We’re getting ready for the holidays around my house. Holidays mean company. Company means one thing: break out the good towels! You know the ones I’m talking about- the ones that you or the kids are never, ever supposed to touch - the ones with the little monograms on them that are color coordinated for the guest bathroom.
We put out these towels when we are expecting guests, just like a lot of people do. I assume this is supposed to impress people – the fact that we have towels that we don’t actually use ourselves. Now I’ve become so well trained that when I’m a guest in someone else’s home, I’m very hesitant to use their towels. I really believe most people would prefer that their guests don’t wipe their hands on them and if you do, they probably talk about you after you leave;
“Harold, just come look at this bathroom!”
“What is it, Margie?”
“Just look at that! He actually wiped his hands on our good towels!”
“Incredible! You’d think he was raised in a barn. Better check the medicine cabinet and make sure he didn’t make off with my Viagra. You just can’t trust anybody that would use a guest towel! Better see if he flushed, too!”
I always feel a little guilty if I do dry my hands on someone’s guest towels. If I’m lucky or if my host has planned ahead, there will be another towel hanging around that I can use but more likely than not, I end up drying my hands on the shower curtain or the thighs of my britches.
I don’t understand why anyone would put something as utilitarian as a towel in the bathroom and then not expect it to be used but then women put a lot of things in bathrooms that they never intend for anyone to use. My wife has little bowls filled with soaps - soaps shaped like flowers or seashells or fishes. These soaps aren’t meant for hand washing after working on the old John Deere. Then there are the creams and lotions in the odd shaped little bottles that clutter up the sink and tub areas. These never seem to be used either. And of course, there are the candles – of every color, scent, and shape that a woman could ever imagine. Candles that we aren’t allowed to burn even at times when their fresh aroma could be useful.
I suppose women like these things because they are pretty and add atmosphere to the bath. Men don’t really understand the need to have “atmosphere” in the toilet but we generally go along with it. But I still don’t understand this towel thing. I’ll live with it unless it goes too far. The day my wife tells me I can’t use the guest toilet paper, I’m gonna stop putting the seat down for her.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Cutie & Sweetie
We have two new inhabitants in our house. You see, after an unfortunate accident, our “beloved” housedog “Buster” passed away and with a young child in our home, it was understood that a new puppy was required. And of course “Doctor Fred” our veterinarian just happened to have a passel of pups for sale in his waiting room. (I don’t think it’s much of a coincidence that Doctor Fred also sells used cars.)
Now before I would agree to another pet, I made my daughter promise that she would be responsible and take care of it. I actually made her swear on a stack of three Bibles, had my attorney draw up a contract for her to sign and made her spit on her hand before we shook on it. While she picked out a single puppy that struck her fancy, I paid the vet bill for the previously deceased Buster and then wrote another check for the puppy. Little did I realize that the check writing was just beginning.
As we took “the sweetest little puppy in the world” home, (my daughter’s words not mine) the pup promptly wet on my car seat. When we got home, my wife was waiting for us, still teary-eyed and a bit melancholy about Buster but she did make the best of it. As anyone with a new pet would do, we sat in the floor to play with “the sweetest puppy in the world” that of course immediately wet on the rug. I should have known that I was in trouble when my wife didn’t get upset at this or the other mess that “Sweetie” was strategically leaving around the living room. In fact, Tracy seemed unusually calm and that should have been a warning sign of things to come.
Even though it was like closing the barn door after the horse got out, my daughter & I took the pup outside. As we sat on the steps and watched for any “activity”, I whiled away the time pondering the absurdity of the theory of evolution, not upon religious grounds but upon a review of my current situation. I mean when you consider that man has evolved from hunters, gatherers and graphic cave artists to the state at which I found myself (waiting in the hot sun for a dog to do her business), it doesn’t really lend much support to Darwin’s Theories.
After twenty minutes of no activity, “Sweetie” was brought back inside where she promptly wet in the foyer just inside the door. As my daughter so cheerfully cleaned up the mess, I realized that my wife was nowhere to be found & neither was the checkbook. I checked the garage and her car was gone. Thinking positively I reasoned that she had gone to get some high powered puppy food for “Sweetie”. You know the kind I’m talking about; it costs more per pound than rib eye steak & has “all the vitamins, minerals & roughage to make your puppy big & strong & poop a lot!”
It wasn’t much later that she came in the door holding “the cutest puppy in the world.”
“Sweetie needed a companion.” She said, “and besides it’s no more trouble to keep two than it is one.” Now I’ve been married for 17 years and even as slow-witted as I am, I know there are some battles that I can’t win. I wasn’t even going to fight this one. Sweetie was excited to see her sister, so excited in fact, that she wet on the rug again. Cutie decided to make it a group activity.
After much debate and at least one roll of paper towels, Sweetie & Cutie became Roxie & Chloe. Now a trip to Wal Mart was required to fulfill the “little darlings” needs. This included five pounds of that puppy food, two color coordinated collars, half a dozen squeaky toys, chew sticks, pig ears, Vidal Sassoon Dog Shampoo or equivalent, puppy pads, doggie perfume, nail polish, air freshener, carpet cleaner and industrial strength paper towels (they’re in the automotive department). Fortunately we already had a pet carrier.
Now I’ve had dogs all my life but most of them were outdoor critters that slept on the porch and chased rabbits when the urge hit them. Roxie & Chloe or “Pee & Poop” as I call them aren’t ever going to make it outside. Why any self- respecting rabbit would either die laughing at the sight of them or try to nurse them. So we were going to have to house train Pee & Poop – errr Roxie & Chloe. Now I had once house-trained a border collie in one day so I figured this shouldn’t be too hard; a rolled up newspaper and sharp voice should take care of this in short order. I discovered that these dogs have very little in common with border collies!
The first night, I think there were 47 little presents left for us throughout the house & this was before bedtime. We finally got them in their cage and quiet around midnight. By four o’clock the next morning, I couldn’t take the whining anymore. I did learn that my wife could actually laugh in her sleep when I told her that she needed to get up & take the puppies outside. Being the good father that I am and knowing that a ten year old needs her sleep, I didn’t bother to drag out my contract with my daughter and wake her with the details of Article IV, Section 1-5 of the fine print. Fortunately, our nearest neighbor is a quarter mile away, so still half asleep, I just slipped on my wife’s bathrobe, grabbed the “little darlings” and took them to the backyard. Instead of taking care of business as they should, they proceeded to make a mad dash for the woods behind our house. Calling them did no good as they were as confused about their names as I was and as some of the names I was calling them were not appropriate for mixed company, it’s just as well they didn’t respond.
Now we have a lot of coyotes in our area and as I didn’t want to put my family through yet another grieving process, I decided I had better bring them back. I took off after them in an uncinched pink bathrobe and not much else. After ten minutes of stumbling through the mud & brambles not only had I lost the puppies but I had also lost the belt to the robe and most of my dignity. I decided to go back to the house and get properly dressed and equipped for a massive search effort. As I crawled out of the woods, there they were sitting on the porch looking at me with their heads cocked to the side as if thinking “What’s that idiot doing out there?”. I’m just thankful that God will forgive us for the use of foul language in times of stress especially between the hours of midnight & five A.M.
Upon bringing them back into the house, Pee & Poop (they’ve earned these names) proceeded to do just that on the living room rug. Knowing there wasn’t much sense in going back to bed, I spent the next three hours following them around with a paper towel in one hand and a rolled up newspaper in the other. I have to give my wife some credit for good judgment, as she never once had the nerve to ask me what happened to her bathrobe.
Later I learned that puppies don’t have much control over their bodily functions until they are twelve to sixteen weeks old and that smaller breeds like Pee & Poop can sometimes take as much as six months to house train. I think these gals are going for the record. My daughter is not so cheerful about cleaning up after them anymore and my wife has to feed them most of the time but the “little darlings” have become part of the family now. Oh, by the way, that contract I had with my daughter; I found a real good use for it at about four o’clock one morning.
