, folded it over even and motioned me to crawl under it. I balked ... so he crawled under it first. A big lightning bolt split the sky and I remember diving under the tarp.
That storm rolled in and Daddy George pulled the tarp tight around. With him holding up the front of the tarp like a canvas porch roof, we watched that storm together. He talked about lightning and thunder and how such a storm was a good way to clean the air and the ground.
From that day on, I have loved thunderstorms and even built a tin roof over a deck outside the bedroom so I can be one with the rain.
And with every rain storm, I spend a little time with Daddy George.
Valentine Image
Lips
stuck out
like helium balloons
looking for a matching
pair. Smooching is a fun
exercise unless you only
get to kiss
your mirror
image.
Words by Dictionary
stuck out
like helium balloons
looking for a matching
pair. Smooching is a fun
exercise unless you only
get to kiss
your mirror
image.
Words by Dictionary
Persistence
Persistence
may not
be a virtue.
It could be a
burr under the saddle
of life as one tries to
get one's own way
when what they
want is
wrong!
may not
be a virtue.
It could be a
burr under the saddle
of life as one tries to
get one's own way
when what they
want is
wrong!
Deliver us from racism despite color
Tolerance does not abide in me when faced with acts or expressions of racism or bigotry.
Bluntly put: Racists are abjectly stupid.
I never made many friends in the racist groups working for newspapers in places like Hope, Arkansas (Star) back in the early 70s, Selma, Alabama (Times-Journal), a few years later, Stuttgart, Arkansas (Daily Leader), 1980-82, or in the 10 years I spent in Marshall, Texas (News Messenger)1982-1992.
It amazes me that when I became editor or publisher of the four papers named above, there was a company policy (unwritten, but understood) that blacks were not to be featured in the weddings and engagements section of the papers. In all four papers, it was a pleasure to eliminate that policy; in all four papers, the change was duly noted in the communities and the aginners were loud, raucous … and most times worked hard to keep their identities hidden.
It’s hard to explain in the context of the Year of Obama 2009, but in 1976, the action of opening up the Selma-Times Journal pages to allow photos of black citizens in something other than conflicts with law enforcement or in the sports pages was exhilarating.
One moderate white Selma community leader told me after the first wedding announcement for a black couple appeared: “I admire what you’re trying to do. But, you’re trying to change history too fast.”
Again, it’s hard to explain now, but two nights after that first historic photo appeared in the paper, when some Percale-covered sheet-heads burned a cross on my front lawn … I experienced a sense of fulfillment and vindication.
So, it’s no wonder, one can suppose, why I get more than a bit mentally agitated when I hear about some state legislature getting in a dither over black-and-white issues.
For example, most states have like-minded salons that get together and discuss issues. (Get those ducks in a row, boys! And put out the ones that are on fire!)
I still find it strange that legislatures have Black Caucuses, but the mere thought of calling White Caucus would be condemned. Recently in Arkansas, a white legislator tried to join the Black Caucus and was told his membership would not be accepted. The fact he is married to a black woman, and his district is 65 percent black changed nothing.
You have the wrong skin hue, he was effectively told, to be a member of the Black Caucus.
My logical self tells me there is no way a black member of society can have it both ways: Equal in all things … except when they choose to create separatism by made-up rules comprised of smoke, mirrors, and (dare it be uttered?) a philosophy of racism.
But, then, throughout history, logic has never had anything to do with segregation or oppression in any form. Why should logical thinkers believe those in the black community – who fought so hard for so long for equality – would see something wrong and vile in the acts of demanding equality and openness except when they choose not to allow the same equality and openness to those of a different color?
Again, logically, given the history involved, what black citizen would promote unfair treatment of a human being based on prejudice?
Oh, sure. When it suits their current agenda. Sorry. Should’ve thought of that.
Bluntly put: Racists are abjectly stupid.
I never made many friends in the racist groups working for newspapers in places like Hope, Arkansas (Star) back in the early 70s, Selma, Alabama (Times-Journal), a few years later, Stuttgart, Arkansas (Daily Leader), 1980-82, or in the 10 years I spent in Marshall, Texas (News Messenger)1982-1992.
It amazes me that when I became editor or publisher of the four papers named above, there was a company policy (unwritten, but understood) that blacks were not to be featured in the weddings and engagements section of the papers. In all four papers, it was a pleasure to eliminate that policy; in all four papers, the change was duly noted in the communities and the aginners were loud, raucous … and most times worked hard to keep their identities hidden.
It’s hard to explain in the context of the Year of Obama 2009, but in 1976, the action of opening up the Selma-Times Journal pages to allow photos of black citizens in something other than conflicts with law enforcement or in the sports pages was exhilarating.
One moderate white Selma community leader told me after the first wedding announcement for a black couple appeared: “I admire what you’re trying to do. But, you’re trying to change history too fast.”
Again, it’s hard to explain now, but two nights after that first historic photo appeared in the paper, when some Percale-covered sheet-heads burned a cross on my front lawn … I experienced a sense of fulfillment and vindication.
So, it’s no wonder, one can suppose, why I get more than a bit mentally agitated when I hear about some state legislature getting in a dither over black-and-white issues.
For example, most states have like-minded salons that get together and discuss issues. (Get those ducks in a row, boys! And put out the ones that are on fire!)
I still find it strange that legislatures have Black Caucuses, but the mere thought of calling White Caucus would be condemned. Recently in Arkansas, a white legislator tried to join the Black Caucus and was told his membership would not be accepted. The fact he is married to a black woman, and his district is 65 percent black changed nothing.
You have the wrong skin hue, he was effectively told, to be a member of the Black Caucus.
My logical self tells me there is no way a black member of society can have it both ways: Equal in all things … except when they choose to create separatism by made-up rules comprised of smoke, mirrors, and (dare it be uttered?) a philosophy of racism.
But, then, throughout history, logic has never had anything to do with segregation or oppression in any form. Why should logical thinkers believe those in the black community – who fought so hard for so long for equality – would see something wrong and vile in the acts of demanding equality and openness except when they choose not to allow the same equality and openness to those of a different color?
Again, logically, given the history involved, what black citizen would promote unfair treatment of a human being based on prejudice?
Oh, sure. When it suits their current agenda. Sorry. Should’ve thought of that.
The Glorious Ninth
"Reveille: A story about survival, war, family" is an historical fiction novel about Charles Montgomery Andres and his life as a New Orleans orphan, a drummer boy for the Ninth Connecticut Regiment during the Civil War, and his travels after the war looking for ... family.
Hopefully, the novel will be published in 2009. In tribute to the regiment, my son Dr. C. Jason Smith and I wrote the following poem, which is included in the manuscript.
The Glorious Ninth
By George S. Smith
And C. Jason Smith, PhD
Great-grandson and great-great grandson of Charles Andre (Andres)
Drummer boy for Companies H and C, Ninth Connecticut-1863-1865
Today we call them heroes,
that band of men and boys.
They gave up lives they knew
for a war they did not yet know.
The men of the Ninth Connecticut:
adventurers, bounty-men,
husbands, brothers, and sons:
some were running away,
some were running to believe,
some just went to see.
They are all patriots in the end.
who marched to the drum beat
of their impetuous, broken nation,
two sides, out of step, out of spite, out of pride.
The Irish Regiment, they were,
although by that name others were known.
But here: red-headed boys rubbed shoulders,
shared tents and pots and pans and spoons
with tow-headed boys and dusky, harder men
whose fathers bore the yoke,
with men raised on bacon and grits
who scanned enemy lines for cousins,
uncles, and brothers.
They were all searching for justice,
perhaps, or, maybe,
simply looking for a home.
They all sought a reason
For the unreasonable times.
Together, they cleaned guns, boiled beans,
peeled wild onions, broke hardtack,
built campfires and fought like banshees
when called up to do so.
Believers and not,
this gathering of brothers,
working, living, fighting, dying
beside one another
at a time when Truth
could wait for History.
These ancestors made room
for us to be proud.
They fought at Vicksburg, Baton Rouge,
Winchester, Fisher's Hill, Cedar Creek,
and other, less recognizable battles of man.
They fought for freedom
because freedom sometimes means
you have to give it up.
You will find their mark still
on places high and low,
in history, on paper,
in remembrance, and in rumor.
Their bones fertilize this very ground.
They left their blood, their youth,
their farms and loves and dreams
on hundreds of hills and fields
from the swamps of Louisiana
to the rolling hills of the Shenandoah,
building a legacy forged from
faith, determination, necessity,
inner strength, courage,
and, finally, brotherhood.
We honor them now
just as they honored themselves
with difficult, faithful service
those long years ago,
when this nation was still enduring
the horrible pains of growing.
