Wake Up Call

“My Sainted Mother used to wake us up with a loud shrill, “Wake up Jacob! Day’s a’breaking,” It was one of the few occasions during which I thought ill of her. I’m sure she learned the practice deep in the woods of Cleveland County, Arkansas. It was particularly annoying of a Monday morning. Indeed, on a school day it produced thoughts of revenge. I would envision informing the world about the package of Kool cigarettes that she kept hidden in a jacket in her closet, accessible when we kids were all away.

My father had a less annoying but even more efficacious manner of getting us up and moving. “I ain’t sayin’ it again.” That caused three sets of feet to hit the cold floor.

These days our foster puppy, Daisy the Demon Dog, communicates her wakeup announcement telepathically, something along the lines of, “You can’t begin to imagine what a mess I can make if you don’t get in here and get some din-din ready.” It works. After morning ablutions, she loves to initiate the entertainment portion of the day with a game she calls, “Tug on the fat man’s robe.” That often results in incarceration, a punishment devoutly deplored.

A careful reader can see why I have put so much thought into how to awaken my sleeping spouse of a morning. Here’s what I try.

First, I make sure that she does not cradle her little friend, “Mr, Louisville,” but, rather, it is safely out of reach under the bed.

Next, I approach softly, still out of reach of harm’s way. “Missy,” I start. “All the other pretty little girls are up already.” 

This generally brings forth a series of oaths that would have made Captain Lucky Jack Aubrey take notes.

Then I try, “I think Matthew McConaughey has dropped by to see you. He brought the guys from ZZ Top with him.” That brings only a smile.

Then it is decision time. If I see a hand reach down and under the bed, I initiate a strategic withdrawal. Same-same if there is a hard cover book within her reach.

As I reach the bedroom door, my courage generally returns. I’ll wheel with the resolute courage of a young Audie Murphy, and emit my next invite.

“I think maybe it’s time for you to think about getting up. The light over yon horizon is breaking.” Like mother, like son.

Thereupon I flee. That final exoneration has produced flying objects weighing in excess of ten pounds. I close the bedroom door softly with a final challenge, “There’s a good, hot, fresh pot of coffee waiting for you when you get up.”

That’s how you stay married for 47 years, young fellers.

Early on, I learned
to avoid this look.

Discord

Let’s hope it doesn’t reach separation status. It’s an odd one though. My roommate and I disagreed on a topic (outside my eternal shortcomings) last evening for about the fourth or fifth topic in 47 years. It was silly, but aren’t most disagreements? Just think about the million upon millions of poor folks who have died over which mythology to believe.

Ours was even sillier.

It happened his way. We hardly ever watch sports on TV. We hardly ever watch sports period. As for TV, if it wasn’t for Turner Classic Movies and PBS, I’d probably sell the darned thing.

Anyway, steer me back to the point. She has decided, because of countless in-state adventures with her cousin Phyllis in Houston, and a great-grandfather who didn’t stop fleeing Kentucky until he crossed into the territory, that she is some sort of honorary Texan or such. Hence, we surfed upon the seventh game of this year’s World Series.

Lo and behold. It was between the Houston Astros and some team I had never heard of in my life. We locked on.

Then the trouble started. I noticed that, through TV magic, they now insert a rectangle around the batter’s crotch to show where the baseball goes after it is thrown. (Man, I had to study the structure of that sentence carefully. The apocryphal Dizzy Dean comment about the young couple watching the game kept sliding into my head.) Anyway …

 I was thinking, “Isn’t baseball on TV boring enough without displaying what the umpire is going to do before it happens? Watching and waiting for errors to occur is one of the few enjoyable pastimes left to mere mortals. Why are we suddenly eschewing human frailties? People like me want to know.

I was on the verge of proclaiming my insightfulness when her voice broke the silence. “I really like that little box that shows you what’s a ball and what’s a strike,” she said.

Oh, the horror! The horror!

I’ve learned to keep my opinion to myself over the years. I’ve learned to follow the Galilean’s advice to “agree with thine adversary quickly.” Why seek discord? Why annoy? Why make mountains out of molehills? Why sow rancor? Respect the opinions of others. Harmony is divine. Quarrels provide a feast for the Dark One. Smile. Be agreeable and history will judge you a sage.

“It’s the silliest damn thing I’ve ever seen,” I said.

Wrong way to express a contra-opinion, I found. Why didn’t I pay homage to the wisdom of Sheriff Marge Gunderson in Fargo and say, “I'm not sure I agree with you a hundred percent on your police work, there, ... .” It’s just not my style, anything that smacks of wisdom and forbearance.

“Idiot,” she observed.

“You’re a bigger one,” I countered.

Anyway, resolution evaded us. Luckily the Texas team folded like a two-dollar suitcase at that point and she retired in only a mild huff. On arising this morning before her, I read where one of the teams won the game, and the world series. It wasn’t hers.

I think I’ll let her sleep. I won't mention baseball all day. Armies have marched with less provocation.

Shame, oh shame. Where art thou?

Carol Lynley died this week. Not many people paid notice. That’s what happens many times to former film stars who gained fame in their youth and saw it fade away. It seems the press best remembered her for most for her sexy role in The Poseidon Adventure. Lots of people my age remember her as the co-star, with Brandon deWilde, in the 1959 film Blue Denim.

Yes, that’s the one where a bit of fooling around in the basement by a teen-aged couple led to an unforeseen pregnancy. What was the impact on the largely youthful audience that flocked to see it? Depends on who you ask.