Now before I would agree to another pet, I made my daughter promise that she would be responsible and take care of it. I actually made her swear on a stack of three Bibles, had my attorney draw up a contract for her to sign and made her spit on her hand before we shook on it. While she picked out a single puppy that struck her fancy, I paid the vet bill for the previously deceased Buster and then wrote another check for the puppy. Little did I realize that the check writing was just beginning.
As we took “the sweetest little puppy in the world” home, (my daughter’s words not mine) the pup promptly wet on my car seat. When we got home, my wife was waiting for us, still teary-eyed and a bit melancholy about Buster but she did make the best of it. As anyone with a new pet would do, we sat in the floor to play with “the sweetest puppy in the world” that of course immediately wet on the rug. I should have known that I was in trouble when my wife didn’t get upset at this or the other mess that “Sweetie” was strategically leaving around the living room. In fact, Tracy seemed unusually calm and that should have been a warning sign of things to come.
Even though it was like closing the barn door after the horse got out, my daughter & I took the pup outside. As we sat on the steps and watched for any “activity”, I whiled away the time pondering the absurdity of the theory of evolution, not upon religious grounds but upon a review of my current situation. I mean when you consider that man has evolved from hunters, gatherers and graphic cave artists to the state at which I found myself (waiting in the hot sun for a dog to do her business), it doesn’t really lend much support to Darwin’s Theories.
After twenty minutes of no activity, “Sweetie” was brought back inside where she promptly wet in the foyer just inside the door. As my daughter so cheerfully cleaned up the mess, I realized that my wife was nowhere to be found & neither was the checkbook. I checked the garage and her car was gone. Thinking positively I reasoned that she had gone to get some high powered puppy food for “Sweetie”. You know the kind I’m talking about; it costs more per pound than rib eye steak & has “all the vitamins, minerals & roughage to make your puppy big & strong & poop a lot!”
It wasn’t much later that she came in the door holding “the cutest puppy in the world.”
“Sweetie needed a companion.” She said, “and besides it’s no more trouble to keep two than it is one.” Now I’ve been married for 17 years and even as slow-witted as I am, I know there are some battles that I can’t win. I wasn’t even going to fight this one. Sweetie was excited to see her sister, so excited in fact, that she wet on the rug again. Cutie decided to make it a group activity.
After much debate and at least one roll of paper towels, Sweetie & Cutie became Roxie & Chloe. Now a trip to Wal Mart was required to fulfill the “little darlings” needs. This included five pounds of that puppy food, two color coordinated collars, half a dozen squeaky toys, chew sticks, pig ears, Vidal Sassoon Dog Shampoo or equivalent, puppy pads, doggie perfume, nail polish, air freshener, carpet cleaner and industrial strength paper towels (they’re in the automotive department). Fortunately we already had a pet carrier.
Now I’ve had dogs all my life but most of them were outdoor critters that slept on the porch and chased rabbits when the urge hit them. Roxie & Chloe or “Pee & Poop” as I call them aren’t ever going to make it outside. Why any self- respecting rabbit would either die laughing at the sight of them or try to nurse them. So we were going to have to house train Pee & Poop – errr Roxie & Chloe. Now I had once house-trained a border collie in one day so I figured this shouldn’t be too hard; a rolled up newspaper and sharp voice should take care of this in short order. I discovered that these dogs have very little in common with border collies!
The first night, I think there were 47 little presents left for us throughout the house & this was before bedtime. We finally got them in their cage and quiet around midnight. By four o’clock the next morning, I couldn’t take the whining anymore. I did learn that my wife could actually laugh in her sleep when I told her that she needed to get up & take the puppies outside. Being the good father that I am and knowing that a ten year old needs her sleep, I didn’t bother to drag out my contract with my daughter and wake her with the details of Article IV, Section 1-5 of the fine print. Fortunately, our nearest neighbor is a quarter mile away, so still half asleep, I just slipped on my wife’s bathrobe, grabbed the “little darlings” and took them to the backyard. Instead of taking care of business as they should, they proceeded to make a mad dash for the woods behind our house. Calling them did no good as they were as confused about their names as I was and as some of the names I was calling them were not appropriate for mixed company, it’s just as well they didn’t respond.
Now we have a lot of coyotes in our area and as I didn’t want to put my family through yet another grieving process, I decided I had better bring them back. I took off after them in an uncinched pink bathrobe and not much else. After ten minutes of stumbling through the mud & brambles not only had I lost the puppies but I had also lost the belt to the robe and most of my dignity. I decided to go back to the house and get properly dressed and equipped for a massive search effort. As I crawled out of the woods, there they were sitting on the porch looking at me with their heads cocked to the side as if thinking “What’s that idiot doing out there?”. I’m just thankful that God will forgive us for the use of foul language in times of stress especially between the hours of midnight & five A.M.
Upon bringing them back into the house, Pee & Poop (they’ve earned these names) proceeded to do just that on the living room rug. Knowing there wasn’t much sense in going back to bed, I spent the next three hours following them around with a paper towel in one hand and a rolled up newspaper in the other. I have to give my wife some credit for good judgment, as she never once had the nerve to ask me what happened to her bathrobe.
Later I learned that puppies don’t have much control over their bodily functions until they are twelve to sixteen weeks old and that smaller breeds like Pee & Poop can sometimes take as much as six months to house train. I think these gals are going for the record. My daughter is not so cheerful about cleaning up after them anymore and my wife has to feed them most of the time but the “little darlings” have become part of the family now. Oh, by the way, that contract I had with my daughter; I found a real good use for it at about four o’clock one morning.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Folks in Washington - Just Need a Good Meal
Nancy Pelosi, Harry Reid and President Obama are not real popular right now, even with a lot of the folks that put em in office. It seems like they're just unhappy folks in charge and misery loves company. Now I'm not going to talk any specific politics here. Lord knows there's enough of that out there on the news and Facebook and Twitter. I'm just looking at these folks at a personal level.
Just take a look at them; Obama always going around talkin about whose *ss he's gonna kick, Nancy looks like she swallered a sour pill and Harry, poor Harry, just can't seem to keep his foot outa his mouth.
I know there's a lot a stress in their jobs yet it looks to me like they create a lot of it themselves. But I know what's really wrong with em. I discovered it when I saw a picture of all three of em together. It becomes real obvious when they pose together at some bill signing that just cost us taxpayers - some umpteen trillion dollars;
They 're hungry.
Just look at em. This has got to be the skinniest bunch of leaders this country has ever seen. Nancy looks like one of them stick figures you draw when you're playing hangman, Harry looks like the scared school teacher, Ichabod Crane, in the Tale of Sleepy Hollow and heaven help me- the Prez looks like Jack Skellington in Tim Burton's Movie "Nightmare Before Christmas".
It's hard to make good decisions or be agreeable if you're hungry. Your ol' stomach's a growlin and maybe you got a little low blood sugar to make you a bit dizzy. Things might improve up there in Washington if we could just get these folks to eat proper- fatten em up a bit as my Momma used to say.
It's interesting to note that none of these folks are from the South where we know how, when, what and where to eat. I know they say we're the fattest folks in America and as to how unhealthy we are, but compared to the rest of the country- we do manage to get along better than most and if you look around, we've managed to control our state budgets better than them skinny folks out in California or them high-falootin sushi (we call it bait down here) & salad eatin socialites in New York. A little meat on your bones tends to make you calmer and more thoughtful in your decision making - you see the world with a little more ease.
Now I don't know exactly why these folks aren't eatin - maybe they've got some misplaced concern about their health or appearance but it's obvious it ain't workin for em. Nancy got access to all that fresh seafood at Fisherman's Wharf, Harry could probably eat free at any casino buffet in Las Vegas and the President has got his own personal chef. There ain't no excuse for them to be as skinny as they are. I can only assume it's the environment that they're workin in. I mean everytime I think about the stuff goin on in Washington, I lose my appetite too.
