Remember Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentleman?

I know on one level it’s a love story, but on another level it’s a heart wrenching story of a man full of insecurities. Insecurities that resulted from growing up with an alcoholic father and being tagged as “just like your dad.” He covered his deep anxieties with an "I don't-give-a-damn” game-face supplemented by arrogance and attitude. How many times do we cover up that way?

Anyway, the story begins as Gere’ character (Mayo) arrives at the Navy's Officer Candidate School, a hurdle he must overcome to earn the right to serve as a Naval Officer and possibly "get jets," that is, attend the prestigious Naval flight school.

Lou Gossett played the role of the drill sergeant (“don’t call me sir, I work for a livin’”) who had the job of molding new recruits into a conformed unit. He had to break them down by destroying their independence and confidence, and then, rebuild them with more of a "group think" confidence (not necessarily a philosophy I agree with by the way). His special emphasis was guys like Gere who resisted rules and regimentation (the type who will debate the issue or suggest a better idea when the sergeant orders the unit to “take that hill” –know anyone like that?).

Gossett pushed and pushed Gere like only a drill sergeant can. He rode him, antagonized him, berated him (like he did all the other recruits), all to expose Gere’s weaknesses and either eliminate them, or weed them out of the program.

Gossett ultimately determined Gere was a misfit, unlikely to conform to the mold. Of course, his job at that point was to drive him out by working him so hard he would quit.

The climax of the part of the story I want you to consider happened over a punishment weekend when the other recruits had passes to leave the base. Gossett told Gere he intended to work him day and night to make him quit, and that engaged a battle of the wills. Gossett had the power and the intention to force Gere to run miles and miles on the obstacle course with a full pack in the rain, to do push-ups and chin-ups until he could do no more, to stand guard all night, to scrub the floor with a toothbrush and to perform KP with little sleep or even a chance to rest. He told him mistreatment would stop only when Gere asked to resign, but that when he did, there would be no hard feelings, he could just pack up and leave.

Over that very long weekend, and out of sheer pride (sort of a "you can't make me" attitude) Gere did everything Gossett demanded, demeaning though some of it was.

Enduring the mistreatment ultimately weakened Gere physically, and he lost his smirking game face and attitude. All he had left was the strength of his quickly diminishing will as he collapsed on the cement while doing a set of push-ups with a 100 pound pack on his back.

At that point, with Gossett towering him demanding more, he asked Gere, “Why don’t you just quit?”

“No.”

“I want your DOR!” (drop on request, voluntary resignation).

“I want your DOR!”

“No, Sargent.” “Never.” “I won’t.”

“You don’t belong here, and if you won’t quit, then I’ll just boot you out.”

“Don’t do it!” Don’t ... you ... do it”

“Alright, Mayo, Just give me one good reason why I shouldn’t send you packin’”

After a pregnant pause, Gere looked up with his sweaty and exhausted face and answered in a very desperate sounding tone, “because . . . , I got nowhere else to go.”

Gossett recognized he had finally gotten through to him and had broken through his arrogance. The misfit’s attitude was actually a cover for a very positive character trait. Gere's strong will was an asset to bend in the right direction rather than break, and you know the rest of the story. He learns to follow so he can later lead. And he gets the girl. Happy ending.

The "I got nowhere else to go" attitude is the attitude I think we need before we are willing to even think about approaching God. Until we can acknowledge that God is God and we are not; until we can acknowledge that we aren’t in control (and that we shouldn’t be); until we can acknowledge we “got nowhere else to go,” we don’t really get it. Anything less is game.

It seems to me that with respect to God, life is a process to teach us that “I got nowhere else to go.” It takes more for some than others, and then, some never get there. But, if life seems hard, God is working.

“I have been driven to my knees many times by the realization that I had nowhere else to go.” -Abraham Lincoln

Papa and the Wasp Nest (2)

It happened late one summer afternoon, well-after Hozeen had hand-mowed the yard, sipped his sugary mint tea in the morning-glory covered cabana and dutifully extinguished the small fire he built in the cabana to boil the tea water (all part of the regimen he followed daily as religiously as his seven prayer times facing Mecca). 

 

What? You might ask.  Well, lemme tell you.

 

As he “stomped the estate” after returning home from work, Papa spied a nest of pesky varmints under the eves of our house and decided to remove it immediately rather than assign it to Hozeen for the next day.  I mean, why wait?  It was a simple task.  Man (as in one small step for …) against bothersome insect(s). How could the odds be better?

Anyway, armed with a broomstick and unshakable confidence that he would have the better of the eve squatters, Papa boldly ascended his step ladder and swatted at the nest to bring it down. 

 

Fwitt….Fwitt … Fwott. 

 

His aim was true, and the nest fell behind the army of gladiolas standing at green-stalked attention (not unlike the scuppernongs in the front yard of Mrs. Henry Lafayette Debose before Jem got aholt a ‘em).

 

But (there’s always a but, isn’t there) … as soon as the nest hit the ground and before he could get off the ladder, hundreds of its angry residents immediately swarmed him and chased him in meandering circles around the yard.  He ran in vain trying to escape.  He swung the broomstick wildly without success.  He even thrashed his arms and swatted the air his hat, all to no avail.  The evictees simply followed him everywhere as he hollered, “Dars,  Dars,  get the hose.”  He finally found respite in the lingering smoke in the cabana, where the wasps refused to go, and once safely inside he caught his breath and surveyed his injuries.  Bites.  Scratches.  Stingers.  His khaki’s actually protected most of his body from the fearsome marauders, so by the end of the day, only his arms and face bore the swollen reminders of his foray. 

 

Sympathetic though Granny was as she doctored his wounds (to his arms and face as well as to his pride), when she saw he was basically okay, she had to stifle a giggle as she re-pictured him running, swinging, thrashing and yelling “Dars…”  Her stifling was apparently successful, because when he told the story later, he showed every sign of feeling vindicated, if not a tad bit heroic for having eliminated the threat and taken the stings himself. 