The film evolved from the 1958 Broadway play by writer James Leo Herlihy. The play told the story a bit differently from the film version. In the play, the young protagonist obtained an abortion. Of course, movie censors of that time wouldn’t hear of that. The film showed the chastened and frightened couple boarding a bus to a secret location to face marriage, parenthood and the future.

Again, what impact did the film have on young folks? I’ve read where some young girls thought it was sexy. I don’t know. I know, from memory, that it scared the hell out of some of the boys. “What, me pay a price? I had nothing to do with it. Why screw up my life?” That male attitude probably wasn’t as strong in 1959 as it is now, but we see that the idea of males having no responsibility, no price to pay, no shame, and no retribution to face in the case of unwanted pregnancies has been with us for a long while. The attitude has gained a systemic and formidable position in American society. It will not, “… go gentle into that good night.”

Funny thing is, I don’t remember the causal act to be that sexy in the film. Bear in mind, though, that I last viewed it some years ago. In the key scene, all of the boy’s buddies have left the basement and the (uninvited) young girl remains to joke around a bit. In the next scene, he finds her in the library with a medical book turned to the pregnancy section. That leads to the most memorable line in the film.

“It doesn’t say how to stop it,” she says, with tears in eyes that stare into a bewildered face.

For a bit of bad-taste trivia, I’ve read that In Cold Blood murder victim Nancy Clutter wanted to see the film but never got to.

Why bring it up? I don’t know. It did represent a morality play of sorts. The young couple suffered from a life interrupted. We don’t know though, what might have happened. The marriage might have flourished and the boy might have grown to be a stock fund manager. On the other hand, he might have earned a spot on the black granite wall in Washington, “leaving a wife and child behind,” as they say. Or, it may have dawned on him that he could walk away scot-free and he did.

I heard a comedian say something yesterday to the tune of “shame is the first step to restoration.” I don’t know why so much truth about our national salvation is coming from comedians these days, but it is.

Shame. If that film generated a dread of shame in a few young children, I suppose it served a good purpose. I’m not sure that was endemic, though. There still remains the legend of a slightly older contemporary “rich kid” in my home town. After impregnating his girlfriend, he dutifully showed up at the wedding, played his role, and then drove the bride to her parents’ house and deposited her like a prom-night date, never to be bothered with “husband-hood,” or fatherhood, again.

Then there was a closer acquaintance who, at last count, had fathered two children from separate girls, never paying a price, due to the blessings of his parents’ money. Ironically, he became one of our strongest opponents of a girl’s making the “wrong choice” in such dilemmas. Yes. We live in a strange world.

Oh, and Miss Lynely? A short while after setting the young men of America mentally aflame with her role in The Poseidon Adventure, she did a nude gig in Playboy Magazine. We have no record of the counterbalancing number of “Honey, guess what?” surprises that act may have generated.

Life goes on. Maybe Brother Hunter S. Thompson was right. “Buy the ticket. Take the ride.” 

A Night To Remember

It was a day like any other day, except I was to be married. I remember it well. As I’ve told the story for years, it had started when I was minding my own business, putting a new headlight into an old car I owned. It was in the parking lot of an apartment complex on Cantrell Avenue, Lincoln Boulevard or Highway 10, whatever. It went by several names. Anyway, it’s where the Dillard’s headquarters is today, but so far they’ve failed to erect an historical marker.

As I say, I was minding my own business when my next-door neighbor’s sister and her friend walked by.

That’s not exactly accurate. They “sashayed” by, as they say in the South. I knew the sister, but not her friend. They stopped for a second to say hello. The sister introduced us and something shot through my heart like a sparkling arrow. The beautiful thing standing there had long red hair, and though she claims not to have said it, I knew what she was thinking from the look on her face.

“What the hell are you looking at?”

That was a long time ago, and what it led to was a little ceremony in Lonoke, Arkansas 47 years ago tonight where that cute little redhead and I exchanged wedding vows, absent, at her instructions, that “obey crap.”

What that little ceremony led to was the rip-roaringest, hot-damnedness, gob-smackingest adventure on which a man ever set sail. I think I’ll leave it at that. I’m not sure about that “statute of limitations” thing.

Anyway, she taught me lots over the years.

About writing: “If you have to ask if it’s proper, it’s not.”

About humor: “It’s not that damned funny.”

About shortcomings: “Yes I knew that when I married you, but it’s gotten worse.”

About strength through religion: “Remember Joseph in the lion’s den.”

About times of trouble: “Pretend the pirates are torturing you.”

About stray or impure thoughts: “Your eyes are gonna pop out.”

About adventure: “Let me jump straddle of a string, and I’ll be ready.”

About orders: “I’ll put that on my ‘Things to think about doing list.’”

About finding one’s way through a dark and troubled world, filled with dangers, toils, and snares: “It’s a good thing they put you in the Navy and gave you a rope and they didn’t put you in the Army and give you a map.”

Sometimes I envy normal people. Sometimes I pity them. Sometimes I wonder what they talk about at night. Sometimes I just sit and stare at a world that I know would have been a heck of a lot less interesting if I hadn’t been out on the parking lot that evening 47 years ago.

As the late Hunter S. Thompson once said, “Buy the ticket, take the ride.”

It happened to me yesterday. My German cousins call it Schadenfreude. It occurs when another person's misfortune elicits pleasure in you because now feel better about your own miserable life, or something like that. I may have spruced up the meaning a bit. No exact English translation exists. That’s not to say that it doesn’t apply to Americans. It did to me

It happened this way.