So maybe instead of fussin and cussin at em from a distance, we oughta invite em down here just for some real food. Governor Barbour who is more than qualified in the ways of Southern cookin, could invite them on the pretense of discussing the Gulf situation and then we could whisk them up here to Louisville for some good ol' fashioned fare. We all know Ms. Aline Haynes and a few others could throw a meal together to put anybody in a good mood. People just tend to be more pleasant when their bellies are full of fried chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, purple hull peas, fried green tomatoes and southern cornbread. Now - if you were to top that off with a slice of pecan pie and a serving of Alene Ingram's homemade ice cream, I guarantee them folks couldn't be anything but more agreeable.
Just take a look at them; Obama always going around talkin about whose *ss he's gonna kick, Nancy looks like she swallered a sour pill and Harry, poor Harry, just can't seem to keep his foot outa his mouth.
I know there's a lot a stress in their jobs yet it looks to me like they create a lot of it themselves. But I know what's really wrong with em. I discovered it when I saw a picture of all three of em together. It becomes real obvious when they pose together at some bill signing that just cost us taxpayers - some umpteen trillion dollars;
They 're hungry.
Just look at em. This has got to be the skinniest bunch of leaders this country has ever seen. Nancy looks like one of them stick figures you draw when you're playing hangman, Harry looks like the scared school teacher, Ichabod Crane, in the Tale of Sleepy Hollow and heaven help me- the Prez looks like Jack Skellington in Tim Burton's Movie "Nightmare Before Christmas".
It's hard to make good decisions or be agreeable if you're hungry. Your ol' stomach's a growlin and maybe you got a little low blood sugar to make you a bit dizzy. Things might improve up there in Washington if we could just get these folks to eat proper- fatten em up a bit as my Momma used to say.
It's interesting to note that none of these folks are from the South where we know how, when, what and where to eat. I know they say we're the fattest folks in America and as to how unhealthy we are, but compared to the rest of the country- we do manage to get along better than most and if you look around, we've managed to control our state budgets better than them skinny folks out in California or them high-falootin sushi (we call it bait down here) & salad eatin socialites in New York. A little meat on your bones tends to make you calmer and more thoughtful in your decision making - you see the world with a little more ease.
Now I don't know exactly why these folks aren't eatin - maybe they've got some misplaced concern about their health or appearance but it's obvious it ain't workin for em. Nancy got access to all that fresh seafood at Fisherman's Wharf, Harry could probably eat free at any casino buffet in Las Vegas and the President has got his own personal chef. There ain't no excuse for them to be as skinny as they are. I can only assume it's the environment that they're workin in. I mean everytime I think about the stuff goin on in Washington, I lose my appetite too.
So maybe instead of fussin and cussin at em from a distance, we oughta invite em down here just for some real food. Governor Barbour who is more than qualified in the ways of Southern cookin, could invite them on the pretense of discussing the Gulf situation and then we could whisk them up here to Louisville for some good ol' fashioned fare. We all know Ms. Aline Haynes and a few others could throw a meal together to put anybody in a good mood. People just tend to be more pleasant when their bellies are full of fried chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, purple hull peas, fried green tomatoes and southern cornbread. Now - if you were to top that off with a slice of pecan pie and a serving of Alene Ingram's homemade ice cream, I guarantee them folks couldn't be anything but more agreeable.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Marriage Interview Should Be Required
I spend a lot of time looking at the absurdities of life. We do and think a lot of things that don’t make sense. We idolize that Hollywood actor but we hold our nose at the guy who cleans our septic tank. Now which one do you think is more vital to your quality of life? We can all name the star quarterback for our favorite college team but how many of us can name the president of that same university? And we do this in almost all aspects of our lives. We don’t concentrate on what’s important and leave certain aspects of our lives to chance.
Best example; picking a spouse. Most employers wouldn’t dream of hiring someone for a long term position without an in depth background check and job interview yet we leave our choice of lifetime partners to chance. That’s why I think people should advertise for mates and do a detailed interview before even considering marriage. As women often have the most at stake, I think they should conduct the interview. As someone who has given this a lot of thought, I’ve developed some questions along with appropriate answers and not so good answers;
Q: What do you do for a living?
POSSIBLE CORRCT ANSWERS: Teacher, lawyer, plumber, welder, doctor, etc.
WRONG ANSWERS: telemarketer, “I’m between jobs right now”, ACORN Field Rep,Chief Safety Officer for British Petroleum.
Q: How long have you been on the same job?
CORRECT ANSWER: For six years. I’ve had two promotions and four raises since I’ve been there.
WRONG ANSWER: Since last Spring. You see I quit my job every Fall when hunting season starts and then I find me a new one every Spring. That way hunting don’t get in the way of my job. I figure that’s the only way to be fair to whoever you work for.
Q: Why do you feel that you would be good at marriage?
CORRECT ANSWER: I’m ready to settle down and build a future with someone I can love and respect.
WRONG ANSWER: Well, I’ve had a lot of experience.
Q: Do you like children?
CORRECT ANSWER: I’d love to have a couple of kids.
WRONG ANSWER: Rugrats? I’m crazy about em. Love to have 10 or 12 of em!
Q: Where do you see yourself 10 years from now?
CORRECT ANSWER: I hope to have a home and family with a little money put away for retirement.
WRONG ANSWER: I’ve always dreamed of being a NASCAR driver, so I’m putting all my money into a car me & my buddies are workin on out back of the house.
Q: What’s your idea of a pleasant evening on the town?
CORRECT ANSWER: After a nice meal in a good restaurant, we might catch a movie or concert and spend the rest of the evening just talking.
WRONG ANSWER: Well, after the wrestling match, we’d grab a case of Old Milwaukee and a couple of bags of pork rinds and go down to the lake and have us a good ol time.
Q: Are you an introvert or an extrovert?
CORRECT ANSWER: Well, I don’t mind being alone but I really like being around other people and being involved in lots of activities.
WRONG ANSWER: I’m not really into any of that kinky stuff.
This is just a sampling of things that you might want to know about someone before you enter into a long term relationship or a legal contract with them. Even under the best of circumstances, marriage is tough and without the proper thought and effort, that wedding ring can turn into a suffer-ring.
Best example; picking a spouse. Most employers wouldn’t dream of hiring someone for a long term position without an in depth background check and job interview yet we leave our choice of lifetime partners to chance. That’s why I think people should advertise for mates and do a detailed interview before even considering marriage. As women often have the most at stake, I think they should conduct the interview. As someone who has given this a lot of thought, I’ve developed some questions along with appropriate answers and not so good answers;
Q: What do you do for a living?
POSSIBLE CORRCT ANSWERS: Teacher, lawyer, plumber, welder, doctor, etc.
WRONG ANSWERS: telemarketer, “I’m between jobs right now”, ACORN Field Rep,Chief Safety Officer for British Petroleum.
Q: How long have you been on the same job?
CORRECT ANSWER: For six years. I’ve had two promotions and four raises since I’ve been there.
WRONG ANSWER: Since last Spring. You see I quit my job every Fall when hunting season starts and then I find me a new one every Spring. That way hunting don’t get in the way of my job. I figure that’s the only way to be fair to whoever you work for.
Q: Why do you feel that you would be good at marriage?
CORRECT ANSWER: I’m ready to settle down and build a future with someone I can love and respect.
WRONG ANSWER: Well, I’ve had a lot of experience.
Q: Do you like children?
CORRECT ANSWER: I’d love to have a couple of kids.
WRONG ANSWER: Rugrats? I’m crazy about em. Love to have 10 or 12 of em!
Q: Where do you see yourself 10 years from now?
CORRECT ANSWER: I hope to have a home and family with a little money put away for retirement.
WRONG ANSWER: I’ve always dreamed of being a NASCAR driver, so I’m putting all my money into a car me & my buddies are workin on out back of the house.
Q: What’s your idea of a pleasant evening on the town?
CORRECT ANSWER: After a nice meal in a good restaurant, we might catch a movie or concert and spend the rest of the evening just talking.
WRONG ANSWER: Well, after the wrestling match, we’d grab a case of Old Milwaukee and a couple of bags of pork rinds and go down to the lake and have us a good ol time.