 

Rest there for a minute because all this evaporated like the water in the ponds at the nearby golf course in the face of a sirocco (google that) when he noticed the next morning that the wasps had lifted the nest back to its original location under the eve (as they are prone to do). 

 

How frustrating is that! 

 

Not one to give up at the first sign of defeat, he ultimately got the better of them when he returned from the PX with the aerosol can of Wasp-b-gone. “Bring in the big guns.” He gave me the nest as a trophy, and of course, the wasps never returned (DDT does that, so like I said, “one small step . . . “).

 

Now, lo these many decades later, lest his efforts go unheralded, I think we should join in a congratulatory “hip hip …” 

 

You know what comes next! 

 

Did you say it?  You did!

 

Say it again… out loud----  Hip Hip Hooray.  Hooray for Papa and his broomstick!

 

That’s all.

We lived in Dallas, in a house we were sort of re-doing while living in it (the next owners did a much more thorough job of re-doing, I must say).  Never ever try to redo while you live there. 

 

Anyway, think early fifties vintage.  Pier and beam.  Wood floors.  Great quiet neighborhood. Huge yard. Big old oak trees with branches custom made for climbing and sitting.  

 

Youngest recently reminded me "no I did not share a room with my [sibling!]," and that she actually had a "huge room with windows on three sides." 

 

I don't think he is jealous, but who knew back then that anyone was even measuring the rooms.  You never know.

And Big Wheels!  Low to the ground.  Easy to spin out.  Huge front wheel.  All plastic. 

"Poo Pight," the three year-old said as he pulled on his Little Lord Fontleroy bubble suit.  One piece.  Big buttons all the way up the front.  Short pants and short sleeve shirt from France, all in one.  Dern right...Poo Pight. 

Sorry little man. 

And then one day someone commanded, "Let their be jeans."  And there were Levis and Wranglers of every size.  And boots.  A suitcase full of boots.

Things do even out over time.

"Ohhhh nooo. I'm not allowed to play in the front yard without an adult," 7 year-old Eldest dutifully urged.

"But I am an adult," her 8 year-old chum responded.

. . . . . . . [think, think, think] . . .

"O.K.!  Let's go!"

LATER:

"But he SAID he was an adult." 

http://teespring.com/legend-papa

We all called X’s Step-Father’s parents by their given names, Hazel and Richard.  I don't know whose idea it was to ignore one of the standard issue grandparental titles, but they were happy folk and didn't seem to mind being on a first-name-basis with family and friends.  Adult-peers, children and grandchildren alike simply referred to them as Hazel and Richard as if the two of them were one unit.  Hazel 'n Richard. 
 

Anyway, Hazel's gift to the Hazel 'n Richard duo was her exceptional talents in the culinary arts.  She cooked three meals, every day.  Eggs and bacon, waffles, pancakes for breakfast (more bacon please).  Roast beef, fried chicken, or pork chops with every vegetable known to mankind for "dinner" (that's the noon meal in case you ain't from 'round here), and something equally satisfying and filling for supper "of an evenin'." 
 

Richard expressed his deep and abiding affection for Hazel in many ways, but none more enthusiastically than the way in which he showed his appreciation for  her culinary expression.  In fact, before every meal, whether it was early morning breakfast, noontime dinner or  post naptime supper, he would normally be in the back of the house sorting his coin collection or reading Zane Gray and just as Hazel was rattling the dishes to set the table, he’d saunter into the kitchen, eye the ongoing preparations and announce "Honey Darlin, that looks good enough to eat!!"  And then he did.  Or would. Or … hmm, well he consumed mass quantities of the feast that was placed before him.
 

And yeah, he did. He called her Honey Darlin'. Maybe that’s why she didn’t covet a grandparental title.  She enjoyed the ever present affection on display from being called “Honey Darlin’” whether it was uttered in a sweet tone or in a bit of a growl (but then, that’s another story).  Just “Honey Darlin’.”  I’d never heard it before, and haven’t heard it since.  Have you?
 

Big Daddy's Gentle Reminder.  second draft 

 

In all the years I knew him, Big Daddy was showered, straight-razored, pajama'ed and on the way to bed as soon as the television weather report was over and Grandmother had the information she needed to make a final decision on whether to bring in her standing army of potted plants.  This, you see was because he was up and going strong by five a.m. the next morning, without fail.   

 

Middle, not one to ignore the fact her status as the middle child required her to fight the curse of invisibility, actually turned to her advantage her own early morning wakefulness by secretly meeting Big Daddy in the kitchen every day, long before sunup.  They probably had to move plants first, but that never interfered with sharing hot chocolate and conspiring with twinkly early morning eyes their plans for mischief in the coming daylight hours.

 

But then, that's Middle's story.  She'll have to disclose the nature of those conversations.  Here, the important thing to keep in mind is that while we, of the generation who thought all things existed for us, only observed this curious circadian rhythm after he retired from going to work every day, Big Daddy apparently had a long history of early to bed, early to rise coming from the fact that his business required him to be up at the crack o' dawn.  

 

Of course, it’s unlikely that Big Daddy's resting hours were a real problem when Granny and Sudie Lee were children.  I mean, those were days when the pecking order at home generally allowed the primary bread winner to set the agenda, and I suspect when his family was young, everyone simply followed his lead and retired early.  But at some point impressionable youngsters become teenagers with independent ideas about what the nighttime hours are for, and that's what this story is about—but, it takes a little leap back in time from the years when Middle and I and even Youngest knew Big Daddy as a Grandfather to his days as the father of a teenaged girl who was moving through what was commonly referred to as the courtin' years, let me say what I know with what I think is some genuine Mis'sippi elocution as follows.