We have his house, you know, in the pleasant town of Lonoke, AR. We bought it when we cared for B’s mother, The Lady Hazel Cole, and we spend a lot of time there. Well, it has a lawn sprinkler system and each spring I have it turned on and checked over. Since climate change, which doesn’t exist, and weather, which doesn’t change, has designated Arkansas for rain-forest status, the one thing our lawn hasn’t needed in a while is water. But, out of habit, I arranged for our maintenance company to come anyway.

Now it gets juicy, very juicy. I decided to empty the accumulated water from the system’s water meter box, that non-existent climate change has kept flooded for the last year. I figured that I could appear “handy” if I went ahead and dipped out the water. I attired myself properly and waited until the long-legged blond who’s been working on the house across the street and was wearing a belt fashioned into a pair of shorts could see me.

Did I mention that it was still muddy around the meter box? Did I mention my invalid status, still recovering from knee surgery and deserving of succor, not sarcasm or Schadenfreude? Did I mention that I have purchased one of those little green things that you see advertised that allow you to kneel in comfort? Did I mention that I had donned knee pads to further protect my damaged body? Did I …, oh yes, I did mention that it was muddy at the work site.

All went well. I dipped and dipped until all the workable parts of the meter box appeared. The blond was busy in the yard across the street, pretending not to see me. At that moment, I chose to rise like a conquering hero and gaze proudly at my handiwork.

Did I mention that the little green thing isn’t stable in the mud? I found that to be the case when I attempted to rise. The thing tipped. My cell phone that I had carefully deposited on it so the thing wouldn’t fall in the water sailed through the air and I sailed after it. I found myself sprawled in the mud face down, attempting, it seems, the breast stroke.

I heard laughter.

The second attempt ended as the first. I heard more laughter.

Finally, on the fourth try, I made it to my feet and fished my cell phone from three inches of mud. I made my way around the house to the nearest water house, covered in filth.

Ah, help. The only person in the vicinity with whom I was intimately acquainted enough to ask for love and understanding came around the corner. I immediately sought help, all I could get. After 46 years, it wasn’t an “until death us do part” moment but it sure was a time or marital support. Alas, she was seized with such a paroxysm of laughter, non-stopping guffaws, “Dr. Pepper out the nose” hillarity, and giggling that I had to send her away.

Left to tend to myself. I was clean and freshly clothed when the maintenance guy came. The affair had taken on a humorous tone by then, so I told him about it. He smiled. “Oh,” he said, “next time, I have a pump to get the water out of the meter box.”

When I turned to walk away, I’ll swear I heard him giggle.

Love thy brother as thyself.
I think someone said that.

Climate data source: Fox "news."

Friday Fiction

The Prayer List

By Jimmie von Tungeln

            Horace Lundsford was doing just fine until Gracie Rodgers reported his name on a prayer list. Shortly thereafter, things fell apart. The unfortunate thing was that he didn’t even know he was on it until the calls started. Prayer lists originate in church on Sunday morning and Horace didn’t spend Sunday mornings in church although his wife, Sarah, did. That had everything to do with it. He would understand it all much later. As for now, he was minding his own business and not bothering a soul, as his parents had taught him.

            The first to call—he was finishing a breakfast that he had cooked for himself—was the oldest Thorton girl, the nosey one.

            “It’s Carlota,” she said though it wasn’t necessary. She had this snorting sound that she made when she breathed. To him, when she really got excited, it sounded like a pig trying to read scriptures. He would have recognized that voice anywhere. It was one of the many reasons he didn’t attend church.

            “Sarah’s not home,” he said, hoping to head off even a short conversation.

            “It’s you I wanted,” she said. “I called to talk to you.”

            Horace remained perfectly quiet, the way a child who has broken something will, hoping in that instant that the disastrous thing didn’t happen, but knowing against that hope, that it did.

            “Did you hear me?” she said.

            “Sure I heard you. What’s up?” His mind inventoried his collection of tools, believing that must be why she called: to borrow something. He began to weed out the most precious of them—the ones he wouldn’t part with—from the ones he might let her use.

            “You tell me,” she said. Just like that, “You tell me.” What the hell was that supposed to mean?

            “Tell you what?”

            “Why I need to pray for you.”

            “I don’t you to pray for me.”

            “Then why, tell me, is your name on a prayer list, big as the state capitol building, right there in the Armistead County Informer?”

            “The what?”

            “The paper. Gracie Rodgers put in the Mt. Pisgah Baptist Church news that you are on the prayer list,” she drew a breath and snorted. “And I need to know what kind of troubles you got.”

            “I don’t have any troubles.”

            “You got to have troubles or your name wouldn’t be on the prayer list.”

            “I’m tellin’ you I ain’t got no troubles and you can keep your prayers to yourself.”

            But like a tree planted by the waters, she stood firm. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

            “A what?” He could see his face in the large hall mirror and it was growing red like there was a fire lit somewhere deep within it—a volcanic fire that rested directly on top of an explosion.

            “Are you and Sarah having trouble?” She snorted again and sounded proud of her own nerve.

            “What?”

            “Trouble. Are you two having, you know, marital problems?”

            “Damn it, who told you that?”

            “If you are going to blaspheme, I shall refuse to pray for you.” Snort!

            “Well don’t then!” He crashed the phone’s receiver into its cradle so hard that a piece of plastic detached and shot from it.

            “Sarah!” he yelled, then remembered that she was visiting her mother in Dallas County.

            Before he could think, the phone rang again. It was Ida Covington.

            “Is it cancer, Horace?”

            “Is what cancer?” he said. Then he remembered.

            “My cousin had it and he didn’t live but six months. And he had two churches praying for him.”