Q: Are you an introvert or an extrovert?
CORRECT ANSWER: Well, I don’t mind being alone but I really like being around other people and being involved in lots of activities.
WRONG ANSWER: I’m not really into any of that kinky stuff.
This is just a sampling of things that you might want to know about someone before you enter into a long term relationship or a legal contract with them. Even under the best of circumstances, marriage is tough and without the proper thought and effort, that wedding ring can turn into a suffer-ring.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
It's One For the Money
My family and I took a little trip back a few months ago. Spring Fever had set in and we needed to get away from yard work and chasing down income tax receipts. We decided to run up to Memphis and visit Graceland. My daughter has always been curious about Elvis and I thought she might enjoy seeing his home and memorabilia and we could buy a t-shirt or two.
If it’s possible, Elvis is more famous dead than he ever was alive. He’s everywhere and without a doubt the biggest money maker in Memphis. He’s probably still selling more records (CD’s for you younger folks) than most new artists which isn’t surprising considering the sad state of the current music industry. People are still fascinated by his life and music and as a tourist destination; Graceland must rival the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone.
But I have to say that I was disappointed. For eighteen bucks a person, you get a bus ride across Elvis Presley Boulevard, a digital recorder and headphones to hang around your neck instead of a tour guide and the opportunity to stand in a crowd of hot, sweaty people; many of whom speak in a foreign language (strangely enough, mostly Northern European) and be herded through the mansion and grounds like livestock at a sale barn. I kept waiting for them to bring out the cattle prod for the older couple in front of us who kept holding up the line because they couldn’t get the lens cap off their camera. The highlight of the tour for my daughter was when the security people watching through surveillance cameras would say “Thank you – Thank you very much.” As they cautioned people to not lean over the railing or attempt to touch the displays.
Now I love Elvis. It’s hard not to love Elvis. It’s a rags to riches story of a young man who changed not only American culture but was a worldwide cultural phenomenon as well. His story has all the pathos and tragedy of any good made-for-TV movie. But what’s been done to his memory is even more tragic.
Elvis has become like Sponge Bob. He’s everywhere. His image is on everything from clocks to cell phone covers. He is an A-number one marketing tool because people just can’t seem to get enough of him. The souvenir shops across the street from Graceland are loaded with everything Elvis. Products range from bobble heads to put on your dashboard to recipe books with “Hound Dog Chili Dogs” and 101 variations of the peanut butter and banana sandwich. I half expected to find “Elvis Hunk-A-Burnin Love Condoms” and “Now or Never Chocolate Laxatives” behind the check out counters.
Something just seems inherently wrong about using Elvis in this way. I felt slimy after the whole experience, like I needed a bath. Granted, Elvis was marketed during his whole career and he wasn’t necessarily known for his good taste. He also didn’t die in the most dignified manner. I think that’s God’s way of reminding us not to get too big for our britches (literally and figuratively). But for his family to license his image for the most inane products isn’t something that should sit too well with his true fans.
I don’t think I’ll go back to Graceland anytime soon. It just tarnished Elvis’s memory for me and I don’t really need another “Blue Suede Toilet Seat”. I’ll just try to hold on to a more pleasant memory of the Elvis that use to be while I’m singing “Don’t Be Cruel” in the shower and using my Kentucky Rain Shampoo, Love Me Tender Conditioner and my Elvis soap on a rope.
If it’s possible, Elvis is more famous dead than he ever was alive. He’s everywhere and without a doubt the biggest money maker in Memphis. He’s probably still selling more records (CD’s for you younger folks) than most new artists which isn’t surprising considering the sad state of the current music industry. People are still fascinated by his life and music and as a tourist destination; Graceland must rival the Grand Canyon and Yellowstone.
But I have to say that I was disappointed. For eighteen bucks a person, you get a bus ride across Elvis Presley Boulevard, a digital recorder and headphones to hang around your neck instead of a tour guide and the opportunity to stand in a crowd of hot, sweaty people; many of whom speak in a foreign language (strangely enough, mostly Northern European) and be herded through the mansion and grounds like livestock at a sale barn. I kept waiting for them to bring out the cattle prod for the older couple in front of us who kept holding up the line because they couldn’t get the lens cap off their camera. The highlight of the tour for my daughter was when the security people watching through surveillance cameras would say “Thank you – Thank you very much.” As they cautioned people to not lean over the railing or attempt to touch the displays.
Now I love Elvis. It’s hard not to love Elvis. It’s a rags to riches story of a young man who changed not only American culture but was a worldwide cultural phenomenon as well. His story has all the pathos and tragedy of any good made-for-TV movie. But what’s been done to his memory is even more tragic.
Elvis has become like Sponge Bob. He’s everywhere. His image is on everything from clocks to cell phone covers. He is an A-number one marketing tool because people just can’t seem to get enough of him. The souvenir shops across the street from Graceland are loaded with everything Elvis. Products range from bobble heads to put on your dashboard to recipe books with “Hound Dog Chili Dogs” and 101 variations of the peanut butter and banana sandwich. I half expected to find “Elvis Hunk-A-Burnin Love Condoms” and “Now or Never Chocolate Laxatives” behind the check out counters.
Something just seems inherently wrong about using Elvis in this way. I felt slimy after the whole experience, like I needed a bath. Granted, Elvis was marketed during his whole career and he wasn’t necessarily known for his good taste. He also didn’t die in the most dignified manner. I think that’s God’s way of reminding us not to get too big for our britches (literally and figuratively). But for his family to license his image for the most inane products isn’t something that should sit too well with his true fans.
I don’t think I’ll go back to Graceland anytime soon. It just tarnished Elvis’s memory for me and I don’t really need another “Blue Suede Toilet Seat”. I’ll just try to hold on to a more pleasant memory of the Elvis that use to be while I’m singing “Don’t Be Cruel” in the shower and using my Kentucky Rain Shampoo, Love Me Tender Conditioner and my Elvis soap on a rope.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
A Cautionary Tale
You have worked all your life and built a nice home. It's comfortable, fits your needs and you feel safe sitting in your living room or working in your backyard. One day, a man from a neighborhood a few blocks over takes a short cut through your yard. It upsets you a bit and you grumble to your next door neighbor but that's about it. Soon he has worn a path in your well manicured lawn and occasionally grabs a deck chair and once even took a steak off the grill as he passed by. You call the Cops who sympathize with you but explain that they are really too busy chasing real criminals to put any effort into catching this guy.
One day you come home to find him rummaging through your refrigerator and medicine cabinet. This time when you call the Cops, they don't even bother to come as the decision was made to no longer enforce trespassing or breaking and entering laws in your town. The man is pleasant enough as he provides a list of groceries and medical needs that you should pick up for him because he's going to be staying in your spare bedroom for the forseeable future. And since he is now considered to be a resident of your home, if the need arises, you are responsible for putting him on your health insurance and supporting him until he can find a job.
You continue to complain to police and the mayor who sometimes sympathizes with you but never seem to do anything. All your efforts have now caught the attention of the folks who live up the hill in the fancy gated community. Without bothering to discuss the situation with you, they use the local newspaper as a platform to explain why this guy deserves to live in your house and you should be proud to provide for him. When you write a letter to the newspaper editor asking why the man can't live with the folks in the gated community, he refuses to publish it as it is too imflammatory. During this whole situation, you have been subjected to ridicule for your selfish, uncaring and even racist attitude.
In an attempt to be understanding, you ask the man why he wants to live in your house when you know he has one of his own. He simply explains that your house is so much more comfortable and in a safer neighborhood. Life is just so much easier in your neighborhood and besides his kids are out of control at his house and he can't do anything with them.
Throughout this whole situation, financially things are getting tough. You are no longer able to save for retirement or your kid's college fund as you must pay for not only your family's expenses but those of your new house guest. Soon it becomes obvious to you that something has to change or in the near future, you may have to let the house go back to the bank and then no one will have a decent place to live.