 

I hear tell that at some point, Granny (the oldest, and the one who had to push the envelope for the benefit of her younger sibling) began to sit on the front porch with a certain gentleman caller.  These porch sittin's became so regular and the conversation so engrossing that time simply stood still, and often this certain, number one favorite gentleman caller, extended the porch sittin' visitin' hours until long past the weather report and plant movin' time and well into the clean shaven, pajama'ed Big Daddy territory.  That means Big Daddy was tired and wanted to go to bed.  Of course, in those days there was no air conditioning and everyone left their doors and windows open such that porch sittin' was hardly the private affair it might be today.  Sometimes the conversation included porch sitters as well as those in other rooms in the house, invited or not.  Normally this wasn't a problem, but when it was time to go to bed, someone's rhythm had to rule. 

 

Of course, Big Daddy wasn't a harsh man.  He wasn't particularly demanding or authoritarian, but he did have a way of charming you so you understood what he was after.  As the story goes, whenever Papa over lingered,  Big Daddy would start communicating his intentions first by clearing his throat in the den, then by beginning the process of checking screens on the windows and doors and finally by engaging in other shut down the house activities.  If Papa didn't notice, Big Daddy would become even more obvious in the process by saying in his outside voice, "well Mildred, is there anything that needs to tendin' before we turn in?"  Those were clear "time to get goin'" cues to any gentleman caller countin' lightening bugs on the porch, but apparently at some point during the Papa's budding friendship with Granny, he felt so at home that  Big Daddy's noisy subtleties became no more Big Daddy's idiosyncrasies.  Papa was a big man and could overlook them.  He wasn't countin' fireflies anyway.  The result was that because Big Daddy liked Papa and cut him lots of slack, he would head off to bed with the admonition, "Dars-Ann don't be late."  If Big Daddy actually made it to bed and Papa was still chatting on the porch, without any warning or further conversation, a shoe would come flying down the hall.  That was a subtlety Papa understood, and the invitation to leave that he almost always honored.  Granted, some nights were two shoe nights, but Papa's other incentive was that he had to get to the bus stop before the last run or he'd have to walk home, and notwithstanding his abiding affection for the girl he won the right to escort home from Seale Lilly’s ice cream parlor one night after church by a coin flip (another story, to come), he was always one to conserve his energies. 

 

By contrast, by the time I knew Big Daddy, he kept his shoes in a big green ottoman after shining them each night, and I never ever saw him throw a single one down the hall.  Rather, he simply re-incorporated his leadership by example method into his bed time routine, demonstrating by his own behavior what he hoped everyone else would do, just like when Dars-Ann and Sudie-Lee were little.  Grandmother happily followed him, as did Granny and Papa (who were themselves early risers) and even Middle (ever the compliant one of course, but also undoubtedly anticipating early morning hot chocolate).  Sometimes his method worked on Youngest, but I usually stayed up with an earphone plugged into the radio listening to the "Woof Man," or reading a Hardy Boys book until it was bedtime on the west coast, and Big Daddy never once threw a shoe.  Maybe it was because he wore more expensive shoes.  Maybe it was because there was no porch sittin' threat, or maybe it was just because he was able to cover up any ambient noise by turning down his hearing aid and turning on the air conditioner and humming attic fan to cover up any background noise.  Anyway, as long as no one was "howlin' like wild dogs," he was always out like a light long before the Tonight Show began, and I'm told, stirrin' hot chocolate a few hours later.   

Guess who said:  "I'm finiched wit da movie now..."

The time:  He was 4.

The place:  North Park Theatre.

The movie:  Toy Story.

The reason: He "finiched" his box of popcorn.

 

 I'm sitting here listening to Youngest play the guitar and sing. While admittedly, its unlikely that I'm totally objective, I will say without contradiction that he is playing and singing very well. That skill is something that he developed in less than a year, because he wanted it.

 

As a bit of background, you may know that among other things, I love music, and have always played music and musical instruments around the house and elsewhere. I grew up in a house filled with music and everyone on my side of the family plays something. I have always been very interested in passing that interest on to Eldest and Youngest, and I am firmly convinced they each have a predisposition to understand music and use it as a personal form of expression. First, I watched Eldest learn the piano. She started with a strict, performance based technical teacher who demanded perfection, pointed out every mistake and drove her students to recitals where she (the teacher) was in reality the center of attention.  She absolutely hated it (of course). She hated the fact that the teacher's emphasis was on performance, and she was never satisfied. She hated the formality of the recitals. She hated being judged based on whether her performance met to a "T" the notes transcribed on the page. Initially, that made her think she hated music and the piano, but we switched teachers to someone who let it be fun, a teacher who used more contemporary selections at first, and who was not concerned as much with performance as she was in transmitting a love for the art. That's not to say she was in anyway less committed to excellence, she just defined excellence as something different that performing like a soldier and drill sergeant.  Eldest blossomed. She learned to love music from the heart. She ultimately learned to play some of the most difficult classical pieces you can imagine with great precision (so she had to learn the technical side), but she didn't learn it by the crack of the whip, but because she was inspired to love music and she wanted to learn it.

I always wanted Youngest to learn an instrument too so we can play things as a family. We talked about piano, guitar drums, and even signed him up for piano lessons when he was very young. Like Eldest, he absolutely hated it at first. The whole idea of learning yet another discipline just for the sake of discipline made little sense. So instead of prodding him or forcing him to work at it until he learned some technique, I just got out all our guitars and other instruments and put them in a room so they are easily accessible. I bought a bass guitar some electrics and amplifiers and let him fool around with them with his friends. No discern-able demands; no expressed expectations other than my encouragement that he experiment. Admittedly, I played the same instruments a lot alone, with Eldest and even with friends. Eventually, he became interested and started picking them up on his own. He started playing with the band at church before he was ready, and that total immersion made him want to get better. Now, I'm convinced that if I had tried to force the issue at the piano stage, he would have rebelled to some degree and ultimately hated the whole thing. Of course, as the parent, I could have forced the issue, I could have made him take the lessons, even give him consequences that would encourage him to practice, but I couldn't force him to love the art form. He learned because he wanted to learn.  