            “Your cousin?”

            “Uncle Fred’s oldest son, Chester. But Horace, it was the most wonderful thing. He surrendered his soul to Jesus just before he died and he’s in heaven right now. Not a doubt in my mind but what he is praying for you.”

“Jesus,” Horace said aloud.

“Yes, Jesus. Oh Horace, if you coulda just seen that smile on his face layin’ there in that coffin. Why you…”

            “Ida,” he said and he said it loud so she would pay attention.

            “Yes Horace.”

            “Get off this telephone,” and he slammed the receiver again and another piece of plastic flew away and bounced across the floor. He looked at his hand. It was shaking. As soon as the fact settled upon him, the phone rang again.

            “Shit,” he said. Then “Hello.”

            “Horace, if you need money…” It was his brother.

            “I don’t need any money,” he said, this time quietly, like he was expecting the call.

            “Don’t let foolish pride keep you from seeking help from those who love you,” his brother said.

            “I don’t need money,” he said. “But I’m touched that you offered.”

            “Oh, I couldn’t help you,” his brother said. “No, no, not at all. I just wanted to remind you of what the scriptures say: ‘Pride goeth before the fall.’ Don’t be prideful, Horace.”

            He placed the receiver gently in its cradle this time. Before he could leave the room, three more people called. Mostly, they were just nosing around, except for a nephew asking what would become of his tools if he died. Pressure mounted in this head. Each call added to it as if someone was pumping air into his brain.

He reached for his coat and was going to go outside, away from the kitchen and the phone.

It beat him, though. The ring caught him just as he reached the door. He turned and stared at it, hoping it would stop. It rang louder.

            “It’ll just follow me outside,” he said to himself. He flung the coat across a chair so hard that it knocked the chair over and it slid into the kitchen cabinets. He snatched the receiver from the cradle and yelled a hello into it. It was Gracie Rodgers. She started to say something but he cut her off. The whole stupid, ridiculous, malevolent monster of a morning erupted deep within him.

            “Gracie, tell me one thing,” he said calmly but with the force of far away thunder.

            “What’s that, Horace?”

            “Why, tell me why, in,” he struggled for a second before expletives poured out in three languages, “ …  hell is my name on a moth… on a…,” he was having  difficulty breathing now, but he managed to yell, “On a [stinking] prayer list?”

            “Well Horace, if you must know—and I wish you could ask it a little nicer—Sarah said you have a problem with your temper.”

April 2009

Forget my birthday?
Take that!

Wakeup calls ...

Early in the morning, my Sainted Mother, particularly on a Monday School Day, would sneak into my bedroom, yank off the covers, and yell, “Wake up Jacob. Day’s a’breaking.”

Those times tested my undying love for dear Mother more than any I remember.

Over the years, I tried several of what I believe to be more gentle ways of waking someone up who has slept past my appointed schedule. To wit:

“Wake up and see the wonderful day given us.”

“All the other pretty little girls are up already.”

“Wanna take part in a wonderful day?”

“You said wake you up at Seven. It’s Eight.”

“I think Matthew McConaughey has taken up religion. He’s at the front door asking for you.”

“Candygram.”

“The fish are biting.”

“Momma always said that only bad girls sleep this late.”

“I think the house is on fire.”

“Your face is going to freeze like that.”

They always end the same way, though.

“Is that a baseball bat in your hand?”

Plenty of sleep is the secret to
a long life, and marriage.

My Redacted Life: Blessings and praise ...

The weather was warming and I was making progress restoring my health. About that time, two wonderful things happened. I like to kid my little pal, but she is a wonder. Also, I don’t think we appreciate our blessings. My life manifested both in 1975.

It happened this way.

I had reached the one-mile mark on the little 30-lap track at the YMCA. The second mile proved easier. I was breathing easy after 60 laps of jogging. Then a couple of wonderful things happened. First, I’ve always been a believer in the advice I heard once that we should give thanks for the blessings we are about to receive each day. I don’t ascribe it to religion, just life. It’s a lot easier to change the way we look at what happens to us, than it is to change the things that happen to us. So why not just give thanks in advance for a wonderful life?

One morning, I arrived early at the gym to hear the sounds of construction. At the front desk, I asked Ersel what was happening.

“Construction on the second floor,” he said. “We’re putting in a new gym and track. You’ll have to jog outdoors for a few days.”

“What kind of improvements?”

A new gym with new equipment and …?

“And?”

“A new running track with banked turns at the ends.”

“Same as the old?”

“No. Sixteen laps to the mile.”

Oh goodness. What a blessing.

For a couple of weeks, I ran outdoors. It was coming on spring so I didn’t mind. In fact, I ran without a shirt and started a tan, the first time in years I wouldn’t have been embarrassed to do that. Then the other thing happened.

We had been working on the Victorian cottage and I had taken a day off regular work to do manual labor. We had pulled a flat bed farm truck into the drive and I was loading stuff onto it with my shirt off when my Little Pal drove by, staring like she had just seen Sean Connery. She went around to the alley and parked. Then she went into the house and came out soon after in work clothes.

“Hell's bells,” she said. That was the way she talked back then. “I didn’t think you were here. I thought that was someone else working there. I didn’t even recognize you. Have you lost weight?" She grinned. "You look kinda sexy, all sweaty and everything."

Was there ever a more beautiful thing uttered by a Trophy Wife?

"It is kinda hot," I said, stepping forward.

"Get your ass back to work," she said. That's the way she talked back then.

La Jefa

My Redacted Life: A milestone ...

Then came that wonderful day.