Over the years, the immigration issue has become very convoluted by politics and sometimes by legitimate debate. But when you actualy break it down to its simplest level, the obvious situation surfaces.
Obama's administration plans to sue Arizona over its immigration law stating that it is the Federal government's responsibility to set immigration policy. Apparently it is the Obama Administration's "policy" to not enforce existing immigration laws already on the books. To add insult to injury- the planned lawsuit was announced not by official letter to the authorities in Arizona or even in a national press conference but by the Secretary of State while on a visit to Ecuador.
Meanwhile many areas of federal land in Arizona are off-limits to our citizens for safety issues due to the illegal human and drug trafficking and the violence such activities bring to these areas. So in effect Mexican drug lords are controlling parts of our country. There seems to be very little concern in Washington over this invasion of American soil.
It is very obvious that the administration's actions are steeped in some strange brew of liberal politics, elitist guilt and practical ignorance and not in its constitutionally ascribed responsibility of law enforcement. If a fraction of the money, time and effort that will be spent on a lawsuit against the state of Arizona was actually spent on border enforcement in these federal lands, maybe taxpayers could actually enjoy the use of these areas that they pay taxes to the federal government to maintain.
One day you come home to find him rummaging through your refrigerator and medicine cabinet. This time when you call the Cops, they don't even bother to come as the decision was made to no longer enforce trespassing or breaking and entering laws in your town. The man is pleasant enough as he provides a list of groceries and medical needs that you should pick up for him because he's going to be staying in your spare bedroom for the forseeable future. And since he is now considered to be a resident of your home, if the need arises, you are responsible for putting him on your health insurance and supporting him until he can find a job.
You continue to complain to police and the mayor who sometimes sympathizes with you but never seem to do anything. All your efforts have now caught the attention of the folks who live up the hill in the fancy gated community. Without bothering to discuss the situation with you, they use the local newspaper as a platform to explain why this guy deserves to live in your house and you should be proud to provide for him. When you write a letter to the newspaper editor asking why the man can't live with the folks in the gated community, he refuses to publish it as it is too imflammatory. During this whole situation, you have been subjected to ridicule for your selfish, uncaring and even racist attitude.
In an attempt to be understanding, you ask the man why he wants to live in your house when you know he has one of his own. He simply explains that your house is so much more comfortable and in a safer neighborhood. Life is just so much easier in your neighborhood and besides his kids are out of control at his house and he can't do anything with them.
Throughout this whole situation, financially things are getting tough. You are no longer able to save for retirement or your kid's college fund as you must pay for not only your family's expenses but those of your new house guest. Soon it becomes obvious to you that something has to change or in the near future, you may have to let the house go back to the bank and then no one will have a decent place to live.
Over the years, the immigration issue has become very convoluted by politics and sometimes by legitimate debate. But when you actualy break it down to its simplest level, the obvious situation surfaces.
Obama's administration plans to sue Arizona over its immigration law stating that it is the Federal government's responsibility to set immigration policy. Apparently it is the Obama Administration's "policy" to not enforce existing immigration laws already on the books. To add insult to injury- the planned lawsuit was announced not by official letter to the authorities in Arizona or even in a national press conference but by the Secretary of State while on a visit to Ecuador.
Meanwhile many areas of federal land in Arizona are off-limits to our citizens for safety issues due to the illegal human and drug trafficking and the violence such activities bring to these areas. So in effect Mexican drug lords are controlling parts of our country. There seems to be very little concern in Washington over this invasion of American soil.
It is very obvious that the administration's actions are steeped in some strange brew of liberal politics, elitist guilt and practical ignorance and not in its constitutionally ascribed responsibility of law enforcement. If a fraction of the money, time and effort that will be spent on a lawsuit against the state of Arizona was actually spent on border enforcement in these federal lands, maybe taxpayers could actually enjoy the use of these areas that they pay taxes to the federal government to maintain.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Now If They Only Made One For The Wife
Gentlemen, get control of your clickers! You know what I’m talking about- the TV remote. We have lost a lot of ground over the last few years when it comes to being kings of our castles. Nowadays, we do dishes, cook an occasional meal, baby sit and change diapers. I’ve even heard of a few guys doing laundry; all things that our fathers would have never dreamed of doing. Well, it’s time to draw the line. We may not rule the roost anymore but by George, any remote device should fall within our jurisdiction.
It’s not like the clicker can be shared anyway. One person’s got to be in charge and it might as well be the man. A woman’s role should be limited to search and discovery only and not involved in actual remote operations. Search & discovery would entail helping me look for a lost clicker between the cushions of the couch, under the chair or in the refrigerator where I sometimes leave it when I’m making a sandwich.
And just like everything else, clicker operation has become more and more complicated and it requires a certain mechanical expertise that many women just don’t have. We recently purchased one of those new DVD/VCR/CD/MP3/BLU-RAY/BOO-RAY players. The player itself only cost $189 but the wires, jacks, adapters and batteries for the remote brought the final cost to somewhere around $600. It would have cost more but I got my twelve year old nephew to hook everything up instead of hiring a certified electrical engineer.
Now the remote for this thing is the size of a laptop computer and with as many buttons as a space shuttle dashboard. With so many buttons, there’s no room for full descriptions underneath each one of them so they use cryptic abbreviations. One button has the letters UMMPH underneath it. The first time I pushed it, all the toilets in the house flushed at the same time. There’s another button marked BARF. I’ve never had the courage to press that one.
To complicate matters, in today’s living room, it requires more than one remote to actually watch television. You need one to turn the TV on, one to turn the satellite or cable box on, one to turn the VCR or DVD on, and one to turn the stereo on if you’re audiophilic enough to have figured out how to hook it up to the TV. And to make matters worse, we have three TV’s in our house & the remotes are always getting mixed up. Throw in a garage door opener and a ceiling fan remote and you see how confusing things can get. I spent thirty minutes the other day trying to turn the TV on with my electronic stud finder. I have to admit that the only one in the family that can tell the difference between all these remotes is my daughter. When she’s not home, and the remotes get mixed up, I just grab a good book.
So you see that control of the clicker is of fundamental importance in any household and it shouldn’t be left to chance or first come first serve. I’m not usually in favor of prenuptial agreements but a legal document might be the only way to prevent long term marital discord. A man without clicker control is nothing; he has no authority and might even be forced to watch the Lifetime channel on a regular basis. The only people that would deny a man his remote are communists, feminists and Al Qaeda terrorists.
So in my house, I am in total control of our viewing choices. And when I get home tonight, my daughter promised that if I let her watch the “She’s All That” marathon she’d show me how to get the Braves game on satellite without opening and closing the garage doors.
It’s not like the clicker can be shared anyway. One person’s got to be in charge and it might as well be the man. A woman’s role should be limited to search and discovery only and not involved in actual remote operations. Search & discovery would entail helping me look for a lost clicker between the cushions of the couch, under the chair or in the refrigerator where I sometimes leave it when I’m making a sandwich.
And just like everything else, clicker operation has become more and more complicated and it requires a certain mechanical expertise that many women just don’t have. We recently purchased one of those new DVD/VCR/CD/MP3/BLU-RAY/BOO-RAY players. The player itself only cost $189 but the wires, jacks, adapters and batteries for the remote brought the final cost to somewhere around $600. It would have cost more but I got my twelve year old nephew to hook everything up instead of hiring a certified electrical engineer.
Now the remote for this thing is the size of a laptop computer and with as many buttons as a space shuttle dashboard. With so many buttons, there’s no room for full descriptions underneath each one of them so they use cryptic abbreviations. One button has the letters UMMPH underneath it. The first time I pushed it, all the toilets in the house flushed at the same time. There’s another button marked BARF. I’ve never had the courage to press that one.