Elements of a perfect birthday

Good coffee
A Proverb
A jog
A turn in the batting cage
Test drive that Porsche (or Ferrari)
Talk seriously about something important
Laugh out-loud at something silly
Hit some golf balls
Nap
Drink a beer
Play some rowdy music
Dance the two step
Cosmic Bowling
Movie time with popcorn
All with good friends and family

and kiss a pretty girl!

  

On the loss of the Mandog, Codi. 

 

 

I probably would've been among the first to say that over-emphasizing the importance of a loss of a pet is a bit self-indulgent;  however I am surprised that with Codi's passing, I find myself experiencing some of the same things that I have felt with the passing of family members for whom we easily justify feeling a strong sense of loss. 

 

For example, at the most basic level, I'm aware of a deep empathy for a living creature with an individual personality  who existed, but is no more except in the memories of those who cared for him.  I see his individual personality as I think about how he never walked, but always ran full-bolt with his black, cocker-spaniel ears flopping when he was serious about getting somewhere.  I see it when I remember how he chased the ball and teased about its return by cupping it between his paws and looking up at me as if over the top of his spectacles, or how he squealed excitedly and circled around my feet when I returned home even after the briefest absence.  His outward expressions of what I can only describe as pure joy in living evidence his individuality as well as his own personally rewarding, day-to-day experience.  It is very easy to empathize with those traits, and in a bit of an exaggerated way, the loss of his expressions of joy create an imbalance in the universe.

 

Layered over that, I sense an equally deep personal, if not selfish sadness in my own spirit rising from all of the ways that I will miss his joyful presence.  I will miss how he enthusiastically seized every moment.  How he teased with the ball he eventually laid at my feet so I could toss it again.  How he surrounded me with his  unbounded and unconditional glee every time he welcomed me home.  I'm selfishly saddened by the fact that I can no longer share in those moments with him.

 

But an entirely different level of sadness, even distress overwhelmed me the millisecond I realized exactly what was happening to him.   He was lying on the floor in the middle of the sunroom, head resting on his front feet spread before him, looking peacefully at me.  His breathing was labored, but no more so than after some normal exertion.  I was stroking his head and talking to him.  Youngest had made an appointment at the Vet that was scheduled in about half an hour because he had been lethargic that morning.  We were watching him in anticipation of describing his condition to the Vet, but then, in his last minute of life, he lifted his head and coughed quietly, once, and then again.  He laid his head down and only then did I actually realize what was happening.  Only then did it occur to me that he was passing from this life and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.  He coughed gently again and then lay completely still.  I cupped his head in my hands and said "oh, no . . . Codi . . .  NO . . . Codi . . . what happened?"  I embraced him and helplessly asked him to "hang on...please hang on."

Remembering that helplessness is almost as sad as the loss of his presence.  It transcends the loss of a single loved one and rather speaks to a part of our  universal condition that I've sensed before.  That is, the recognition that we live on a ball of magma hardened on the surface like an eggshell, careening through a vacuum at a gazillion miles an hour well-beyond our control, surrounded by other careening objects that we so far, continue to barely miss when a collision with any one of them would obliterate all physical signs of our existence.  In that reality, we hover over the tiniest details of life to create the illusion that we do have control, when in fact, we don't.  Codi's sudden, unexpected passing reintroduced to my conscience awareness that philosophical concept.  I picked him up like a rag doll and rushed early to the Vet, and even though it took only a few minutes to arrive, the Vet could only say, "I'm so sorry . . . he's gone." 

Stepping back a little, I guess our pets contextualize our lives, don't they.  They each represent distinct, definable time periods, and their passing is often a mile marker for the end of an era.  For instance, in my life, Smokey (the cat) reminds me of Newfoundland and snow outside and playing indoors.  Rebel's brief but happy life stands for my kindergarten years, climbing trees in the back yard and singing this ole man while rolling down the hill in the front yard. Pepper, the wild mutt from the pet store means Colorado and Mrs. Henderson's third grade class.  Ginger, the Moroccan cocker-poodle mix that my parents called "best dog ever" bridged my childhood with my teenage years.  She was a constant while my family moved from place to place over her life span.  Taffy and Puppy joined us as my sister's dogs. Heidi the black standard poodle marked my college years, though Papa adopted her after I graduated (she was replaced by Muffy, a toy poodle that sat in Papa's lap).  Magnum defined the years that took ex and me from honeymoon through two kids and a mortgage.  And, Monika represents our move from Preston Hollow to Cowtown where we adopted Codi and Maddie.   

Codi specifically represents the era that began with Youngest's senior year in high school and Eldest's first foray into independent living.  He stands for the span of the time during which Eldest and Youngest both completed their education and entered into the working world.  A time in which we all survived divorce and the passing of family members who were ever-present context-definers in their own right.  A time we enjoyed the excitement and novelty of living downtown, and then traded that for the relief of returning home.  To call his time with us the "Codi-era," is not is not hyperbolic at all.

It is with these thoughts that I recognize the end of the Codi-era like the end of so many other previous eras.  It is no longer a present tense reality, but rather has been relegated to memory.  And, I can only say, Codi, Mandog, thank you for enriching our lives. We miss you.

 

What if . . .

. . . you were a grand-mama putting clean socks in a 5 year old boy's drawer and you found a frog there. . .  

 

or a grasshopper . . .

 

or a snake . . .  

 

or a dirt clod (saved for tomorrow) . . . 

 

or dirty socks . . . 