After my little pal played her trick with taking up my pants two inches (see previous entry) I doubled my efforts toward good health at the Downtown “Y” in Little Rock. The little 30-lap track and I became good friends, though it did tend to make me dizzy.

I added to the distance and put more effort into the “strength and stretch” classes. Then one day …

One day I had little to do after lunch, so I gave it an extra try. Remember that I was a few beats away from a heart attack and over 230 pounds when I entered the gym for the first time, maybe four months ago. I felt good after 20 laps, so guess what?

Yep. I finished a mile. A whole mile. Thirty laps. The big prize. Give the man a cigar.

I couldn’t wait until I got back to the office to call my little pal and tell her the good news. She answered but with a drowsy voice.

“Guess what?” I said.

“I was wondering about that,” she said.

“No,” I said. “Listen to me.”

“I think I may go to the grocery store,” she said.

“I ran a mile today.”

“Momma called and woke me up early.”

“A mile,” I said. “I ran a whole mile without stopping.”

“Daddy said something about going fishing this weekend.”

“Are you listening to me? A mile. I ran a mile without stopping.”

“That’s the most interesting thing.”

“It’s interesting, but it also makes me feel wonderful.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Running a mile. What are you talking about?”

“There’s this one-legged blackbird hopping around in the back yard. I want to watch it. Did you have anything important?”

“No. Watch your blackbird.”

“Thanks.” Click.

It’s nice to have dreams, but best not share them without the proper preparation.

I don't know. It was something
about going several miles to
go fishing this weekend.

Overcoming Guilt

I am, as most people know, about one wheel short of a semi-trailer rig. Take, for example, the concept of guilt. Oddly, I don’t feel guilty about having told some lesser being off, using swear words in at least four languages. No, in fact, I brag about such antics with Philosophy Club members who meet, from time to time, at E.J’s on the corner of 6^th and Center streets in my beloved city of Little Rock. They tend to guffaw at my antics and that makes me smile.

On the other hand, I feel guilty when I pick a turnip green, shredding its life in my fingers. I might add that such guilt only lasts until said plant, along with a crowd of its brothers and sisters, has been thoroughly washed, seasoned, boiled until it is tender and tasty, and served with other victims of planticide: juicy corn kernels made into a thick wholesome bread and accompanied by buttermilk.  Guilt only extends so far in my world, or so I'd like to believe.

Why bring this up? The latest guilt-laden escapade of mine involves a small wooden table. We, my wife and I, obtained it like most of the hundred thousand or so objects we own. People con us into taking them, she buys them at flea markets, people leave them to us, she picks them up from piles of discarded trash, she swaps her pal Nick Nicholson something for them, we inherit them, or people leave them at our doorstep, ring the doorbell, and run away.

Anyway, I have, after hours of sanding and stripping, reduced this table to near its natural state. This effort revealed that the top comprises a number of woods of different shades, textures, colors, and grain. Was this arrangement deliberate? We would have to travel back a hundred years, find an artisan, and beg for the truth. To hell with that.

What I want to do is paint it and use it as a “splash of color” in a lonely corner of a bathroom in our Lonoke house. The color I’ve chosen is Pantone Color Institute’s color of the year, “Living Coral. That places me among the elite cadre of tasteful aficionados who cherish the dernier cri. Look:

So, why the guilt? Am I killing the soul of this antique table by converting it to a “splash of color?” After all, when it was first utilized, there was no such thing as color in poor rural homes, only drab furniture on the floor, and newspapers pasted on the walls and ceilings.

Am I demeaning history?

It gets worse. Taking Herself to Lowes to seek out the Color of the Year, I found the closest thing I could and suggested it.

“No.”

“What?”

“Here.” She pointed.

Now, raw courage came into play. At the risk of divorce at best and a session with “Mr. Louisville” at worst, I managed, in as strong a voice as I could manage, on the floor of Lowes, “My precious. I love you like Jesus loves a sinner. And if a hand grenade bounced down the aisle, I would jump atop it to save you.”

“But?”

“But, Navy Blue is not ‘a splash of color.’”

It still stands in limbo. Anonymous suggestions would be welcomed.

My Redacted Life: Pets of all sorts

We had been married maybe six months and were enjoying the home we purchased on the GI Bill. My beautiful, long-haired redhead—no longer long-haired and no longer a redhead, but still breathtakingly beautiful—decided we needed a dog. Six months of marriage had been enough to teach me that total and complete acquiescence greatly trumped any attempt at Pauline male dominance.

So she found a dog, and thus began a, so-far, 46 year-old family protocol. Feeling Biblical that day, we named him Jeremiah. He was a mutt, black with orange circles above his eyes, perhaps evolutionarily designed to convince predators that he was awake, when actually he was sleeping, which was most of the time.

Having grown to adulthood, he discovered the joy of eating, or attempting to eat, anything left within reach. He particularly enjoyed my treasured edition of Victorian poetry, but he shunned no potential meals. This brought him into contact with Marcel the Mystery Plant.

Marcel was a gift from a neo-hippy friend named Wes. With a gnome-like appearance and a taste for all things from the 1960s, he was a favorite with young kids who hung out at the Art Center. Thus, we understood it when he brought us a small container of soil and a mystery seed, explaining that some of the kids who gathered at his place were untrustworthy, whatever that meant.

We planted the seed and cared for the resulting plant. Of course, being good Methodists, we had no idea what kind of plant it was, but we nourished the slender young thing, awaiting our friend’s return for it. Going through a Gaulian phase, we named it Marcel.