To complicate matters, in today’s living room, it requires more than one remote to actually watch television. You need one to turn the TV on, one to turn the satellite or cable box on, one to turn the VCR or DVD on, and one to turn the stereo on if you’re audiophilic enough to have figured out how to hook it up to the TV. And to make matters worse, we have three TV’s in our house & the remotes are always getting mixed up. Throw in a garage door opener and a ceiling fan remote and you see how confusing things can get. I spent thirty minutes the other day trying to turn the TV on with my electronic stud finder. I have to admit that the only one in the family that can tell the difference between all these remotes is my daughter. When she’s not home, and the remotes get mixed up, I just grab a good book.
So you see that control of the clicker is of fundamental importance in any household and it shouldn’t be left to chance or first come first serve. I’m not usually in favor of prenuptial agreements but a legal document might be the only way to prevent long term marital discord. A man without clicker control is nothing; he has no authority and might even be forced to watch the Lifetime channel on a regular basis. The only people that would deny a man his remote are communists, feminists and Al Qaeda terrorists.
So in my house, I am in total control of our viewing choices. And when I get home tonight, my daughter promised that if I let her watch the “She’s All That” marathon she’d show me how to get the Braves game on satellite without opening and closing the garage doors.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Be Thankful You Don't Need Glasses Down There
I’m a pretty intelligent guy. At least that’s what some people say. They actually use the word “smart” and almost always in front of another word that refers to a member of the equine family. I usually take such compliments in the best possible light and go about my merry way.
But I do realize that I have a sarcastic side that can sometimes get me in trouble. For example, a few years ago I was working as a consultant in a State far north of here. It had not been a real good week. My paycheck was late, my landlord was demanding the rent on my shabby apartment and it was cold. Six inches of snow had fallen just a few days before and it was still October. This ol' southern boy was not looking forward to spending a full winter in the Snowbelt. All of these things combined to get the juices of sarcasm flowing.
This particular morning, I had a meeting scheduled with a possible client whose office happened to be in the County Courthouse. I arrived a few minutes early and the building wasn’t open yet. Rather than walk back to my car, I decided to take a seat on a bench positioned just outside the main door. After I scraped the remaining snow off the seat, I found that the last of the birds left a few presents before flying south for the winter. As I had on my best khakis, I took a newspaper that I had under my arm, unfolded it on the bench and sat down.
As I sat there shivering, thinking about those warm October afternoons watching SEC football in Scott Field at MSU, an older gentleman who obviously had business in the Courthouse as well, came & sat beside me. We carried on a minor conversation about the weather and as to how a public building should open its doors at a respectable hour. It was at this point, that the man looked down and pointed and said, “Are you reading that paper?”
The sarcasm kicked in and I couldn’t resist. “Why, yes sir, I am.” I said as I stood up, turned the page and sat back down again. Blessedly, the janitor opened the door at that moment and the old man scurried in. I couldn’t see if he was smiling or scowling as the door closed behind him.
Well I gathered up my things and went inside. I found the office I was looking for and the secretary escorted me into a snug little room. Behind the desk was that same gentleman. He greeted me with a smile and made no mention of our encounter outside. We had a pleasant discussion of the particulars of our possible contract and it seemed that my ill-timed but rapier wit had done no damage. He suggested that I read over the specifications required and if I could meet those then we could draw up a contract.
In my best businesslike voice I said, “I’ll be glad to look them over. Do you have a copy for me?” He smiled softly and said, “Well, I assumed that you had already read them. You’ve been sitting on them since you came in!”
But I do realize that I have a sarcastic side that can sometimes get me in trouble. For example, a few years ago I was working as a consultant in a State far north of here. It had not been a real good week. My paycheck was late, my landlord was demanding the rent on my shabby apartment and it was cold. Six inches of snow had fallen just a few days before and it was still October. This ol' southern boy was not looking forward to spending a full winter in the Snowbelt. All of these things combined to get the juices of sarcasm flowing.
This particular morning, I had a meeting scheduled with a possible client whose office happened to be in the County Courthouse. I arrived a few minutes early and the building wasn’t open yet. Rather than walk back to my car, I decided to take a seat on a bench positioned just outside the main door. After I scraped the remaining snow off the seat, I found that the last of the birds left a few presents before flying south for the winter. As I had on my best khakis, I took a newspaper that I had under my arm, unfolded it on the bench and sat down.
As I sat there shivering, thinking about those warm October afternoons watching SEC football in Scott Field at MSU, an older gentleman who obviously had business in the Courthouse as well, came & sat beside me. We carried on a minor conversation about the weather and as to how a public building should open its doors at a respectable hour. It was at this point, that the man looked down and pointed and said, “Are you reading that paper?”
The sarcasm kicked in and I couldn’t resist. “Why, yes sir, I am.” I said as I stood up, turned the page and sat back down again. Blessedly, the janitor opened the door at that moment and the old man scurried in. I couldn’t see if he was smiling or scowling as the door closed behind him.
Well I gathered up my things and went inside. I found the office I was looking for and the secretary escorted me into a snug little room. Behind the desk was that same gentleman. He greeted me with a smile and made no mention of our encounter outside. We had a pleasant discussion of the particulars of our possible contract and it seemed that my ill-timed but rapier wit had done no damage. He suggested that I read over the specifications required and if I could meet those then we could draw up a contract.
In my best businesslike voice I said, “I’ll be glad to look them over. Do you have a copy for me?” He smiled softly and said, “Well, I assumed that you had already read them. You’ve been sitting on them since you came in!”
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Zukes Aplenty
Another news story got my attention over the summer. It seems that somewhere in North Dakota, thieves stole several thousand onions from a farmer’s truck patch. They stripped the field completely. Now the only reason this story caught my eye is because of all the produce that most gardeners have around here in late summer. By the middle of July, most folks can’t give a tomato away and if you’re known to grow zucchini squash, people will actually cross the street to avoid you for fear that you’ll force a grocery sack full of the stuff into their arms.
My friend “Roop” almost went to jail because of zucchini squash. He once tackled a young man running down the sidewalk because he thought he had mugged the little old lady who was chasing after him with what looked to be a club in her hand. Come to find out, she was trying to give him a big ol’ zucchini to take home to his momma. The kid was going to press charges but Roop finally agreed to take the zucchini in lieu of jail time.
Living in an area of such surplus, it’s hard to imagine anyone going to the trouble of garden thievery. Maybe there was a little snitching out of the watermelon patch in years past, but nothing major like stripping a farmer’s field. There just isn’t any need to steal produce in this part of the country. Most folks who wouldn’t put a quarter in the collection plate on Sunday are generous to a fault when it comes to their garden vegetables.
The South is the only part of the country where there are such prolific vegetable gardens. We have the weather, the space and the tradition that produces the finest crops in the world. Just a generation back, a big garden was a necessity and people are still in the habit of planting more than they need. Purple hull peas, butterbeans and green beans have been the staples of the southern diet for generations now. Before television, sitting on the front porch in the evening, shelling peas and butterbeans was family time. Parents and kids actually talked to each other. One of the best evenings I’ve ever spent was shelling peas with my wife and daughter. We were all actually in the same place together doing the same thing which is pretty rare anymore. My daughter even had fun as she would steal shelled peas out of my bowl, add them to her bowl and taunt her mother. “Look how many more peas I’ve shelled than you- you better get busy.”
Gardens are a lot of work and a lot of people don’t want to work that hard. I ‘m always full of enthusiasm every spring when I plow a garden, but by the heat of July, I’m pretty sick of the whole thing. I let the grass and the bugs take over by then and look forward to school starting. But some people are even worse than I am. My brother always plants a patch of corn every year; much more than the family can use so we often try to give it away. I’ve offered corn to people and have actually been told that they are considering several offers and that I would need to sweeten the deal a little. The neighbor down the road had offered to pick and bring corn to them but if I would shuck and silk mine for them they might be interested. I’m just not that generous. But I will make a deal with you. I won’t bring you a grocery sack full of bell peppers & okra if you won’t bring me any zucchini. How’s that?
My friend “Roop” almost went to jail because of zucchini squash. He once tackled a young man running down the sidewalk because he thought he had mugged the little old lady who was chasing after him with what looked to be a club in her hand. Come to find out, she was trying to give him a big ol’ zucchini to take home to his momma. The kid was going to press charges but Roop finally agreed to take the zucchini in lieu of jail time.