 

or Halloween candy (in July) . . .

 

I could go on . . . 

A Trip to Mississippi

I vaguely recall Big Daddy's funeral. I was in college at the University of Texas at the time, closing a chapter in my life. I had a garage apartment in a stone house that was the original farm house for all the land that made up south Austin. It was more than a hundred years old and marked as a historical monument. It was on top of a tall hill overlooking Zilker park, the spring fed creek used for  swimming and the Colorado River. Breath taking view. I was there because my high school friends all were there, no other real reason.  I'm ashamed to admit that I probably missed as many classes as I made.  I remember flying into Jackson from Austin ( a big deal back then) because I was in school and my parents wanted me to miss as little class as possible. Big Daddy was special to all of us--he was Dad's sort of substitute father (Dad's father died when Dad was 10, and Big Daddy just adopted him into the family when he met Mom).  I probably was in a daze at his funeral though, I think it was the second funeral I had ever been to in my life, and the first one for a family member. I flew in and out seems like in the middle of the week so it was a fast trip. Also, I knew he was sick, but never heard directly he was in a life threatening condition until very close to the end. When I learned he was likely to die, I asked to visit, but Mom suggested otherwise so Big Daddy didn't get suspicious about his condition (literally, he never asked, and no one ever told him he was terminal--he must have known though--a little while before he died, they performed surgery to remove something, and opened him up, saw the extent of the cancer, and closed immediately. when he returned to the room and awakened, he knew he had not been in surgery long enough to remove whatever, so knew something was wrong). I don't hold any grudges, everyone was just doing what they thought right at the time, and my visit probably would have been more for me than him. When I saw him at the funeral it was hard to recognize him. he was thinner than I remembered and was not wearing his glasses. 

Hitchhiking

I talked a bit with Dad once and he told me a story that I had never heard before.

To set the context, I had always assumed Mom and Dad met in high school, courted through college and married as soon as he graduated, with no other intervening "love interests." But, nooooo, not so. Dad said in a candid revelation that he "kissed a few girls" before he fell head-over-heals for Mom. Apparently, one in particular lived in St. Louis.

Let me first tell you how we got to the subject of his girl kissing history. It was not premeditated in any way. In fact, without the slightest hint about what he was going to say, I innocently asked him to tell me about his longest hitch hiking trip. I fully expected he would recount a ride all the way from Jackson to Oxford (Ole Miss), without a stop. A ride in a luxury sedan with leather seats starting at his front door and ending at his dorm. A ride uninterrupted by the comment, "I'm turning off here."

Instead, he thought a minute (it went on long enough that I had to ask if he was still on the phone). Then, he said, "St. Louis."

I probed for details, asking open ended questions to get him to disclose a part of his youth to which I had never been privy, and slowly, the story unravelled.

The short version is that he had a close girlfriend in Jackson who asked him to double date with her to escort her friend who was visiting from out of town. He agreed and they all went to a dance of some kind. You guessed it, the unnamed beauty was from St. Louis.

I don't know how long the young lady was in Jackson, or how many other times they saw each other, but they became friendly enough to exchange addresses and exchange a flurry of letters back and forth. The correspondence led to an invitation for Dad to spend part of the Christmas holidays in St. Louis with her family. Wow.

I asked him how this happened in light of his undying affection for Mom, and he simply said, "this was before your Mother."

I asked him how his own Mother felt about him taking off for parts unknown for Christmas, and he said "I didn't ask, I just told her where I would be" (he has told me a number of stories that show he was very much independent from his Mother, even though she often tried to fence him in, for example by selling all the cars when he was old enough to drive).

Anyway, the girl's parents made arrangements for Dad to stay with a neighbor, and he spent his first Christmas away from the house down the street from the Jitney Jungle.

I asked him what happened after the trip, and he said "long distance relationships are difficult to maintain, and then, I had a date at Seale Lilly's with Mother."

I'm glad he did.

The funny thing is that after he finished the story, he said, "you know, now that I think about it, I actually rode the bus."

What if . . .

. . . you were in kindergarten sitting in the wayback of the green station-wagon with your best girl Barbara . . .

What if . . .

. . . you were 5 and had a red cocker-spaniel who had never tasted chicken, and you found out there were chickens on the farm down the road from your house . . .

What if . . .

. . . you were 5 and there was a tree in the backyard with low hanging branches, just right for climbing into and eatting your lunch . . .

What if . . .

. . . you were in kindergarten and the kid who had practiced playing Frosty the Snowman for the Christmas pageant chickened out at the last minute . . .

What if . . .

. . . you were 5 and you spent a week with your best friend sawing and hammering and painting scraps of 2 x 4 lumber to make a battleship so he could take it to Galveston for vacation . . .

What if . . .

. . . you were 5 and you saw a teenaged girl at Church wearing so many petticoats that her dress wouldn't lie flat, and they were every color in the rainbow. . .

What if . . .

. . . your Mom was taking a cake decorating class and made a Barbie Doll cake for your sister's birthday. . .  

What if . . .

. . . your Mom was taking a cake decorating class and made a merry-go-round cake for your 5th birthday with animal crackers . . . 

What if . . .

. . . you lived only 2 blocks from school but you owned a balloon-tired, saddle basketed RED Huffy bike . . .


would you ride it to school

What if . . .

. . . you were 5 and just learning how to swim, but were in the children's pool too shallow to really practice your strokes but just right for levitating yourself horizontal to the surface with your hands on the bottom . . .

Would you pretend that was actually swimming . . .

What if . . .

. . . you were 5 and your best friend had a big water bottle with a small hole in the cap that he held upside down while walking on the sidewalk in the blazing Oklahoma sun making every imaginable train noise  . . .

Would you run home and get one too. . .

What if . . .

. . . you were 5 years old and sent to your room for a nap . . . with a flashlight in your pocket . . .

