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.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)