Living in an area of such surplus, it’s hard to imagine anyone going to the trouble of garden thievery. Maybe there was a little snitching out of the watermelon patch in years past, but nothing major like stripping a farmer’s field. There just isn’t any need to steal produce in this part of the country. Most folks who wouldn’t put a quarter in the collection plate on Sunday are generous to a fault when it comes to their garden vegetables.
The South is the only part of the country where there are such prolific vegetable gardens. We have the weather, the space and the tradition that produces the finest crops in the world. Just a generation back, a big garden was a necessity and people are still in the habit of planting more than they need. Purple hull peas, butterbeans and green beans have been the staples of the southern diet for generations now. Before television, sitting on the front porch in the evening, shelling peas and butterbeans was family time. Parents and kids actually talked to each other. One of the best evenings I’ve ever spent was shelling peas with my wife and daughter. We were all actually in the same place together doing the same thing which is pretty rare anymore. My daughter even had fun as she would steal shelled peas out of my bowl, add them to her bowl and taunt her mother. “Look how many more peas I’ve shelled than you- you better get busy.”
Gardens are a lot of work and a lot of people don’t want to work that hard. I ‘m always full of enthusiasm every spring when I plow a garden, but by the heat of July, I’m pretty sick of the whole thing. I let the grass and the bugs take over by then and look forward to school starting. But some people are even worse than I am. My brother always plants a patch of corn every year; much more than the family can use so we often try to give it away. I’ve offered corn to people and have actually been told that they are considering several offers and that I would need to sweeten the deal a little. The neighbor down the road had offered to pick and bring corn to them but if I would shuck and silk mine for them they might be interested. I’m just not that generous. But I will make a deal with you. I won’t bring you a grocery sack full of bell peppers & okra if you won’t bring me any zucchini. How’s that?
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
A Rose By Any Other Name - Still Smells
It’s 4:30 in the morning and I’ve experienced one of the joys of rural life. As any other old man is apt to do on a Friday night, I went to bed about 10:30. My lovely wife fell asleep on the couch while watching some misunderstood sci-fi alien psycho axe killer on the Chiller channel. At 4:00, she made her way to the bedroom and gave me a good shake. “Wake up. You need to go close the garage doors.” Even though I wasn’t fully awake – I was pretty sure that thought didn’t just come to her in a dream.
“ I think there’s a skunk in the garage. The dogs have got it cornered.”
I was awake enough now to understand the gravity of the situation. Our old Lab is a hunter – he hunts snakes, turtles, squirrels, birds and field mice but he especially loves skunks. Their spray is like Chanel # 5 (guess they still make that) to him. He manages to get “skunked” about twice a year and it takes about six weeks for the odor to become tolerable enough for us to get close enough to scratch his belly. But the matter was complicated by the fact that he had recently had a tumor removed from his front paw and still had stitches. As a result, he had been spending much of his time inside the house. In fact, I had just put him out the front door at 2:00 am.
Tracy said “close the garage doors” but that really didn’t make any sense and that really wasn’t what she meant. She meant “You go out and get that skunk out of the garage before it stinks up my car. By now I was awake enough to smell the smell and hear the dogs barking. Anybody who has dogs knows that they have different barks for different situations – the somebody ‘s coming bark- the big ol truck on the highway bark- the UPS truck is comin & I’m gonna try & pull its tires off the rims bark and then there’s the higher pitch yelp indicating that there’s something going on here that I really don’t like. This bark was coming loud & clear (just like the smell) through the utility room door. Ol’ Shad had him cornered right by the doorstep. This was gonna be a mess and only get worse. I rolled out of bed, threw on a t-shirt, turned on all the outside lights and tentative opened the door to the garage. There were two of the dogs – barking and lunging right by the steps. In the corner, between the steps and the rack that held soft drinks and dirty boots and anything else we didn’t want to bring in the house - was a possum, not a skunk. But he smelled just as bad if not worse. Shad had him cornered – bared teeth to bared teeth & Sophie was cheering him on – Dixie was cowering on the front porch. ‘
Well, Shad couldn’t take him without getting a serious bite and the possum couldn’t get around Shad and it was a stinking, loud mess that could have continued for hours. I won’t go into detail about the method that I used to dispatch our intruder but let’s just say that ol’ possum is lying in the bed of my truck until daylight and a little clorox water will kill the possum smell in the garage. It could have been worse. It could have been a skunk. Thank the Lord for small blessings.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Say a Few Words Over 'em
May is the month of memorial. In this part of the country, many people return to the churches of their roots to pay respect to their ancestors. My family does the same. Our history is long in Winston County and my mother’s family has an ancestral plot that dates back to the mid 1800’s. There is something comforting about walking through this cemetery and reading the gravestones of the people that came before you. Not only are the names and dates meaningful but many stones have quotes or Bible passages that were appropriate or near and dear to that person.
In the Deep South, almost all epitaphs are of a religious nature; providing comfort to those left behind but not really telling us much about these people. Were they kind or cruel? Did they lead happy lives or did they meet their end in some unfortunate way? In other parts of the world, epitaphs can be a bit more colorful. Some people utilize humor when dealing with death and write their own epitaphs probably to the chagrin of the remaining family. For example, on a grave marker in England:
“On the 22nd of June
~ Jonathan Fiddle ~
Went out of tune.”
Or in a New Mexico Cemetery:
In the Deep South, almost all epitaphs are of a religious nature; providing comfort to those left behind but not really telling us much about these people. Were they kind or cruel? Did they lead happy lives or did they meet their end in some unfortunate way? In other parts of the world, epitaphs can be a bit more colorful. Some people utilize humor when dealing with death and write their own epitaphs probably to the chagrin of the remaining family. For example, on a grave marker in England:
“On the 22nd of June
~ Jonathan Fiddle ~
Went out of tune.”
Or in a New Mexico Cemetery:
“Here lies Johnny Yeast
Pardon me for not rising.”
Or
~ ANN MANN ~
”Here lies Ann Mann
Who lived an old maid
But died an old Mann.
Dec. 8, 1767”
It’s not difficult to recognize when the deceased didn’t choose their own inscription: the choice often left to someone that probably wasn’t too fond of the person that was just interred. Examples include a grave stone in Nova Scotia:
Ezekial Aikle
Age 102
The Good Die Young.”
Or
~ ANNA PERRY ~
”The children of Israel wanted bread
And the Lord gave them manna
Parson Perry wanted a wife
And the Devil gave him Anna!”
Some epitaphs provide too much information as to the method of death of an individual:
“He died at a public gathering
When the platform
Suddenly gave away.”
Or
~ ANNA HEPEWELL ~
”Here lies the body of our Anna
Done to death by a banana
It wasn’t the fruit that laid her low
But the skin of the thing that made her go!”
Or
“Here lies Lester Moore
Four slugs from a .44
No Les No More.”
My favorite story is a tale of a neglected gravestone in a grassy cemetery. The original inscription was thoughtful and perhaps appropriate:
"Pause, stranger, when you pass me by,
For as you are, so once was I.
As I am now, so will you be.
Then prepare unto death, and follow me."
However someone had decided to add a few lines and had scratched this below:
"To follow you I'm not content
Until I know which way you went!"
All of this probably doesn’t matter a great deal but if you want to be remembered well, you should live your life well. When you think about it, not only do your children choose your nursing home, they also might have a few choice words to remember you by.
Friday, April 16, 2010
A matter of Publicity?
I might see the argument made by some but I am overwhelmed by the irony of this:
The trial of our Navy Seals accused of punching a captured terrorist in the stomach has been moved to Iraq where there will be less media coverage while our Attorney General and President have made a grand issue of a public trial of 9-11 terrorists that must be a public spectacle in New York or Washington.