These heroes didn't think
of themselves as heroes.
Heroes never do.
They were just soldiers
doing what they came to do.
They did it well.
Hopefully, the novel will be published in 2009. In tribute to the regiment, my son Dr. C. Jason Smith and I wrote the following poem, which is included in the manuscript.
The Glorious Ninth
By George S. Smith
And C. Jason Smith, PhD
Great-grandson and great-great grandson of Charles Andre (Andres)
Drummer boy for Companies H and C, Ninth Connecticut-1863-1865
Today we call them heroes,
that band of men and boys.
They gave up lives they knew
for a war they did not yet know.
The men of the Ninth Connecticut:
adventurers, bounty-men,
husbands, brothers, and sons:
some were running away,
some were running to believe,
some just went to see.
They are all patriots in the end.
who marched to the drum beat
of their impetuous, broken nation,
two sides, out of step, out of spite, out of pride.
The Irish Regiment, they were,
although by that name others were known.
But here: red-headed boys rubbed shoulders,
shared tents and pots and pans and spoons
with tow-headed boys and dusky, harder men
whose fathers bore the yoke,
with men raised on bacon and grits
who scanned enemy lines for cousins,
uncles, and brothers.
They were all searching for justice,
perhaps, or, maybe,
simply looking for a home.
They all sought a reason
For the unreasonable times.
Together, they cleaned guns, boiled beans,
peeled wild onions, broke hardtack,
built campfires and fought like banshees
when called up to do so.
Believers and not,
this gathering of brothers,
working, living, fighting, dying
beside one another
at a time when Truth
could wait for History.
These ancestors made room
for us to be proud.
They fought at Vicksburg, Baton Rouge,
Winchester, Fisher's Hill, Cedar Creek,
and other, less recognizable battles of man.
They fought for freedom
because freedom sometimes means
you have to give it up.
You will find their mark still
on places high and low,
in history, on paper,
in remembrance, and in rumor.
Their bones fertilize this very ground.
They left their blood, their youth,
their farms and loves and dreams
on hundreds of hills and fields
from the swamps of Louisiana
to the rolling hills of the Shenandoah,
building a legacy forged from
faith, determination, necessity,
inner strength, courage,
and, finally, brotherhood.
We honor them now
just as they honored themselves
with difficult, faithful service
those long years ago,
when this nation was still enduring
the horrible pains of growing.
These heroes didn't think
of themselves as heroes.
Heroes never do.
They were just soldiers
doing what they came to do.
They did it well.
Are Muslim martyrs crazy?
Every time I’ve tried to understand what drives suicide bombers, I come up empty.
It’s not that I don’t have a single inkling about fanatical religious groups. Getting religion thrown at you inside a one-room, asbestos shingle-sided non-denominational Pentecostal Church in South Arkansas by a part-time preacher who was a full-time guts bucketer at an area slaughter house can give one a close-up view of fanaticism, squared.
(First, a brief side note to those that will argue there’s no such thing as a “non-denominational Pentecostal Church.” Yes, there is. We can argue about it but I would win.)
The intellectual side of me understands that some folks would die for their religion. I don’t personally get that notion very often, but obviously, other folks think nothing of strapping a vest of explosives to their bodies and hieing off into a crowd of heathens and detonating the durn thing.
These “lucky” ones become instant martyrs and that’s supposed good if you are a believer in the extremist faction of the Muslim faith.
“Martydom” is defined as “the suffering of death on account of adherence to a cause and especially to one’s religious faith.” Blow yourself up and take some infidels with you and, voila!, you go directly to “paradise.” What exactly awaits the new, decidedly dead martyrs is up to interpretation by various clerics or religious groups.
What Muslim sects espouse appears to be like homegrown Baptists and Church of Christ doctrine: The individual interpretation of the scripture is the key to the overall message.
One major league Arab Muslim cleric noted, “The (martyr) receives … 70 virgins, no torment in the grave, and the choice of 70 members of his family or confidants to enter paradise with him.” There’s a couple or three other gimmes thrown about – 80,000 servants and a “dome with pearl, aquamarine and ruby …” but they pale in comparison to the big three listed.
Another Muslim cleric claims the reward for blowing one’s self up for a fanatical cause is “72 virgins, plus 70 wives, all waiting in decorated gardens and (for the new martyr) fine garments.” In other words, paradise offers “everything to satisfy the soul and gladden the eye.” Oh, yeah, there’s also “life everlasting.”
There’s scant mention about what women “martyrs” get.
Saying that one does not understand the extremist fringe of the Muslim faith because the believers are whacked is just too simple. Snake-handlers, poison-drinkers and tongue-talkers, while not commonplace, are evident in select fundamentalist groups throughout the United States.
It’s hard, though, to compare blowing one’s self up and taking a bunch of innocent people with you and dancing around with a couple of snakes.
It’s hard not to be reminded of the story told by gospel singer and comedian Windy Bagwell about attending a snake-handling service. He was offered a big ol’ water moccasin to hold . . . and politely declined.
The pastor looked him in the eye: “If the Lord asked you to take up this serpent, would you?”
Bagwell: “Yessir, I would. But He didn’t and I ain’t!”
Would be nice if more would-be Muslim martyrs would take that same, sane approach with Allah.
It’s not that I don’t have a single inkling about fanatical religious groups. Getting religion thrown at you inside a one-room, asbestos shingle-sided non-denominational Pentecostal Church in South Arkansas by a part-time preacher who was a full-time guts bucketer at an area slaughter house can give one a close-up view of fanaticism, squared.
(First, a brief side note to those that will argue there’s no such thing as a “non-denominational Pentecostal Church.” Yes, there is. We can argue about it but I would win.)
The intellectual side of me understands that some folks would die for their religion. I don’t personally get that notion very often, but obviously, other folks think nothing of strapping a vest of explosives to their bodies and hieing off into a crowd of heathens and detonating the durn thing.
These “lucky” ones become instant martyrs and that’s supposed good if you are a believer in the extremist faction of the Muslim faith.
“Martydom” is defined as “the suffering of death on account of adherence to a cause and especially to one’s religious faith.” Blow yourself up and take some infidels with you and, voila!, you go directly to “paradise.” What exactly awaits the new, decidedly dead martyrs is up to interpretation by various clerics or religious groups.
What Muslim sects espouse appears to be like homegrown Baptists and Church of Christ doctrine: The individual interpretation of the scripture is the key to the overall message.
One major league Arab Muslim cleric noted, “The (martyr) receives … 70 virgins, no torment in the grave, and the choice of 70 members of his family or confidants to enter paradise with him.” There’s a couple or three other gimmes thrown about – 80,000 servants and a “dome with pearl, aquamarine and ruby …” but they pale in comparison to the big three listed.
Another Muslim cleric claims the reward for blowing one’s self up for a fanatical cause is “72 virgins, plus 70 wives, all waiting in decorated gardens and (for the new martyr) fine garments.” In other words, paradise offers “everything to satisfy the soul and gladden the eye.” Oh, yeah, there’s also “life everlasting.”
There’s scant mention about what women “martyrs” get.
Saying that one does not understand the extremist fringe of the Muslim faith because the believers are whacked is just too simple. Snake-handlers, poison-drinkers and tongue-talkers, while not commonplace, are evident in select fundamentalist groups throughout the United States.
It’s hard, though, to compare blowing one’s self up and taking a bunch of innocent people with you and dancing around with a couple of snakes.
It’s hard not to be reminded of the story told by gospel singer and comedian Windy Bagwell about attending a snake-handling service. He was offered a big ol’ water moccasin to hold . . . and politely declined.
The pastor looked him in the eye: “If the Lord asked you to take up this serpent, would you?”
Bagwell: “Yessir, I would. But He didn’t and I ain’t!”
Would be nice if more would-be Muslim martyrs would take that same, sane approach with Allah.
I wanna get a quote published in one of those quote books
1) George Bush's administration was like a pumpkin … both before and after it has been carved into a Jack O' Lantern -- bumpy, lumpy, hard on the outside, pure mush on the inside, and, at the end, scary as hell.
2) Friendships are like saltwater taffy. When chilled, they can snap apart; when warm, they hang together despite attempts to pull them apart.
3) One person I know compares my attempts at humor to a NASCAR driver leading the final lap at Daytona – fast and furious and hugging the inside verb curve.
4) If life were a color, I'd have a hard time choosing between: Golf pants on Seniors Day at the course; an explosion at Sherwin Williams; the smile of a child after eating a candied apple; or Tammy Faye Bakker's eye shadow.
2) Friendships are like saltwater taffy. When chilled, they can snap apart; when warm, they hang together despite attempts to pull them apart.