What if..

... you were 5 and singing "This Ole Man" and you got to the "rollin home" part . . .

Would you . . .

What if . . .

. . . you were a grand-mama putting clean socks in a 5 year old boy's drawer and you found a frog there. . .

Do you know the Uh Oh Building.

Do you know the Uh Oh Building.

Once when Youngest was still riding in the back in a car seat, we were driving past downtown Dallas and he got a look at the building that has some odd shaped sides and goofy angles. I can't describe it any better than to say it was not square and classical, rather it leans in places where it should stand and from the outside looks like it has to have some small triangle shaped offices. That's the best I can do to describe it, but if you ever see it, I think you'll understand in an instant.

Anyway he noticed its odd shape as we passed and blurted out as only a child who thinks everything needs to be orderly and anything that's not needs to be addressed NOW, "Uh oh Daddy, Fik it!"

The confidence of youth.

From that point on, we have always referred to that building as the Uh Oh Building. I hope you will too.

the p p p part

Ex was religious about teaching the kids to say please and thank you and to be gracious in every way.  If Youngest forgot to say please, she would typically give him a "passive" reminder by punctuating the first letter of please a few times until he's say it.  Then if he didn't jump in she'd say please.  He took to just mindlessly imitating her without even looking up to get it done, "p, p, p, please."  No one even thought about it much until one day, about the same time he discovered the purple dinosaur and became more independent, he just blurted out "Do I have to say the p p p part."

bedtime

Youngest was about 2 and very compliant, most of the time. 

He'd go to bed  and get up early, and happily take naps during the day, sometimes one in the morning and one in the afternoon.  Honestly he didn't know there was an option.

Then one day on vacation, he realized that all the napping was robbing him of serious play time, and when I picked him up to put him in his bed for an afternoon nap that I needed, he looked at me earnestly and said "Is it time a go a bed again?"

BTW, you're the only Middle . . .

Anon.

still sounds like . . .

Eldest asked me once in her typically raspy voice with the most serious look in her eye, "Am I always going to sound like a boy?"

driveway debate

driveway debate

 

 

 

 

Princesses

Once, during an Indian Princess camping trip, Eldest drank a bee. 

 

That is, she was drinking a Dr. Pepper (what else is there in Texas, right?) from a can and learnt the hard way that the bee was sharing the sweet nectar from Jerusalem on the Brazos.

The bee stung her on the tongue, and Eldest immediately spewed a stream of dp and bee across the full length of the picnic table into the face of a fellow princess. 

The receiving princess was startled at first, but in the resilient spirit of an eleven year old girl and to the complete delight of her companions, she returned fire by spewing a similar stream back at Eldest. 

But, her aim was not true. She missed Eldest and hit instead one of the fathers. 

One thing led to another, and you can imagine the resulting bedlam. 

Seven princesses from every corner of the picnic table screaming and spewing soft drink at each other--

Seven fathers acting out the "duck and cover" routine we all practised so well in school in the event the "Russians [were] coming." 

And for the girls, spewing led to shaking and spraying, and then, ultimately to at least one full immersion baptism using the melted contents of the ice chest. By the end of the engagement, everyone was fully doused and laughing uncontrollably. 
 

Once order was restored, the Princesses dutifully cleaned the picnic table and we all watched Eldest for an allergic reaction, just in case. Imagine, if you will, Eldest sitting on a freshly scrubbed, if not slightly damp picnic table surrounded by the girls and dads giving her the ole stink eye.  It was a real stare-down, but other than the hyperactivity that automatically arises when told to sit still, she had no reaction and in the end was absolutely fine.  But to this day, she will not drink dp from a can.
 

And yes, the bee survived (I think he said something about moving to St. Paul or even Cincinnati).

　

third grade!

When I was in 2d grade, we moved to Aurora, Colorado, a suburb of Denver.  M&D must have planned on staying a while because we bought a house immediately.  It had basement where middle set up her kitchen and play house and where I set up an electric train and flew a battery operated air plane.  We had what I recognize now as an incredible view of Pikes Peak the Rocky Mountains there.  And our back yard grew what must have been the indigenous prairie grass without any effort--almost three feet high in a week!  Dad paid us to pull these weeds and we built forts out of them until Mom was afraid the mounds would attract snakes and had them hauled off.  In spring Dad planted grass and the weeds didn't come back. 

Youngest was a baby and middle was either not old enough for school or just starting kindergarten, but I proudly attended the neighborhood elementary school, bike-riding distance from home on my balloon-tired, red Huffy with my books in saddle baskets on the back wheel.  The school required that we lock our bikes to a rack though I never remember any theft problems.  I recall listening to the World Series on the radio at school during recess—Pirates v. Yankees-- and having a really mean second grade teacher.   Because of the number of kids, the school-day that year lasted only a half day (two sessions daily for the teachers).  The next year, the school must have expanded (I vaguely recall a building program, or temporary buildings) because classes ran all day. 