It had grown to approximately a foot in height, with nice, long, serrated leaves when Jeremiah noticed it. It sat in a quiet corner of the kitchen where watering was simple and, since we feared there was something vaguely sinister about it, out of sight from most visitors.

Well anyway, Jeremiah quietly watched Marcel grow, giving us no indication of impending “planticide.”

Then one Sabbath morning, Marcel was gone, nipped down to soil level. Jeremiah lay beside it with the spots over his eyes doing a sort of “ping-pong” dance over the most innocent-looking canine face one could imagine. Every once in awhile, he would make this dog-moan, like Lassie had just walked by wearing a bikini.

It got worse. Brenda was cooking breakfast when her mother called to inquire about any intentions we had of attending church services that day. It took some time for her to employ her best prevarication skills and get us excused. When she returned to the kitchen, the remnants of an entire package of raw bacon lay scattered about the kitchen floor.

An emergency?

She thought so, and demanded that I find a vet who answered calls on Sunday. For once in our marriage, I refused a direct order, saying, “You call one and explain what just happened."

We compromised. I sat in a chair and watched Jeremiah for any sign of seizures or fits. He had none. Rather, he just belched bacon grease for several hours, hummed tunes like “Come on Over to the Other Side,” and from time to time looked up at me and said, “Far out man.” His eye spots danced in rhythm with the music and he would shake his head from side to side, especially when he did, “Don’t Bogart That Joint, My Friend.”

We lost a pound of bacon that day. Jeremiah lost his innocence. Marcel lost his life. Our friend Wes lost his safe house, and the 1960s lost some of the allure that had drifted with us along a smoke-filled path through time.

Jeremiah stayed with us, apparently un-phased by the experience, for 16 years. I don’t like to talk about the day he passed over the Rainbow Bridge, so we’ll leave him with the memory of moaning, “My Sweet Lady Jane.”

Yeah, I know. She's never
held me like that.

My Redacted Life

We had been married about six months or so, my redhead and I. Did I ever mention that she had fulfilled the major dreams of my life? That is to say a knockout girl with long hair, a sports car, a good job, and the opportunities abounding in civilian life. I was set.

Well, almost. As the ink had begun to dry on our marriage certificate, she, this knockout redhead, informed me of the immediate cessation of driving around with “the top down.” Seems that it caused tangles in her long hair. No problem. I immediately surrendered that small aspect of my dream-structure. I suppose I was, early on, developing an understanding of the requirements for a long marriage.

It did come as a surprise, however, when I received a call one day at work. “You should see,” a lovely feminine voice said, “my new haircut.”

“A trim?”

“A little more. You’ll like it.”

The afternoon proved as agonizing as the wait for a jury verdict. Later, I drove my Green Angel, with the top down of course, to the home we had recently purchase. Visions swam unimpeded through my head of “beehive hairdos” so popular in my formative years. My heart beat a slow tempo of anticipation guided by fear.

She wasn’t there when I arrived home. There was only one way to prepare for the tragic unveiling. I popped the top on a beer and put on an Otis Redding album. I waited. Maybe the scriptures would help. The only one I knew by heart was John 11:35.

“Jesus wept.”

A car pulled up. I finished the beer and waited.

What do you know? The most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life walked through the door. Of course I had figured by now that my new wife wasn’t a true redhead, but I was totally unprepared for what I saw. Outside the birds began to sing. My heart raced and my mouth went dry. I guess that throughout a long marriage, a person will fall in love numerous times. It’s best if is the same person. Worked for me as one might expect.

Decide for yourself.

We don't need no
stinkin' long red hair.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 39 (Cont._2)

We engaged a real estate professional to help find a house. He insisted on our spending more. We insisted on buying what we could afford. Knowing little about the market in Little Rock, we passed up a couple of deals that would have been quite lucrative as time passed. The fact of buying on the GI Bill limited our choices to a small degree. Some sellers opted not to face the additional paperwork. We held hands and observed in awe like a couple of kids in a candy store. The agent fed our excitement.

We settled for a housee in what might now be called “mid-town.” It was one of those “spaghetti subdivisions” with lots of crooked streets and dead ends. Ours fronted on a collector street, though, and provided a more or less clear shot through town, albeit much too far to walk to work. The street was called “Evergreen” and it was a primary artery in a subdivision known as “Leawood,” or “Leawood Heights.”

Churches sat to the immediate East, and diagonally across the street, so we felt secure from unforeseen developments. Or so we thought. Stay tuned.

We began the paperwork and immediately encountered a loan officer that had a bur in his saddle about veterans. That wasn’t unusual in those days. He seemed to resent the fact that we could purchase a nice home without amassing a large down payment like respectable couples. We ignored him. He threw a few stumbling blocks our way, but I had expert advice from those in the office who had been through a home purchase. We swept him out of the way without bother.

The folks at work, by the way, seemed happy for us. We were settling in to become settled members of the community. The house seemed large to us, although by later standards it would be termed tiny. We had no neighbors directly across the street. We met the two ladies who lived next door, along with a large Doberman named “Man.” We discovered later that the name implied that it was the only one, man that is, that they needed. They treated us graciously and life verged on the sublime.

Now, if we only had furniture to fill an eleven-hundred square foot home. We also needed to calm my father, who thought it highly ostentatious to purchase such a mansion. Only millionaires and other deadbeats, he assured me, would live in a home costing $20,000. Were we crazy?

Yeah, at that time pretty much crazy, but just purely wonderful.