3) One person I know compares my attempts at humor to a NASCAR driver leading the final lap at Daytona – fast and furious and hugging the inside verb curve.
4) If life were a color, I'd have a hard time choosing between: Golf pants on Seniors Day at the course; an explosion at Sherwin Williams; the smile of a child after eating a candied apple; or Tammy Faye Bakker's eye shadow.
Talent? Who's got it?
Talent.
It comes
and it goes.
Hidden it may be,
making its presence known at
the most inopportune times,
like, you know,
right freaking
now.
It comes
and it goes.
Hidden it may be,
making its presence known at
the most inopportune times,
like, you know,
right freaking
now.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Good service: Modern-day oxymoron
It seems to make no difference where you turn today, but finding positive, uplifting examples of exemplary customer service more scarce than an incumbent politician quitting the job after saying he or she is ineffective and useless.
How would your customers rate your customer service? On the International Customer Service Scale where a 10 would include free goodies for anyone entering the store to a 1, which would have clerks spitting on your shoes as you enter, where would your business fall?
In today’s environment of independent thought, most businesses should hope for a customer service rating of eight, be willing to work to try to raise the rating to a seven, and be content with a six.
Here are some real life horror stories.
1) A customer walks into a store, looking to buy a new pair of shoes. He is wearing sandals and tells the clerk he wants to buy a pair of socks s he can try on shoes. She tells him, “We have footies.” He doesn’t want footies; he wants to try on shoes with thick-soled athletics socks he normally wears. “We don’t do that,” the clerk said.
The man, perplexed, thinks she means they don’t sell socks. There’s a nearby rack with hundreds of pairs of socks on display. The clerk explains that store policy is that no socks can be tried on in the store. “I want to buy them,” the man explains. “Can’t try them on in the store,” is the reply.
A bit frustrated the man asks if he can take the socks to the counter, pay for them, and then try them on? “Nope.” He asks, “Can I buy them, take them to my truck, put them on and then come back in and try on shoes.”
The clerk, after conferring with the store manager, said that would be fine.
Satisfied, the customer thanked them both, then took his money and bought shoes elsewhere.
2) A woman walked into a store to get some breakfast sandwiches. Having had
trouble in there with previous orders, she had the orders written down: 2 sausage
egg biscuits, no cheese; 1 bacon, egg biscuit, no cheese, and 1 gravy and biscuit.
The order came; the customer checked it. In the sack was a lone
biscuit, two scrambled eggs with cheese added, and a separate sausage patty. The
same with the bacon. The single gravy and biscuit had been transformed into a
gravy, biscuit, sausage and egg sandwich.
Apprised of the problem, the clerk started arguing that the order was correct.
When the customer asked to see the written order, the clerk suddenly decided it
was time for her “break.”
An assistant manager, after spending a goodly amount of time checking the
original written order, filled the order correctly … without an apology to the
customer.
There are many businesses in just about any community that give exemplary customer service. When you find them, frequent the business whenever possible and pass their name along to everyone you meet.
For the record, exemplary customer service seems to be headed in the direction of the ivory-billed woodpecker. It’s out there somewhere. No one is exactly sure of the exact location.
How would your customers rate your customer service? On the International Customer Service Scale where a 10 would include free goodies for anyone entering the store to a 1, which would have clerks spitting on your shoes as you enter, where would your business fall?
In today’s environment of independent thought, most businesses should hope for a customer service rating of eight, be willing to work to try to raise the rating to a seven, and be content with a six.
Here are some real life horror stories.
1) A customer walks into a store, looking to buy a new pair of shoes. He is wearing sandals and tells the clerk he wants to buy a pair of socks s he can try on shoes. She tells him, “We have footies.” He doesn’t want footies; he wants to try on shoes with thick-soled athletics socks he normally wears. “We don’t do that,” the clerk said.
The man, perplexed, thinks she means they don’t sell socks. There’s a nearby rack with hundreds of pairs of socks on display. The clerk explains that store policy is that no socks can be tried on in the store. “I want to buy them,” the man explains. “Can’t try them on in the store,” is the reply.
A bit frustrated the man asks if he can take the socks to the counter, pay for them, and then try them on? “Nope.” He asks, “Can I buy them, take them to my truck, put them on and then come back in and try on shoes.”
The clerk, after conferring with the store manager, said that would be fine.
Satisfied, the customer thanked them both, then took his money and bought shoes elsewhere.
2) A woman walked into a store to get some breakfast sandwiches. Having had
trouble in there with previous orders, she had the orders written down: 2 sausage
egg biscuits, no cheese; 1 bacon, egg biscuit, no cheese, and 1 gravy and biscuit.
The order came; the customer checked it. In the sack was a lone
biscuit, two scrambled eggs with cheese added, and a separate sausage patty. The
same with the bacon. The single gravy and biscuit had been transformed into a
gravy, biscuit, sausage and egg sandwich.
Apprised of the problem, the clerk started arguing that the order was correct.
When the customer asked to see the written order, the clerk suddenly decided it
was time for her “break.”
An assistant manager, after spending a goodly amount of time checking the
original written order, filled the order correctly … without an apology to the
customer.
There are many businesses in just about any community that give exemplary customer service. When you find them, frequent the business whenever possible and pass their name along to everyone you meet.
For the record, exemplary customer service seems to be headed in the direction of the ivory-billed woodpecker. It’s out there somewhere. No one is exactly sure of the exact location.
Dog's Best Friend
Dog
needs time
and a place
to relieve internal pressure
from a bladder
that's full.
Hydrant!
needs time
and a place
to relieve internal pressure
from a bladder
that's full.
Hydrant!
'Agin' vs. 'Fir'
Note: Footprints column originally published 09/08.
Reading newspapers should be a mandatory requirement for citizens.
I’m not talking about the “Globe” or the “National Enquirer,” even though that recent story about Paris Hilton bearing Mel Gibson’s love child was a real nice read.
I’m talking about reading newspapers in order to get . . . how shall I put this . . . well, news.
Newspaper, and certain news magazines (and, no, I’m not referring to the “American Spectator” or “Libertarian Monthly”) are the only way that thinking Americans can get information they need to make an intelligent decision on important matters.
Many newspapers – not all, assuredly, because there are no absolutes in this world if human beings have anything to do with it – work hard to give both sides of issues. That’s something you will not get fr0m talk radio, or the sarcastic bursts of words mocking the definition of news that takes pace on TV and cable channels.
You’re not going to get anything close to the truth from political ads, direct mail pieces, unsolicited and passed-along email messages, blogs, or canned info phone calls.
It is sad to say, but there will be more votes cast in November for the next president of the United States that are “agin” votes than are “for” votes. People are going to vote against Barack Obama because he’s black, he has had no executive experienced, he’s a labeled liberal, and he wants to end the war in Iraq. They will not check his box because he wants to cut taxes for the middle class and raise it on for those in high income brackets.
Some will cast ballots for John McCain because Barack Obama is a funny name. Did I mention a lot of folks will vote against Obama because he’s black?
McCain will be nixed by voters who think he’s too old, that he’s a Bushite, that he wants to continue the war in Iraq, and that he was a leader in Wall Street deregulation, which is being spotlighted as the reason for the recent economic downturn.
Some won’t vote for him because he chose a woman as a vice presidential candidate, or because she brags about killing and field dressing a moose.
Did I mention that some consider McCain too old?
Two items are killing any positive aspects of politics: Negativism and apathy. People are getting increasingly more negative in their thinking about whether any one person, one party, can make a change in the way government is run; fewer people are going to the polls because they don’t think it matters who is elected.
The only way to negate the negativism and the abject apathy is to elect politicians who care more about doing what’s right rather than doing what the heck it takes to get elected.
And to do that, people have to encourage good people to run, and kick out all the rascals who part of the problem and are not part of the solution. And, that’s a bunch of folks from both parties.
But to do that, people have to throw aside apathetic feelings and “agin” mentality and go vote.
The first chance to change our ways is coming up in November.
Reading newspapers should be a mandatory requirement for citizens.
I’m not talking about the “Globe” or the “National Enquirer,” even though that recent story about Paris Hilton bearing Mel Gibson’s love child was a real nice read.
I’m talking about reading newspapers in order to get . . . how shall I put this . . . well, news.
Newspaper, and certain news magazines (and, no, I’m not referring to the “American Spectator” or “Libertarian Monthly”) are the only way that thinking Americans can get information they need to make an intelligent decision on important matters.
Many newspapers – not all, assuredly, because there are no absolutes in this world if human beings have anything to do with it – work hard to give both sides of issues. That’s something you will not get fr0m talk radio, or the sarcastic bursts of words mocking the definition of news that takes pace on TV and cable channels.