For third grade I had one of my favorite teachers, Ms. Henderson, who by all appearances, was even then a very old lady.  I recall huge facial wrinkles and white hair.  She wore cotton dresses, so it must have been warm.  She loved teaching and we read Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn and other classic stories.  There were several Davids in the class and even another David C, so for a while I was David Ch until I stood before the class one day and announced that from that point on I wanted to be called "DC."  For the rest of that year, I signed papers, received grades, and responded only to DC.  The class was categorized as “accelerated,”  so in addition to the normal work, we got to do extra fun things.  I specifically remember we studied “Indians,” and made costumes by cutting fringe on the sleeves of old military shirts.  We made a life-sized Tee Pee out of paper mache.  For birthdays, Ms. Henderson would put a present on the bulletin board in the back of the room, and just before lunch, without announcing whose birthday it was, begin singing "Happy Birthday."  By the time the class got to the name in the song, the birthday person was supposed to stand up, go to the back and get the present.  On my birthday, I remember thinking it was good to be reserved (though, I did not have a shy bone in my body), and so they sang the song three times before another kid finally stood up, got the present and sat down.  I was mortified until Ms. Henderson interrupted and reminded the kid that her birthday was the next day. At lunch, she reloaded the present box and made the class sing again.  I stood up without delay that time.  I also remember forming a club with kids in the neighborhood (doesn't everyone at that age).  We called it the "Boys Club" and met in the garage.  We decided to have dues of 10 cents per week, and one boy brought a dollar from his parents saying they did not want to keep up with paying a dime each week.   One day when we were playing a neighborhood girl asked to join, and after paying her dues, we changed the name of the club to the Boys Club and One Girl.  I remember seeing Danny Thomas on TV advertising for his Boys Club, and believing he stole the name from us.  Our neighborhood was new, with building all around, and so there was lots of scrap wood and nails.  We visited the home building sites daily after school (like you, we roamed freely in those days--in fact I remember riding my bike across the highway to the mall, probably half a mile from home--I know I wasn't allowed to do that, and I'm certain my parents did not know).  One of the boys from the club and I decided to build a car, like a Flintstone car, out of the scrap lumber.  We even made a trip to the dump to get buggy wheels.  That car was so solidly built that it was way too heavy to move,  buggy wheels notwithstanding.

Someone said has said these things

'The Buck Stops Here.''

After President Truman retired from office in 1952, he was left with an income consisting of basically just a U.S.Army pension, reported to have been only $13,507.72 a year. Congress, noting that he was paying for his stamps and personally licking them, granted him an 'allowance' and, later, a retroactive pension of $25,000 per year.When offered corporate positions at large salaries, he declined, stating,'You don't want me. You want the office of the president, and that doesn't belong to me. It belongs to the American people and it's not for sale.'Even later, on May 6, 1971, when Congress was preparing to award him the Medal of Honor on his 87th birthday, he refused to accept it, writing, 'I don't consider that I have done anything which should be the reason for any award, Congressional or otherwise.'We now see that other past presidents, have found a new level of success in cashing in on the presidency, resulting in untold wealth. Today, many in Congress also have found a way to become quite wealthy while enjoying the fruits of their offices. Obviously, political offices are now for sale.Good old Harry Truman could have been correct when he observed, 'My choice early in life was either to be a piano player in a whorehouse or a politician. And to tell the truth, there's hardly any difference. I, for one, believe the piano player job to be much more honorable than current politicians.'I gotta agree with good ole boy Harry

I get it . . . . French class

I've learned from another blogger that there are several scientific-sounding French words used to denote common things.

 

For example, "podotactile" describes the white strips with bumps denoting some proximity to danger, such as on the edge of the métro platform

or along the side of the crosswalk.

The transparent film on the top of a jam jar is called an l’opercule, the "cover," but apparently also is a Latin term also used to describe

And, another which means the opening in the steam iron where the water is poured, the l’orifice de remplissage.

You can learn a lot from the Internet.

Rhett walks off into the fog

Scarlett: What are you doing?

Rhett Butler: I'm leaving you, my dear. All you need now is a divorce and your dreams of Ashley can come true.

Scarlett: Oh, no! No, you're wrong, terribly wrong! I don't want a divorce. Oh Rhett, but I knew tonight, when I... when I knew I loved you, I ran home to tell you, oh darling, darling!

Rhett Butler: Please don't go on with this, Leave us some dignity to remember out of our marriage. Spare us this last.

Scarlett: This last? Oh Rhett, do listen to me, I must have loved you for years, only I was such a stupid fool, I didn't know it. Please believe me, you must care! Melly said you did.

Rhett Butler: I believe you. What about Ashley Wilkes?

Scarlett: I... I never really loved Ashley.

Rhett Butler: You certainly gave a good imitation of it, up till this morning. No Scarlett, I tried everything. If you'd only met me half way, even when I came back from London.

Scarlett: I was so glad to see you. I was, Rhett, but you were so nasty.

Rhett Butler: And then when you were sick, it was all my fault... I hoped against hope that you'd call for me, but you didn't.

Scarlett: I wanted you. I wanted you desperately but I didn't think you wanted me.

Rhett Butler: It seems we've been at cross purposes, doesn't it? But it's no use now. As long as there was Bonnie, there was a chance that we might be happy. I liked to think that Bonnie was you, a little girl again, before the war, and poverty had done things to you. She was so like you, and I could pet her, and spoil her, as I wanted to spoil you. But when she went, she took everything.

Scarlett: Oh, Rhett, Rhett please don't say that. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry for everything.

Rhett Butler: My darling, you're such a child. You think that by saying, "I'm sorry," all the past can be corrected. Here, take my handkerchief. Never, at any crisis of your life, have I known you to have a handkerchief.

Scarlett: Rhett! Rhett, where are you going?

Rhett Butler: I'm going back to Charleston, back where I belong.

Scarlett: Please, please take me with you!

Rhett Butler: No, I'm through with everything here. I want peace. I want to see if somewhere there isn't something left in life of charm and grace. Do you know what I'm talking about?

Scarlett: No! I only know that I love you.

Rhett Butler: That's your misfortune.

Scarlett: Oh, Rhett!

Scarlett: Rhett!

Scarlett: Rhett, Rhett!

Scarlett: Rhett... if you go, where shall I go, what shall I do?

Rhett Butler: Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

Faith is not a matter of rationalizing through all the religious stories you know or the religious things you're "supposed to do." 

Faith is not a matter of finally getting a good, pursuasive, black and white answer to something like whether there was a worldwide flood or dinosaurs coexisted with man.

Faith is not a matter of determining that even though you can’t figure out how a man could live inside a fish for three days, you'll just suspend your rationality and just “take it on faith.” 