That's what I thought anyway.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 39

When you live with someone, you learn things. My little wife with the long red hair and the splendiferous sashshay had secrets. When she wanted to make a design for something, she could draw. When she spoke, she spoke with neither confusion nor equivocation. She listened creatively. When she sat down at a piano, she could play anything from Mozart’s Rondo alla Turca to the song Jump Up from the James Bond film Dr. No. She had never told me. The realization shocked me, as did all her many secrets.

Then one day she wrote something. It was a masterpiece of clear, concise, declarative sentences. It made the point with neither flourish nor pretention. It led to more self-doubt on my part.

“Why don’t your write more?” I said.

“I don’t have that much to say,” she said.

I let it go. In the meantime, I had discovered that the well-known urban planning experts from whom I was to learn didn’t share Brenda’s writing skills. Sad to say, they had no writing skills at all, a fact that had first convinced me I was stupid. I would read a page of work and realize that I had no idea what the author had said. Sentences negotiated a tricky canyon of stilted hyperboles and headstrong allegories, circled back upon themselves, and landed topsy-turvy on a spiked bed of sharpened adverbs, only to encounter a sinister semi-colon that opened a door to more confusion. The typical planning expert couldn’t have described a bowling ball in five paragraphs without the overextended use of the word “efficacious” and a slathering of neo-traditional sentence structure.

A planner with a typewriter formed a fearsome spirit. Some stooped so low as to describe the size of an area using the antiquated terms "zygocephalum"—a measure of land based on the area of land a yoke of oxen could plow in one day. It grew worse with time. They made up words and phrases: complex and nonsensical ditties that made the public shake their heads in bemusement. They dubbed directional signs “wayfinding devices,” for example. They used the term “sense of place,” to replace the venerable standard, “No matter where you go, there you are.” Citizens lost that time-honored title that went back to the evolution of Common Law, and became “stakeholders.” Empowering them, it seems, was important, whatever it meant. A scary world, verbally speaking, urban planning is.

I struggled through the morass, sometime with little wayfinding assistance. I often struggled from a lack of effaciousness, limiting my search, like the drunk searching for his keys, to the areas most brightly illuminated. That eased the way.

At the same time, I struggled with a nagging suspicion that I had, perhaps, over-married.

Writing is like riding a horse.
You just saddle up and go.

My Redacted LIfe: Chapter 38 (Cont._2)

 What did a young married couple do back in the fall of 1972 when they had no spare money to spend, i.e. neither pot nor window? Oh, we were making money enough, but spare cash went into saving for a home. The GI Bill offered substantial benefits in a home mortgage and I intended to take full advantage. So, recreational outings were both creative and inexpensive. We saved and improvised.

Brenda introduced me to a cheap pastime. The area in which her family farm sat was rich in Native American history. A sluggish wetland called Baker’s Bayou was the center of much ancient activity. After a farmer had plowed a field rains had come, one could walk around and spot artifacts rising to the surface of the earth. We would collect specimens and store them roughly by location. Later we learned that the major collection points coincided roughly with bases identified by the state archaeologist's office. The effort produced much fun at little cost.

I suppose collecting them was insensitive, but by now they would have been pulverized into unidentifiable bits of stone by the huge farming rigs.

Brenda’s dad, Julius, told us of being a very young boy and talking to a very old former slave who said he could remember the last Indian family that lived on the Bayou. One morning they had simply disappeared during the night. Figuring placed the time somewhere in the late 1850s. An archaeologist acquaintance, who once helped us categorize our collection, considered the ages and verified that the story could have been true. I’ve thought about it many times over the years, the continuity of history and all.

While we were walking the ruins of a past civilization, I was working to control the nature of the next civilization. It struck me as how little impact the ancients left on the land and how much power we now possessed to enact change. Maybe the role of my profession wasn’t to design paradise, but to ward off hell. It made me think.

In the meantime, Brenda taught, I travelled the state, and, after a rain, we walked, hand in hand, over the remains of a past civilization of people who had no doubt worked, loved, and dreamed of a future. I suppose, perhaps, that one day some life form will walk over the remains of our efforts to lead a meaningful life.

Wonder what they will find?

Cars probably. Lots of
rusted old cars.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 38

Life rocked on. Brenda began teaching her second year of school, carpooling with a colleague. I was working on projects and continuing to study. Once a month, Tom and I would motor from Little Rock to Blytheville, Arkansas to attend the planning commission. Author John Grisham had been born there in 1955. By then 17 years of age and living in Mississippi, he was no doubt trying to decide whether to starve as a writer or grow rich from studying the law.

I had settled on urban planning, and was learning a lot about it. For example, cities in Arkansas weren’t required to plan at all. Those who chose to, however, all followed the same process as defined by state statutes. Arkansas existed as a so-called “Dillon’s Rule” state, a descriptor named after an old judge somewhere, named, aptly enough, Dillon. He opined that cities were creatures of the state and had no inherent powers, only those granted by the state. That was news to me, and it complicated things.

The secret was in the plan. If cities chose to make plans, they were to protect the health, safety, welfare and morals of the community. The plans set policy rather than law. In order to carry them out, the cities could enact zoning and subdivision regulations which did constitute municipal law.

Most people didn’t, and many still don’t, understand the difference. In reality, many cities simply adopted plans, then went about business as if those plans didn’t exist. Planning was important primarily (to many cities) because it made them eligible for certain grants.

It closely resembled the way our new household was forming. As the husband, and, by the power granted by no less than the Apostle Paul himself, I was head of the household. As such, I set both policy and law. The wife, in this case my new bride Brenda, was to adore me quietly and diligently while setting about to help me carry out my policies and enact my rules. Smooth is as smooth does, so to speak. I think that may be in the Scriptures somewhere.