You’re not going to get anything close to the truth from political ads, direct mail pieces, unsolicited and passed-along email messages, blogs, or canned info phone calls.
It is sad to say, but there will be more votes cast in November for the next president of the United States that are “agin” votes than are “for” votes. People are going to vote against Barack Obama because he’s black, he has had no executive experienced, he’s a labeled liberal, and he wants to end the war in Iraq. They will not check his box because he wants to cut taxes for the middle class and raise it on for those in high income brackets.
Some will cast ballots for John McCain because Barack Obama is a funny name. Did I mention a lot of folks will vote against Obama because he’s black?
McCain will be nixed by voters who think he’s too old, that he’s a Bushite, that he wants to continue the war in Iraq, and that he was a leader in Wall Street deregulation, which is being spotlighted as the reason for the recent economic downturn.
Some won’t vote for him because he chose a woman as a vice presidential candidate, or because she brags about killing and field dressing a moose.
Did I mention that some consider McCain too old?
Two items are killing any positive aspects of politics: Negativism and apathy. People are getting increasingly more negative in their thinking about whether any one person, one party, can make a change in the way government is run; fewer people are going to the polls because they don’t think it matters who is elected.
The only way to negate the negativism and the abject apathy is to elect politicians who care more about doing what’s right rather than doing what the heck it takes to get elected.
And to do that, people have to encourage good people to run, and kick out all the rascals who part of the problem and are not part of the solution. And, that’s a bunch of folks from both parties.
But to do that, people have to throw aside apathetic feelings and “agin” mentality and go vote.
The first chance to change our ways is coming up in November.
From as-yet unpublished novel
Reveille: A story of survival, war, family
Family.
Without that foundation, some children flounder and become the lost souls of society; others thrive in an environment that teaches independence at an early age; still others will do whatever it takes to become part of a familial unit.
Even if that means forsaking friends and going to war.
Chapter 1
Running the streets
At fifteen Charles Andre didn’t know much for certain.
He knew he was an orphan. He knew he had a stand-by-his-side-no-matter-the-consequences friend named Ian, whom he considered a pure-dee idiot.
He knew he had a friend named Sarie Beth that he wanted to be more than a friend, but they were both too young to do anything about it. And, them being Catholic, even if they were older and if they were so inclined to do something about it, couldn’t do it anyway without something bad happening to them both.
He knew he wanted to grow up quicker than he was doing and make decisions for himself rather than have others make them for him.
And he knew he was better than people thought he was, or thought he could ever be. Someday he would prove those people wrong.
Or die trying.
Summer. New Orleans. 1860.
The city held the stink of old, wet garbage close to it, like a grieving woman clutching her stillborn baby. Rotting fish heads with skin cracking across the bones. Spoiled cabbage. Rancid, maggot-encrusted table scraps. Decaying ooze from dead animals. Metallic stench of dried blood. Thunder mug residue.
Charles Andre wrinkled his nose and shook his head as if he could sling the stench away. Then he shook his head again, slowly, sadly, knowing what he was trying to do was impossible. Nearing the alley behind Fettermann’s General Store, the smell intensified, took a more ominous interpretation. Charles chanced a look down the alley. Huge bones, including one intact rib cage from a butchered cow carcass were strewn about the alley; a dozen snapping, growling dogs fought over the tendrils of meat hanging from the bones, and slitherings of worm-like tendons and gristle.
It surprised him that he actually stopped to watch the spectacle. It was not a sight he should want to remember. Putting his sensibilities and common sense aside, he focused on four dogs fighting over a denuded hindquarter, the hoof barely attached by a single sickly white tendon. Charles’ eyes jumped back to the rib cage; curlicues of meat hung from it like wisps of Spanish moss from a flooded cypress. The dogs were oblivious to this unclaimed prize, seemingly content to fight and bite and growl over a single, greenish chunk of decaying meat.
What is ‘bout those dogs that they gather up and focus on that lone hindquarter?
It was a rhetorical mental spasm. The answer was clear. It was the same instinct, same urge, same force that made him think about fighting on occasion. In his darkest thoughts, he could see himself – lips curled back, neck and chest ligaments taut, hands forming claws – to defend the simplest of things, like his open-sided ticking mattress stuffed with dung-strewn straw centered under the huge south bay window at St. Mary’s Orphan Boy’s Asylum.
But, in his simplistic reality, Charles was not a fighter.
What would he fight for? he thought. Was there anything?
Life and territory.
Simple concepts of survival.
If your life was threatened, or you “owned” something or thought you did, you protected it, fought for it, and, if necessary, died for it. Next to breath and food and being loved, owning something, anything, was a driving force of life. His life, for certain. He had breath, enough food to survive (never enough, but . . . enough), and he had his place under the window. In his position, at this time, three out of four wasn’t bad.
Placing his mattress under the big south-facing window at the overcrowded orphanage was a simple, common sense thing to do. And Charles Andre, by all accounts including his own personal analysis, was a simple boy, blessed with an abundance of common sense . . . and an overwhelming, sharp-edged sense of survival.
The south side of the orphanage caught a night breeze that, sometimes just for a few precious moments, cleansed the air and eradicated the smell of the inner city and the sleeping room filled with other orphans from his nostrils. Charles lived for that breeze, for those few breaths before the gut-roiling smell beat back the freshness of the ocean’s perfume.
An orphan with lower social status than a shanty house whore, his world encompassed the worst of smells, sights, and sound. His eyes were constantly downcast, limiting his view to legs from the knees down, discarded cigar butts, wet, lumpy chunks of masticated plug tobacco, and feces – always feces, animal and human. He, like the city’s other orphans, homeless vagabonds, and unattached coloreds, walked in the gutter. The street was for the buggies, wagons, and horses carrying passengers participating in acts of commerce or for pleasure; the sidewalk was for the gentry— high-bred men and women and those who attended to them. They, he knew, thought they were born to rule; they carried themselves in a manner that left no doubt they were peacock-proud of their position, not ever walking in the gutter. It was not expected – by them or others.
Sometimes, Charles watched them in the reflections of storefront windows: The men with the slick, polished shoes (sometimes tipped with silver, filigreed toe-taps) shiny, striped pants, waistcoats, ruffled shirts, gold and silver watch fobs, and high-top hats with saucy ribbons at the bottom of the crown; the women with the tiny, pointy-toed shoes with bright ribbons for laces, billowing, brocaded dresses with tiny flowers on a field of white lace or heavy, iridescent stripes of contrasting colors . . . purple and yellow, red and blue, green and brown.
He thought it interesting that he confined his clandestine viewings to clothing, not facial features.
Why is that?
He did not covet anything the gentry had.
Not a single thing.
He had convinced himself of that personal truism time and again. But he could not understand why, then, he hated them so.
Is it hatred? he thought. Or envy?
Can’t be envy. I hate envy!
Family.
Without that foundation, some children flounder and become the lost souls of society; others thrive in an environment that teaches independence at an early age; still others will do whatever it takes to become part of a familial unit.
Even if that means forsaking friends and going to war.
Chapter 1
Running the streets
At fifteen Charles Andre didn’t know much for certain.
He knew he was an orphan. He knew he had a stand-by-his-side-no-matter-the-consequences friend named Ian, whom he considered a pure-dee idiot.
He knew he had a friend named Sarie Beth that he wanted to be more than a friend, but they were both too young to do anything about it. And, them being Catholic, even if they were older and if they were so inclined to do something about it, couldn’t do it anyway without something bad happening to them both.
He knew he wanted to grow up quicker than he was doing and make decisions for himself rather than have others make them for him.
And he knew he was better than people thought he was, or thought he could ever be. Someday he would prove those people wrong.
Or die trying.
Summer. New Orleans. 1860.
The city held the stink of old, wet garbage close to it, like a grieving woman clutching her stillborn baby. Rotting fish heads with skin cracking across the bones. Spoiled cabbage. Rancid, maggot-encrusted table scraps. Decaying ooze from dead animals. Metallic stench of dried blood. Thunder mug residue.
Charles Andre wrinkled his nose and shook his head as if he could sling the stench away. Then he shook his head again, slowly, sadly, knowing what he was trying to do was impossible. Nearing the alley behind Fettermann’s General Store, the smell intensified, took a more ominous interpretation. Charles chanced a look down the alley. Huge bones, including one intact rib cage from a butchered cow carcass were strewn about the alley; a dozen snapping, growling dogs fought over the tendrils of meat hanging from the bones, and slitherings of worm-like tendons and gristle.
It surprised him that he actually stopped to watch the spectacle. It was not a sight he should want to remember. Putting his sensibilities and common sense aside, he focused on four dogs fighting over a denuded hindquarter, the hoof barely attached by a single sickly white tendon. Charles’ eyes jumped back to the rib cage; curlicues of meat hung from it like wisps of Spanish moss from a flooded cypress. The dogs were oblivious to this unclaimed prize, seemingly content to fight and bite and growl over a single, greenish chunk of decaying meat.