Rather, faith simply starts with looking for mercy in an eternal sense in the only place it’s offered.  

There’s nowhere else to go,

Last night as I was driving home, I heard an explosion and the whap-whap-whap of a deflated tire.  I immediately pulled to the shoulder and then spent an hour on a dark overpass on southbound Interstate-35W (that's the main super highway that spans the central United States stretching from Laredo, Texas, on the American-Mexican border to Duluth, Minnesota, at Minnesota Highway 61 and 26th Avenue East).  I naturally called AAA to change the tire because I had resolved last year never to change another one (that's another story that shall never be spoken of because it's fever dream material and I'm still recovering).  I was honored by a special invitation to become a member of that fine organization as well as the National Geographic Society  (just one of the many perks that comes from being special as Mum used to say---no not that kind of special--stop it Middle!!!).

 

But I digress.  My call was directed to Tiffany in the Los Angeles AAA call center.  Her job was to locate me on a computer map, dispatch a local AAA tow truck to my exact coordinates and remain on the line as long as necessary to be sure things go well. 

 

She said because of the highway shoulder location danger she also notified the police so they could put out warning lights (they did not show up--just where are they when you want them? Ha, JK officer).

 

Tiffany talked for a good 45 minutes telling me about her schooling, AAA training and how she was actually FROM L.A. (Yes, born and raised there), though she had never been to Beverly Hills or Venice Beach! She even told me in a perky and upbeat way, "I’m a graduate of Cal State" deflecting my attention from the delay and from worrying about the danger. 

 

When the tow truck arrived, it was actually a big pickup truck full of equipment and with big flashing lights on the roof. I had been assuming it would be a real man's greasy and dirty tow truck because I thought with all the danger, there was a good reason to get the car off the roadside before the tire change. Apparently, there was no towing planned though the AAA driver said another pickup was on the way to park behind him to shield us from any incident arising from the plethora of Mazerati racers passing us every half second in four separate high speed lanes (slower traffic on the right--yeah, if slower means 70 mph!).
 

Anyway, when he first arrived, the AAA guy said, "A SUPERHIGHWAY SHOULDER ON AN OVERPASS IN THE DARK JUST PAST THE CREST OF THE HILL IS THE MOST DANGEROUS PLACE IN THE UNIVERSE TO HAVE CHANGE A FLAT, OR TO EVEN SIT IDLY." 

 

Yes, he was speaking in all capital letters (he had to because of the !!TRAFFIC NOISE!!). People and trucks flying by ninety-to-nothin' lickity split, or have I already mentioned that (why are we all in such a hurry?).
 

I can now understand how, as the AAA guy shouted: "FOUR HUNDRED THIRTY FIVE PEOPLE HAVE BEEN KILLED IN THE LAST YEAR IN ACCIDENTS INVOLVING CARS SITTING ON THE SHOULDER."
 

To put me more at ease as we stood on the 8 foot wide highway shoulder next to 4 lanes of high speed traffic he added: "I PARKED BEHIND YOU AND TURNED MY WHEELS TOWARD THE CEMENT OVERPASS WALL IN CASE SOMEONE PLOWS INTO THE BACK OF ME. THAT SHOULD SLOW THINGS DOWN SO YOU CAN GET OUT OF THE WAY!!"
 

That was indeed consoling, and I remained calmly hyper vigilant as I stood on the elevated overpass and ALL CAPS dragged up a huge industrial sized jack and that has to be the reason he was willing to put his hands in the wheel well (the exact location of my fever dreams since the incident of which we shall not speak!).  He even straddled the tire with his legs under the car to help stabilize it.  He was taking risks, which the incident of which we shall never speak taught me never to take.  I was ready to return to the car and talk with Tiffany from L.A.

 

Well I couln't return to the car.  It was elevated.  So, because of the apparent danger, AAA’s warnings, and the risk of a fever dream while standing there on the overpass, I began mapping-out the three best avenues of escape in the event of an incident.

 

Let's see, if a car plowed into the AAA pickup and then into mine then, just like the kid in the YouTube video I could jump up onto the hood and run along the top of the car in the opposite direction the car was moving until it stopped or I cleared it. Yeah that could work.  I think Johnny what's his name did that in a Jackass movie.  Or he should have. 

 

Then, there is the Matthew McCannahey move where he leapt over the overpass wall to the street below.  I was well-positioned for that gambit, but of course it only works when a bus is passing by underneath, otherwise the overpass is too high. Got to get the timing just right.

 

And, there’s always Monty Python’s admonition when the creature from the cave attacked (remember the cave with the inscription about he "Castle of ARRRRRGGGGGGHHH" when the BUNNY RABBIT with the long pointy teeth attacked?).  MP's advice: "RUN AWAY!"

 

Fortunately, I never had to chose among my several options, though I did keep my eye out for a bus.  No escape was required.  AAA changed the tire without incident and we all evacuated the narrow confines of the 8 foot wide shoulder.  Before driving off, I offered my nameless AAA driver my hand to shake and slipped him a bill for his efforts.  I called Tiffany, my new LA friend to advise her all was well and went home.

 

Epilog (or out-takes):

 

Did you know when a 18 wheeler drives across an overpass it shakes the bridge like an earthquake. It really does! My California friend asked me with just a little attitude "Have you ever even been in an earthquake?"  Well . . . . no but I'm sure overpass shaking is part of it!

And, have you ever been driving along the interstate and been perturbed by a traffic slowdown caused by a car on the shoulder?  I have, and I've been loath to overlook the deplorable interest that other drivers manifest in someone else’s troubles (they slow down to a creep causing a huge traffic jam while rubber necking to get a good look at the problem).  I'll say now, when it was me on the shoulder, I actually wished the drivers would slow down and rubberneck a little. I’ll be more observant in the future.