The trial of our Navy Seals accused of punching a captured terrorist in the stomach has been moved to Iraq where there will be less media coverage while our Attorney General and President have made a grand issue of a public trial of 9-11 terrorists that must be a public spectacle in New York or Washington.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Nobody Wants to Wrestle the Naked Guy
While everyone in the room wants to fuss and fight over the healthcare bill, they are trying their best not to wrestle themselves into the corner where a big hairy naked guy called "National Debt" is sitting in a bean bag chair eating Cheetos and drinking Mello Yello. Be it Democrat or Republican, nobody wants to lay hands on the naked guy.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Where's my Cookskin Cap?
I just heard that Fess Parker passed away. If you're under forty , I'm sure your first reaction is "Who's Fess Parker?" Apparently he was most famous as Davy Crockett on the Disney TV series back in the Fifties. That was before my time but I remember him as Daniel Boone on the TV series in the early seventies or late 1960's. Ed Ames (who was most famous for his inaccurate tomahawk throw on Johnny Carson's Tonight Show) played his Indian sidekick.
I also seem to remember that the Daniel Boone show came on for a period of time in the afternoons - after school. The characters he played were bigger than life and he fit the role as he was 6'6" tall. The shows were classic Americana and usually had a good moral content.
Mr. Parker didn't become enamored in the Hollywood lifestyle and became wealthy by investing in California real estate.
I do remember that I had a coonskin cap like a lot of kids at that time. Wish I still had it. I might just put it on one last time for Ol' Dan'l and Fess. My condolences to his family.
I also seem to remember that the Daniel Boone show came on for a period of time in the afternoons - after school. The characters he played were bigger than life and he fit the role as he was 6'6" tall. The shows were classic Americana and usually had a good moral content.
Mr. Parker didn't become enamored in the Hollywood lifestyle and became wealthy by investing in California real estate.
I do remember that I had a coonskin cap like a lot of kids at that time. Wish I still had it. I might just put it on one last time for Ol' Dan'l and Fess. My condolences to his family.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Poo Paper
In more bad news for the local timber industry, a young researcher in one of those northern European countries like Norland or Finway has developed a new technique for making paper that doesn’t use wood products at all. Through truly creative efforts, he has developed paper products out of all things;
bear droppings!
At first this doesn’t seem like much of a threat to the established paper & timber industries since production is limited as he must scour the woods for raw material. He must also grade & separate the droppings due to the fact that the bear’s recent diet determines the color of the produced paper. For example, a diet of nuts & berries produces brown paper, fish & insects produce gray, and campers & hikers; well, you get the idea.
But the real danger here is that some enterprising company will take the idea one step further by finding a more plentiful source of raw material and begin mass production of poo paper. The effects could be devastating to our local economy. Not only would the production of poo paper affect the demand for timber here in the South and the Northwest, but it would also result in job loss as the paper industry would likely move out of our area and into areas where the needed raw material is more plentiful;
like Washington, D.C.
Disposal of waste, animal & human, is a major problem that costs billions of dollars in this country alone, so an alternative use is an especially appealing idea. Environmentalists and economists would all be able to agree on this one. This paper is supposedly quite sanitary after processing - yet poo paper might not be real popular for facial tissue or for wrapping meat. But it could be used for other packaging, newspapers, and copy paper. I’ve known a few people with which I have had dealings for whom it would be appropriate to print their checks on poo paper. I think it would be ideal for almost all government publications like IRS tax forms, bureaucratic manuals and Obama's Health Care Bill. However, its most intriguing use would, of course, be as toilet paper.
By the way, if you printed this out, you might want to wash your hands after reading this.
bear droppings!
At first this doesn’t seem like much of a threat to the established paper & timber industries since production is limited as he must scour the woods for raw material. He must also grade & separate the droppings due to the fact that the bear’s recent diet determines the color of the produced paper. For example, a diet of nuts & berries produces brown paper, fish & insects produce gray, and campers & hikers; well, you get the idea.
But the real danger here is that some enterprising company will take the idea one step further by finding a more plentiful source of raw material and begin mass production of poo paper. The effects could be devastating to our local economy. Not only would the production of poo paper affect the demand for timber here in the South and the Northwest, but it would also result in job loss as the paper industry would likely move out of our area and into areas where the needed raw material is more plentiful;
like Washington, D.C.
Disposal of waste, animal & human, is a major problem that costs billions of dollars in this country alone, so an alternative use is an especially appealing idea. Environmentalists and economists would all be able to agree on this one. This paper is supposedly quite sanitary after processing - yet poo paper might not be real popular for facial tissue or for wrapping meat. But it could be used for other packaging, newspapers, and copy paper. I’ve known a few people with which I have had dealings for whom it would be appropriate to print their checks on poo paper. I think it would be ideal for almost all government publications like IRS tax forms, bureaucratic manuals and Obama's Health Care Bill. However, its most intriguing use would, of course, be as toilet paper.
By the way, if you printed this out, you might want to wash your hands after reading this.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Might Wanna Re-Think that One?
One of the few magazines that I still take at home is the National Geographic. It's also one of the few that I have been known to read from cover to cover. I sometimes see some political leanings within the writing but in general - politics and social agendas are handled even-handedly.
I also like to read the letters to the editor just to see the giant chasm between views on an issue. There seems to be very little room for middle ground on any given subject. I'm afraid that's just a sign that those of us who are more moderate on an issue aren't sufficiently motivated by the plight of the two-tongued owl frog in lower Scandabuvia to get up off the couch and scratch off a letter or even zip off an e-mail to the folks at NG.
A while back I was reading a letter from a man (don't remember where he was from but almost certain it was the West or East Coast) concerning logging practices in the Northwest. He was adamantly opposed to continued but controlled harvesting of redwood trees. Now I understand his concern and I have some questions about the need to continue logging these giants myself. BUT his solution seemed a bit drastic to me!
His reasoning was to reduce the demand for lumber by reducing the world's population. There wouldn't be any need to cut these trees if there weren't so many people. In fact, he proposed "reducing" the world population by 3/4ths. I might have taken his suggestion a bit more seriously IF his letter contained an offer to be the first in line for "self -reduction".
I also like to read the letters to the editor just to see the giant chasm between views on an issue. There seems to be very little room for middle ground on any given subject. I'm afraid that's just a sign that those of us who are more moderate on an issue aren't sufficiently motivated by the plight of the two-tongued owl frog in lower Scandabuvia to get up off the couch and scratch off a letter or even zip off an e-mail to the folks at NG.
A while back I was reading a letter from a man (don't remember where he was from but almost certain it was the West or East Coast) concerning logging practices in the Northwest. He was adamantly opposed to continued but controlled harvesting of redwood trees. Now I understand his concern and I have some questions about the need to continue logging these giants myself. BUT his solution seemed a bit drastic to me!
His reasoning was to reduce the demand for lumber by reducing the world's population. There wouldn't be any need to cut these trees if there weren't so many people. In fact, he proposed "reducing" the world population by 3/4ths. I might have taken his suggestion a bit more seriously IF his letter contained an offer to be the first in line for "self -reduction".
What's in a Name?
Ok - so where'd I get the name "Cornbread & Potlikker"? Most of us here in the South are still not so far removed from our rural roots that we don't know about potlikker or for those more proper - "pot liquor". Our parents or grandparents grew up a few years back just thankful to have a cast iron skillet full of cornbread and a pot full of peas or butterbeans for a meal.
This meal symbolizes a different time - a time when people made daily decisions based upon their moral /financial and practical consequences. I hope that a reverence for that time and culture will set the tone for this blog.
( For those who still don't know - potlikker is the liquid remaining after a vegetable is cooked (peas, butterbeans, etc). Usually seasoned with salt pork and onions, it tastes wonderful poured over a slice of homemade cornbread.)
This meal symbolizes a different time - a time when people made daily decisions based upon their moral /financial and practical consequences. I hope that a reverence for that time and culture will set the tone for this blog.
( For those who still don't know - potlikker is the liquid remaining after a vegetable is cooked (peas, butterbeans, etc). Usually seasoned with salt pork and onions, it tastes wonderful poured over a slice of homemade cornbread.)
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