What is ‘bout those dogs that they gather up and focus on that lone hindquarter?
It was a rhetorical mental spasm. The answer was clear. It was the same instinct, same urge, same force that made him think about fighting on occasion. In his darkest thoughts, he could see himself – lips curled back, neck and chest ligaments taut, hands forming claws – to defend the simplest of things, like his open-sided ticking mattress stuffed with dung-strewn straw centered under the huge south bay window at St. Mary’s Orphan Boy’s Asylum.
But, in his simplistic reality, Charles was not a fighter.
What would he fight for? he thought. Was there anything?
Life and territory.
Simple concepts of survival.
If your life was threatened, or you “owned” something or thought you did, you protected it, fought for it, and, if necessary, died for it. Next to breath and food and being loved, owning something, anything, was a driving force of life. His life, for certain. He had breath, enough food to survive (never enough, but . . . enough), and he had his place under the window. In his position, at this time, three out of four wasn’t bad.
Placing his mattress under the big south-facing window at the overcrowded orphanage was a simple, common sense thing to do. And Charles Andre, by all accounts including his own personal analysis, was a simple boy, blessed with an abundance of common sense . . . and an overwhelming, sharp-edged sense of survival.
The south side of the orphanage caught a night breeze that, sometimes just for a few precious moments, cleansed the air and eradicated the smell of the inner city and the sleeping room filled with other orphans from his nostrils. Charles lived for that breeze, for those few breaths before the gut-roiling smell beat back the freshness of the ocean’s perfume.
An orphan with lower social status than a shanty house whore, his world encompassed the worst of smells, sights, and sound. His eyes were constantly downcast, limiting his view to legs from the knees down, discarded cigar butts, wet, lumpy chunks of masticated plug tobacco, and feces – always feces, animal and human. He, like the city’s other orphans, homeless vagabonds, and unattached coloreds, walked in the gutter. The street was for the buggies, wagons, and horses carrying passengers participating in acts of commerce or for pleasure; the sidewalk was for the gentry— high-bred men and women and those who attended to them. They, he knew, thought they were born to rule; they carried themselves in a manner that left no doubt they were peacock-proud of their position, not ever walking in the gutter. It was not expected – by them or others.
Sometimes, Charles watched them in the reflections of storefront windows: The men with the slick, polished shoes (sometimes tipped with silver, filigreed toe-taps) shiny, striped pants, waistcoats, ruffled shirts, gold and silver watch fobs, and high-top hats with saucy ribbons at the bottom of the crown; the women with the tiny, pointy-toed shoes with bright ribbons for laces, billowing, brocaded dresses with tiny flowers on a field of white lace or heavy, iridescent stripes of contrasting colors . . . purple and yellow, red and blue, green and brown.
He thought it interesting that he confined his clandestine viewings to clothing, not facial features.
Why is that?
He did not covet anything the gentry had.
Not a single thing.
He had convinced himself of that personal truism time and again. But he could not understand why, then, he hated them so.
Is it hatred? he thought. Or envy?
Can’t be envy. I hate envy!
Virginity is dangerous
Missy Gilmore was sixteen and a virgin. Every boy in the county had tried to rid her of that stigma. And every strikeout was duly noted on God’s scorecard.
Science was to blame for Missy’s virginhood. Like many girls in the early ‘60s, she wore a girdle but not to just flatten and shape; her girdle protected her virginity like chastity belts did for medieval maidens. I started dating Missy because of the mystique of virginity. I wanted to get rid of mine; my friend Cowboy told me to do that I needed a partner.
Missy was no prude. She liked kissing and upper-body touching and her hand found its way into my pants by our second date. And she didn’t mind having her lower body parts rubbed through the girdle. In fact, she insisted upon it. Rubbing between the belly button and knees was, is and always will be fun. But rubbing those places through sticky plastic-like material is like rubbing a shaved pig’s ass. You rub something. You feel something. But … what?
It was a moonless night in May when I was girdling to beat the band with Missy in the front seat of my '56 Ford. I had secured an entrance to the top part of the girdle with my right hand and was in that sucker about wrist deep when she inhaled sharply – out of lust or as a defense move, I never knew which – and my hand cramped. The pain was akin to circumcision with a rusty butter knife. The inside of her girdle was like an oven; her stomach was sweatier than a tomato picker in August.
Later that night I made a pact with God never to go girdling again. I was a basketball player and almost lost my shooting hand to a piece of woman’s undergarment.
(From "Uncertain Times" -- published in 2008. Available at Amazon.com, barnesandnobles.com and other fine Web site.)
Science was to blame for Missy’s virginhood. Like many girls in the early ‘60s, she wore a girdle but not to just flatten and shape; her girdle protected her virginity like chastity belts did for medieval maidens. I started dating Missy because of the mystique of virginity. I wanted to get rid of mine; my friend Cowboy told me to do that I needed a partner.
Missy was no prude. She liked kissing and upper-body touching and her hand found its way into my pants by our second date. And she didn’t mind having her lower body parts rubbed through the girdle. In fact, she insisted upon it. Rubbing between the belly button and knees was, is and always will be fun. But rubbing those places through sticky plastic-like material is like rubbing a shaved pig’s ass. You rub something. You feel something. But … what?
It was a moonless night in May when I was girdling to beat the band with Missy in the front seat of my '56 Ford. I had secured an entrance to the top part of the girdle with my right hand and was in that sucker about wrist deep when she inhaled sharply – out of lust or as a defense move, I never knew which – and my hand cramped. The pain was akin to circumcision with a rusty butter knife. The inside of her girdle was like an oven; her stomach was sweatier than a tomato picker in August.
Later that night I made a pact with God never to go girdling again. I was a basketball player and almost lost my shooting hand to a piece of woman’s undergarment.
(From "Uncertain Times" -- published in 2008. Available at Amazon.com, barnesandnobles.com and other fine Web site.)
Falling in Love With an Older Woman
It was 1958 and it was cold. I remember it was cold because I was walking and was cold. My trusty Schwinn had taken me to a ballgame at the Avery gym, but halfway home, the chain broke on a downpush as I was trying to get more speed in order to get out the cold faster.
The bike was stashed behind Missionary Baptist Church. Not that anyone would steal it if I left it in the middle of the road. It was, as stated, 1958, and it was in Avery. Theft of property was mostly limited to the times when migrant workers invaded the town, and in a few cases of ancients with dementia who took a handful of gumballs at the drug store but didn’t remember doing it or sucking on the multi-colored candies. Dad just made a note on their account and a relative paid the bill no questions asked.
As I hoofed it down the street toward home, a car pulled up alongside.
“Want a ride home, George?”
I wasn’t into girls much yet, but did notice the car was full of them. There were three girls, all high-schoolers. The driver was Sarah Williams, a tall, lanky, blonde, athletic basketball player; Wynonna Warren, a snappy-eyed, brunette cheerleader who could look sexy simply by yawning, rode shotgun; Beulah Faye, an exotic, olive-skinned, eye-smiler with a pouty mouth and a captivating mole just to the left of her upper lip, was in the back seat.
I did want a ride home. It was cold. Wynonna opened the door, eased forward, pulling her seat up to give me room to get in the back seat. Even as skinny as I was – “built like a saw blade,” an uncle was fond of saying – it was a tight fit. The back seat was Beetle small. My left hip and leg burned where it touched Beulah Faye’s. I could have moved over slightly (and sat on the small ashtray ledge) but really didn’t see the need or have the inclination.
The girls were jabbering about the game with Dimple. Sarah accepted praise from Wynona for her twenty-something points; Sarah, in turn, pointed to Beulah Faye’s tight defense as a key to the lopsided score. I was ignored which was fine; concentrating on touching hips and thighs were occupying my thoughts.
“So, George,” Beulah Faye said, turning at the waist to face me, “ever been kissed by a real woman?”
My reaction was a normal one for a young teener among a bevy of good-looking high school girls: I swallowed my tongue. If I had of known about testosterone back then, I would have thought: Wow! I am testosterone-ing to beat the band!
I tried to answer Beulah Faye’s question but all that came out were hairball-wracking sounds. The trio splattered laughter all over the car's interior, triggering an all-world case of the blushes.
If there had been enough light, I know I would have looked like an upside down thermometer.
Beulah Faye put her arm around me and pulled me close. “It’s okay, George. We’re just joshin’ with you.” She gave me a little squeeze, which forced my left elbow funny-bone deep into a part of the female anatomy I had never before touched.
Humiliation is not that big of a deal. Really.
“So, you never answered my question. Have you ever been kissed by a woman?”
“No, if you don’t count relatives at funerals and homecomings, or Momma’s friends who come to the house on Canasta night.”
Deafening silence slammed around the car’s interior like a Super Ball.
Glancing over her right shoulder, Sarah said, “Would you like to?” Wynonna echoed: “Would you like to?”
Bravado emerged from somewhere. “This is a joke, right?”
Beulah Faye leaned more into me and made my elbow happier than it had ever been. “No, no joke? Would you like to be kissed by a real woman?”
Breaking into a lust-sweat, I screamed, “Yes, Lord! Oh, Yes!”
“Go ahead, Beulah Faye, kiss him,” Sarah said as she pulled the VW under one of Avery’s thirteen street lights and adjusted the rear view mirror.
Beulah Faye took my head in both hands, looked deeply into my eyes, moved her head slowly toward me, parted her lips slightly and closed her eyes. My eyes were riveted on her small beauty mark as her lips touched mine.
I expected a short peck, a quick release, and gales of laughter.
I was wrong, but not disappointed.
As Beulah Faye’s lips mashed mine against my teeth, I felt something alive crawling into my mouth! I jerked, but she held me firm. This was not okay.
Slowly, ever so slowly, my male sense overcame kid-fear and I realized the live thing was her tongue and the slithering was more pleasant than appalling. A kiss dessert. Apple pie compared to bad brownies. A Twinkie compared to fried prune pies.
Coming up for air, she said, “Now you try it, George.” She reconnected our lips (without my assistance, since I was paralyzed from my chin to my waist and from my thighs to my toes). Her tongue flickered in and out of my mouth like a spavined moth around a light bulb, licking my lips and touching the roof of my mouth and tongue in turns.
Deciding it was time to make my move, I thrust my tongue forward like a bottle rocket. A ladylike, quasi-casual recoil followed.
“Slow down, take it slow. It’s easier than it looks.”
Within the space of a minute, with her hands squeezing and pressing for emphasis or movement – not unlike I later thought the gentle ministrations of Fred Astaire to Ginger Rogers – I controlled I-wanna impulses and just let my tongue do the heavy lifting.
She broke the kiss. “Not bad, George. Not bad at all. You’re a fast learner.”
No memories remain of the short ride home or what was said when I got out of the car or went into the house. Surely Mom or Dad asked about my bike, and surely I gave some answer. All I remember is going to bed and dreaming of being educated in the finer points of kissing by Beulah Faye Phelps.
I never got to thank her properly until well into my fifth decade of life when I wrote a note to my favorite high school teacher somewhere around her 90th birthday:
"My life was enriched by six wonderful people: My grandfather and
grandmother, my father and mother, Ms. Margie Grant, who refused to accept
anything but the best from her students, and Beulah Faye Phelps, who taught me
how to French kiss.
"I am a better person because of all of their efforts on my behalf."
The bike was stashed behind Missionary Baptist Church. Not that anyone would steal it if I left it in the middle of the road. It was, as stated, 1958, and it was in Avery. Theft of property was mostly limited to the times when migrant workers invaded the town, and in a few cases of ancients with dementia who took a handful of gumballs at the drug store but didn’t remember doing it or sucking on the multi-colored candies. Dad just made a note on their account and a relative paid the bill no questions asked.
As I hoofed it down the street toward home, a car pulled up alongside.
“Want a ride home, George?”
I wasn’t into girls much yet, but did notice the car was full of them. There were three girls, all high-schoolers. The driver was Sarah Williams, a tall, lanky, blonde, athletic basketball player; Wynonna Warren, a snappy-eyed, brunette cheerleader who could look sexy simply by yawning, rode shotgun; Beulah Faye, an exotic, olive-skinned, eye-smiler with a pouty mouth and a captivating mole just to the left of her upper lip, was in the back seat.
I did want a ride home. It was cold. Wynonna opened the door, eased forward, pulling her seat up to give me room to get in the back seat. Even as skinny as I was – “built like a saw blade,” an uncle was fond of saying – it was a tight fit. The back seat was Beetle small. My left hip and leg burned where it touched Beulah Faye’s. I could have moved over slightly (and sat on the small ashtray ledge) but really didn’t see the need or have the inclination.
The girls were jabbering about the game with Dimple. Sarah accepted praise from Wynona for her twenty-something points; Sarah, in turn, pointed to Beulah Faye’s tight defense as a key to the lopsided score. I was ignored which was fine; concentrating on touching hips and thighs were occupying my thoughts.
“So, George,” Beulah Faye said, turning at the waist to face me, “ever been kissed by a real woman?”
My reaction was a normal one for a young teener among a bevy of good-looking high school girls: I swallowed my tongue. If I had of known about testosterone back then, I would have thought: Wow! I am testosterone-ing to beat the band!
I tried to answer Beulah Faye’s question but all that came out were hairball-wracking sounds. The trio splattered laughter all over the car's interior, triggering an all-world case of the blushes.
If there had been enough light, I know I would have looked like an upside down thermometer.
Beulah Faye put her arm around me and pulled me close. “It’s okay, George. We’re just joshin’ with you.” She gave me a little squeeze, which forced my left elbow funny-bone deep into a part of the female anatomy I had never before touched.
Humiliation is not that big of a deal. Really.
“So, you never answered my question. Have you ever been kissed by a woman?”
“No, if you don’t count relatives at funerals and homecomings, or Momma’s friends who come to the house on Canasta night.”
Deafening silence slammed around the car’s interior like a Super Ball.
Glancing over her right shoulder, Sarah said, “Would you like to?” Wynonna echoed: “Would you like to?”
Bravado emerged from somewhere. “This is a joke, right?”
Beulah Faye leaned more into me and made my elbow happier than it had ever been. “No, no joke? Would you like to be kissed by a real woman?”
Breaking into a lust-sweat, I screamed, “Yes, Lord! Oh, Yes!”
“Go ahead, Beulah Faye, kiss him,” Sarah said as she pulled the VW under one of Avery’s thirteen street lights and adjusted the rear view mirror.
Beulah Faye took my head in both hands, looked deeply into my eyes, moved her head slowly toward me, parted her lips slightly and closed her eyes. My eyes were riveted on her small beauty mark as her lips touched mine.
I expected a short peck, a quick release, and gales of laughter.
I was wrong, but not disappointed.
As Beulah Faye’s lips mashed mine against my teeth, I felt something alive crawling into my mouth! I jerked, but she held me firm. This was not okay.
Slowly, ever so slowly, my male sense overcame kid-fear and I realized the live thing was her tongue and the slithering was more pleasant than appalling. A kiss dessert. Apple pie compared to bad brownies. A Twinkie compared to fried prune pies.
Coming up for air, she said, “Now you try it, George.” She reconnected our lips (without my assistance, since I was paralyzed from my chin to my waist and from my thighs to my toes). Her tongue flickered in and out of my mouth like a spavined moth around a light bulb, licking my lips and touching the roof of my mouth and tongue in turns.
Deciding it was time to make my move, I thrust my tongue forward like a bottle rocket. A ladylike, quasi-casual recoil followed.
“Slow down, take it slow. It’s easier than it looks.”
Within the space of a minute, with her hands squeezing and pressing for emphasis or movement – not unlike I later thought the gentle ministrations of Fred Astaire to Ginger Rogers – I controlled I-wanna impulses and just let my tongue do the heavy lifting.
She broke the kiss. “Not bad, George. Not bad at all. You’re a fast learner.”
No memories remain of the short ride home or what was said when I got out of the car or went into the house. Surely Mom or Dad asked about my bike, and surely I gave some answer. All I remember is going to bed and dreaming of being educated in the finer points of kissing by Beulah Faye Phelps.
I never got to thank her properly until well into my fifth decade of life when I wrote a note to my favorite high school teacher somewhere around her 90th birthday:
"My life was enriched by six wonderful people: My grandfather and
grandmother, my father and mother, Ms. Margie Grant, who refused to accept
anything but the best from her students, and Beulah Faye Phelps, who taught me
how to French kiss.
"I am a better person because of all of their efforts on my behalf."
Memories of Sutton
Early memories are pretty much confined to two things: Train rides and spending time on my grandparents’ farm in South Arkansas. Daddy was going to pharmacy school in St. Louis on the G.I. bill and Mom was spending time going back and forth: Forth to St. Louis when Daddy saved up the money for train tickets; back to Arkansas when all he had left was train fare for Momma and me to take the Missouri-Pacific train back to Hope.
I don’t have many dysfunctional thoughts about Sutton. It was the perfect place for a hyperactive youngster to spend time during the formative years. My grandparents – George Logan Andres Sr., and Mattie Bright Hamilton Andres – were tolerant to a fault.
The Andres household – a shotgun affair with modular rooms built here and there – had eight full-time residents: Nanny and Daddy George, Daddy George’s older brother Francis Marion, and five at-home children. Momma’s two younger sisters, two younger brothers, and an older sister were still bedding down at the six-room house. That total didn’t include me and Momma, who were part-time residents.
There were beds in every single room except the kitchen and the outhouse, which was ... well, out.
It was like a commune only the food was better.
I don’t have many dysfunctional thoughts about Sutton. It was the perfect place for a hyperactive youngster to spend time during the formative years. My grandparents – George Logan Andres Sr., and Mattie Bright Hamilton Andres – were tolerant to a fault.
The Andres household – a shotgun affair with modular rooms built here and there – had eight full-time residents: Nanny and Daddy George, Daddy George’s older brother Francis Marion, and five at-home children. Momma’s two younger sisters, two younger brothers, and an older sister were still bedding down at the six-room house. That total didn’t include me and Momma, who were part-time residents.
There were beds in every single room except the kitchen and the outhouse, which was ... well, out.
It was like a commune only the food was better.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Arguing with a woman
1) Arguing with a woman gets the same result as whistling up a dead mule's ass.
2) It's not that men are from Mars and women are from Venus. It's just that men are stupid.
2) It's not that men are from Mars and women are from Venus. It's just that men are stupid.
Little use for the ACLU unless...
I’ve had little use for the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) over the past 40 years.
For the most part, organization representatives stick their collective noses in places where I personally feel they don’t belong. Fifteen years ago, a local ACLU rep asked if I wanted the group to participate in a lawsuit against a paper where I was publisher. I thanked the nice lady, but declined.
In many cases, bringing the ACLU in as an issue-partner, is an accelerant to potential problems, not a problem-extinguisher.
The group’s reputation is that of a strong advocate of upholding Constitutional law. They do that, but often go overboard, making tempests in a teapot, mountains out of molehills, breakfast out of Farina, er . . . you get the point.
On one recent issue, the ACLU is taking a strong stance and for it deserves sustained, loud applause.
In the neighboring state of Arkansas, the ACLU filed suit to overturn a law passed in November banning unmarried, cohabitating couples for adopting or fostering children.
Any couple. Any children. That includes an unmarried grandmothers living outside wedlock, other couples in the same non-knot-tying situation and . . . shhhhh, homosexuals.
The law, of course, was not aimed at “relatives,” per se, but it was a direct shot at citizens who have chosen to live an alternative lifestyle. (You know, homosexuals!)
Of course, the Bible says to love your neighbor, but with their vote so-called conservatives clearly were not talking about guys named Steve who enjoy blanching peppers for an exotic dinner, or women with the moniker of Big Sal who drive an 18-wheeler and can field dress a deer in less than 30 minutes
For the aginners who profess to be church-goers, maybe it’s one of those hate the sin and love the sinner things. Regardless, the ACLU is going to fight the Natural State’s law and . . . they will win the case.
Banning a group of people from adopting or serving as foster parents because of a situation, which has nothing to do the child’s welfare, is unconstitutional. The court system, at some level, state, appellate or the Supreme Court, will overturn this blatantly discriminatory law.
Fifty-seven percent of Arkansas voters approved the ban. You could expect that a large number of those voters who are proud of the fact their vote helped deny a possible home for neglected, abused and forgotten children would rush out the day after the law when into effect and adopt a kid or two . . . or, at the very least, become foster parents.
You would be wrong.
It’s easy to say, “Homosexuals” should not be allowed to adopt or serve as foster parents for children. It’s quite another to step up and take on that responsibility.
People who detect a problem and make their feelings known in the voting booth should also be ready to be a part of the solution.
For the most part, organization representatives stick their collective noses in places where I personally feel they don’t belong. Fifteen years ago, a local ACLU rep asked if I wanted the group to participate in a lawsuit against a paper where I was publisher. I thanked the nice lady, but declined.
In many cases, bringing the ACLU in as an issue-partner, is an accelerant to potential problems, not a problem-extinguisher.
The group’s reputation is that of a strong advocate of upholding Constitutional law. They do that, but often go overboard, making tempests in a teapot, mountains out of molehills, breakfast out of Farina, er . . . you get the point.
On one recent issue, the ACLU is taking a strong stance and for it deserves sustained, loud applause.
In the neighboring state of Arkansas, the ACLU filed suit to overturn a law passed in November banning unmarried, cohabitating couples for adopting or fostering children.
Any couple. Any children. That includes an unmarried grandmothers living outside wedlock, other couples in the same non-knot-tying situation and . . . shhhhh, homosexuals.
The law, of course, was not aimed at “relatives,” per se, but it was a direct shot at citizens who have chosen to live an alternative lifestyle. (You know, homosexuals!)
Of course, the Bible says to love your neighbor, but with their vote so-called conservatives clearly were not talking about guys named Steve who enjoy blanching peppers for an exotic dinner, or women with the moniker of Big Sal who drive an 18-wheeler and can field dress a deer in less than 30 minutes
For the aginners who profess to be church-goers, maybe it’s one of those hate the sin and love the sinner things. Regardless, the ACLU is going to fight the Natural State’s law and . . . they will win the case.
Banning a group of people from adopting or serving as foster parents because of a situation, which has nothing to do the child’s welfare, is unconstitutional. The court system, at some level, state, appellate or the Supreme Court, will overturn this blatantly discriminatory law.
Fifty-seven percent of Arkansas voters approved the ban. You could expect that a large number of those voters who are proud of the fact their vote helped deny a possible home for neglected, abused and forgotten children would rush out the day after the law when into effect and adopt a kid or two . . . or, at the very least, become foster parents.
You would be wrong.
It’s easy to say, “Homosexuals” should not be allowed to adopt or serve as foster parents for children. It’s quite another to step up and take on that responsibility.
People who detect a problem and make their feelings known in the voting booth should also be ready to be a part of the solution.
Writing poetry is a soothing exercise. Or, you have your own personal poetry slam and get some good anger issues exposed.
Several years ago I was attempt to write haiku, which I quickly discovered, is a very dumb way to communicate except for professional poets (and how many of them are there, huh?) , masochistic eighth grade English teachers, strange people who used to be beatniks and still mutter words hoping someone will remember to snap their fingers, and people that light to show out.
Counting words rather than syllables is easier, I thought to myself, and I started writing poetry with word patterns, not syllables.
My son, a published author PhDer, said it was a unique poetry form and he dubbed it georgeku.
I liked that and I believe I bought him a Christmas present last year as a thank you gift.
Poetry
in georgeku
form or pattern,
is designed to convey
images, emotions, thoughts or, perhaps,
nothing at all, excepting
an ending with
proper word
count.
Several years ago I was attempt to write haiku, which I quickly discovered, is a very dumb way to communicate except for professional poets (and how many of them are there, huh?) , masochistic eighth grade English teachers, strange people who used to be beatniks and still mutter words hoping someone will remember to snap their fingers, and people that light to show out.
Counting words rather than syllables is easier, I thought to myself, and I started writing poetry with word patterns, not syllables.
My son, a published author PhDer, said it was a unique poetry form and he dubbed it georgeku.
I liked that and I believe I bought him a Christmas present last year as a thank you gift.
Poetry
in georgeku
form or pattern,
is designed to convey
images, emotions, thoughts or, perhaps,
nothing at all, excepting
an ending with
proper word
count.
Walking on Bossy
I had my first novel published in 2008 -- Uncertain Times. I loved the two main characters so much I resurrected them in a prequel not at 50,000 words or so.
I need a cast of idiots for this book too, and I was musing about this part-time hermit and songwriter I conjured up by the name of Terwilliger Hudson. He looks like a friend of mine. Well, he didn't the friend mentioned he wanted to be in my next book, that is.
Terwilliger sits nekkid on a rock in the middle of the Northfork River in North Central Arkanas until he writes two songs a day. Sometimes he's there a day or two at a time if the word-images are coming slow.
So, I'm musing about Terwilliger (did I mention I was musing?) and was scuffing my feet on a cowhide rug in a friend's cabin in Marshall, Texas (Did I mention this friend's wife is a "looker?") and starting thinking (which is always a bad thing) and wrote this song. (IF you are real sharp and have some time ... try diagraming that sentence, okay?)
Did I mention that Terwilliger can not write songs, that he's the worst songwriter on the planet? I thought not.
WALKING ON BOSSY
There was a time back in my younger days
That I fell for this old girl that was the best in the herd
She loved me for who I was,
What I gave her,
She never uttered not one single discouraging word.
Then I moved to another county
And follow me she could not do,
So I took a part of her with me
So I would not feel so blue
A man named Lonesome Filligree
Put her down,
Oh, he put her down
He head-whomped her with a hammer
And put her in the ground.
But he skinned her and cured her hide
When she was ready, he sent her to me
I lovingly unrolled her perfect, tanned hide
And put her out for the world to see.
Chorus--
Walking on Bossy,
Feeling her hide with my feet
She's the last thing I walk on in the morning
And the last thing 'fore I go to sleep.
Oh, walking on Bossy
Is what takes away the pain
Of taking her to the slaughter house
So I wouldn't feel the strain
Of leaving that old milk cow
When I left my old home place,
Oh, walking on Bossy
The cow I can not replace.
Thank you. Thank you very much.
I need a cast of idiots for this book too, and I was musing about this part-time hermit and songwriter I conjured up by the name of Terwilliger Hudson. He looks like a friend of mine. Well, he didn't the friend mentioned he wanted to be in my next book, that is.
Terwilliger sits nekkid on a rock in the middle of the Northfork River in North Central Arkanas until he writes two songs a day. Sometimes he's there a day or two at a time if the word-images are coming slow.
So, I'm musing about Terwilliger (did I mention I was musing?) and was scuffing my feet on a cowhide rug in a friend's cabin in Marshall, Texas (Did I mention this friend's wife is a "looker?") and starting thinking (which is always a bad thing) and wrote this song. (IF you are real sharp and have some time ... try diagraming that sentence, okay?)
Did I mention that Terwilliger can not write songs, that he's the worst songwriter on the planet? I thought not.
WALKING ON BOSSY
There was a time back in my younger days
That I fell for this old girl that was the best in the herd
She loved me for who I was,
What I gave her,
She never uttered not one single discouraging word.
Then I moved to another county
And follow me she could not do,
So I took a part of her with me
So I would not feel so blue
A man named Lonesome Filligree
Put her down,
Oh, he put her down
He head-whomped her with a hammer
And put her in the ground.
But he skinned her and cured her hide
When she was ready, he sent her to me
I lovingly unrolled her perfect, tanned hide
And put her out for the world to see.
Chorus--
Walking on Bossy,
Feeling her hide with my feet
She's the last thing I walk on in the morning
And the last thing 'fore I go to sleep.
Oh, walking on Bossy
Is what takes away the pain
Of taking her to the slaughter house
So I wouldn't feel the strain
Of leaving that old milk cow
When I left my old home place,
Oh, walking on Bossy
The cow I can not replace.
Thank you. Thank you very much.
The Bible tell me so.
Eating and booze
do not a devil’s
smorgasbord make
As rumors go, it was a dandy.
Kopan, one of Cabot’s (Arkansas) newest – and certainly one of the finest – restaurants opened several months ago to rave reviews.
A sushi restaurant in Cabot? That question was an initial thought. Yeah, right. What are they going to serve: Fish sticks, popcorn shrimp and Minute Rice?
For those who have eaten there, a review is not necessary; for those who have not partaken of their fare, go! Go now! Go often!
The food is superb with nothing better in the Little Rock area. The portions are generous, the service is snappy and the owners and staff will do whatever it takes to create a pleasant eating environment.
So why is Kopan’s in hot water with some local pastors … and Cabot Mayor Eddie Joe Williams? The restaurant has applied for a private club permit to allow guests to partake of beer or wine with their meal.
It’s legal, you know, this private club permit dealie. Most counties in the state already have private clubs. Lonoke County has four: Two in Greystone Country Club, and one each at Rolling Hills Country Club and Mallard Point in Lonoke.
I don’t remember a hellfire-and-damnation uproar about those permits. But, then again, the golfing facilities are already private so that, somehow, makes it okay. I guess.
What is it about legally obtained booze that sets the nose-hairs of some preachers and some politicians ablaze?
In the case of preachers, it’s usually described as a moral issue. The Bible is full of verses containing the words “wine” or “beer.” By its lonesome, Genesis has more “wine” in it that a package store.
The Bible is firm on the subject of alcohol. Abstinence is good; partaking of a little wine is not only acceptable, but can be prescribed for health reasons; consuming too much wine/beer is bad.
Not much has changed in the past 2,000 years, give or take a few centuries.
Proverbs 20 sums up the negative theme nicely: Wine is a mocker and
beer is a brawler; whoever is led astray by them is not wise.
My personal favorite is Proverbs 31: Give beer to those who are perishing, wine to those who are in anguish. Few preachers spend time working up a sermon on that particular chapter.
Nor on a specific chapter in Deuteronomy: He will love you and bless you and increase your numbers. He will bless…your grain, new wine and oil….
We can skip over the fact that Jesus turned water into wine and go straight to Ephesians: Do not get drunk on wine…. Yeppers, there’s laws that cover that point.
Revelations talks about drinking “the wine of God’s fury.” But, heck, that’s Revelations -- the Bible’s Scary Clown chapter.
Mayor Williams said he did not want Kopan’s to have a beer and wine permit, calling it a “crack in the dam.” The crack is already there, Mayor: Four private clubs, a permit-restaurant coming to the Ward community, and Ace and Busy Bee liquor stores hovering on the county line.
Free advice, Mr. Mayor: Stick to trying to get businesses to come to Cabot instead of working to run them off.
Free advice to preachers: Preach a sermon now and again on all parts of the Bible, even those chapters with which you personally disagree. It would increase your credibility for those times you have some hot topic in which you want to get the majority of congregation pulling in the same direction.
There’s nothing wrong with drinking in moderation. ‘Cause the Bible tells me so.
do not a devil’s
smorgasbord make
As rumors go, it was a dandy.
Kopan, one of Cabot’s (Arkansas) newest – and certainly one of the finest – restaurants opened several months ago to rave reviews.
A sushi restaurant in Cabot? That question was an initial thought. Yeah, right. What are they going to serve: Fish sticks, popcorn shrimp and Minute Rice?
For those who have eaten there, a review is not necessary; for those who have not partaken of their fare, go! Go now! Go often!
The food is superb with nothing better in the Little Rock area. The portions are generous, the service is snappy and the owners and staff will do whatever it takes to create a pleasant eating environment.
So why is Kopan’s in hot water with some local pastors … and Cabot Mayor Eddie Joe Williams? The restaurant has applied for a private club permit to allow guests to partake of beer or wine with their meal.
It’s legal, you know, this private club permit dealie. Most counties in the state already have private clubs. Lonoke County has four: Two in Greystone Country Club, and one each at Rolling Hills Country Club and Mallard Point in Lonoke.
I don’t remember a hellfire-and-damnation uproar about those permits. But, then again, the golfing facilities are already private so that, somehow, makes it okay. I guess.
What is it about legally obtained booze that sets the nose-hairs of some preachers and some politicians ablaze?
In the case of preachers, it’s usually described as a moral issue. The Bible is full of verses containing the words “wine” or “beer.” By its lonesome, Genesis has more “wine” in it that a package store.
The Bible is firm on the subject of alcohol. Abstinence is good; partaking of a little wine is not only acceptable, but can be prescribed for health reasons; consuming too much wine/beer is bad.
Not much has changed in the past 2,000 years, give or take a few centuries.
Proverbs 20 sums up the negative theme nicely: Wine is a mocker and
beer is a brawler; whoever is led astray by them is not wise.
My personal favorite is Proverbs 31: Give beer to those who are perishing, wine to those who are in anguish. Few preachers spend time working up a sermon on that particular chapter.
Nor on a specific chapter in Deuteronomy: He will love you and bless you and increase your numbers. He will bless…your grain, new wine and oil….
We can skip over the fact that Jesus turned water into wine and go straight to Ephesians: Do not get drunk on wine…. Yeppers, there’s laws that cover that point.
Revelations talks about drinking “the wine of God’s fury.” But, heck, that’s Revelations -- the Bible’s Scary Clown chapter.
Mayor Williams said he did not want Kopan’s to have a beer and wine permit, calling it a “crack in the dam.” The crack is already there, Mayor: Four private clubs, a permit-restaurant coming to the Ward community, and Ace and Busy Bee liquor stores hovering on the county line.
Free advice, Mr. Mayor: Stick to trying to get businesses to come to Cabot instead of working to run them off.
Free advice to preachers: Preach a sermon now and again on all parts of the Bible, even those chapters with which you personally disagree. It would increase your credibility for those times you have some hot topic in which you want to get the majority of congregation pulling in the same direction.
There’s nothing wrong with drinking in moderation. ‘Cause the Bible tells me so.
God Shows He Loves Us
Every once in a while God looks down and decides He wants to show His love for us by giving humankind something incredibly special . . . like Krispy Kreme donuts.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