Here’s how it really worked. I could set all the plans and policies I chose. No problem. Then it departed from standard doctrine. The rules we lived by had nothing to do with my plans or policies. A set of rules, rules that Herself enacted and enforced, governed our day-to-day activities.

It worked more peacefully that way. In similarity to the benefits of urban planning, compliance qualified me for benefits not available to the recalcitrant. As with any fledgling form of government, it took a number of years for the doctrine fully to establish itself as governing methodology, but it would finally settle into a standard process of “plan and ignore.”

That’s urban planning in a nutshell. Marriage is, after all, a metaphor for many aspects of modern life. That’s why it is fitting and proper that it be available to all.

Oh wow! This marriage thing
 isn't so bad, after all. Is it?
Women can rule. Neat.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 37: (Cont._3)

It all ended soon, the wedding that is. We enjoyed a nice reception and met most of the folks in Lonoke County who knew my new bride. That was nearly all of them, as Hazel had worked in the local doctor’s office for years. Also, the two families had been around for a spell, well-known if not infamous. Most inquired as to what I did for a living or what church I attended. A few wanted to know, indirectly, if I had completed high school or college. I could tell I had landed amongst people who liked to stay informed.

Uncle Roy took pictures. Vernell and her sister looked gorgeous in the gowns Brenda had sewed for them. The parents got to know one another, and I had a chance to visit Leland Bassett, down from Fayetteville. A lady who worked with Hazel had made a splendid wedding cake. We cut it and did the full routine. I do believe I behaved satisfactorily. At least I never received censure from the three harpies who had been retained to supervise my pre-wedding training.

It was a good sendoff. We flew to Denver the next day, then to Aspen, where I fulfilled my brief assignment. We rented a car and drove farther into the mountains. We shopped and ate well. So far this marriage thing was going well. Before we knew it, we were on the last leg of the flight to Little Rock, ready to face the reality of life as a married couple.

I soon discovered that she didn’t roll a tube of toothpaste correctly: from the bottom up, choosing, simply to squeeze arbitrarily.

She discovered that I didn’t always pick discarded clothes from the floor immediately upon dressing.

I discovered we didn’t have enough vertical storage area for all her makeup.

She discovered that I snored.

And so on. Maybe marriage wasn’t as simple as some imagined. Maybe one only masters its intricacies in a bleak classroom labeled “experience.” Unlike some other of life’s trials that must be overcome, though, it was a hell of a lot of fun trying.

I went back to work the next week and discovered that the company’s subdivision was progressing. We weren’t allowed to sell lots until the improvements were completed, or some sort of payment assured for their completion. Despite this, early interest bloomed and there were already “dibs” on some of the lots. We talked enthusiastically of selling the thing, enjoying the profit, and beginning another. What could possibly to wrong?

Have you ever gone to a skating rink and watched the tall, thin fellow with oily black hair, sideburns, form-fitting jeans, and a tight black tee-shirt with a pack of Lucky Strikes folded into one sleeve? Yeah, the one who glides around the floor with unbelievable ease and grace, making turns and moves so breathtaking that the girls gasp. Recall how easy he made it look? Anybody could do it.

That’s the way we felt about land development.

As I was trained to do.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 37: (Cont._2)

Robert Julius Cole, survivor of the Battle of the Bulge and the invasion of Germany, walked his only child to the alter for marriage. The look on his face suggested that surviving an artillery barrage may have been easier. But, he left her with me, and the preacher took over. Julius joined Hazel in the audience. Vernell was standing to our side and, I’m sure, took a deep breath and held it. My brother, on the other side, probably looked as if he might faint any second. I prepared to follow instructions. Brenda smiled. She was the only one who looked happy. Everyone else waited. For me, there was no turning back. The die was cast.

I had spent a year and a half of my new civilian life studying urban planning and, after I started earning a bit of money, seeking the ladies, all sorts of them. I had felt as thought a bright new world had opened for me and I was ready for a life of working, gaining respect, and chasing women. But, the latter was over now, no more looking for women.

I had found me one.

We went through the words flawlessly, I placed the ring on her finger and the preacher announced us “man and wife.” Whew. Time to flee the scene. Then Brenda reached up and kissed me full in the mouth, in front of that whole church full of people. I declare.

Have I mentioned that I had never been to a church wedding before? The Navy certainly never taught you about them. The service was your beloved spouse. Anyway, we kissed and it was over.

Then Brenda folded her wings, took my arm, and walked me down the aisle and out of the church. I think maybe the congregation applauded. I’m not sure. Maybe they were just laughing at my shoes. I didn’t care. The ceremony was over and I was living a dream.

Trust me. I was stepping lightly.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 37

The time came for me to get dressed, drive to Lonoke, and marry the woman who had sashayed by and grabbed my heart not 200 feet from where I stood, long ago in a bachelorhood now nearing its useful end. I set my mind and managed everything, ready in plenty of time. All was set. There was no backing out now.

I folded my suit coat over the passenger seat of the Green Angel, checked once more to make sure I had the rings, and set off. There wasn’t a great deal of traffic in those days. With plenty of time, I drove carefully, taking old Highway 70, where we, Brenda and I, had taken so many late-afternoon drives back when we were courting. I wondered to myself if I had ever thought it would come to this. Was I a lucky man or what?

Or what?

Folks had already started gathering at the Methodist church just south of the main business corner of Downtown Lonoke. I went around and parked across the street, heading north for a fast getaway. I locked the doors and walked across the street. Once inside the church, I was happy do see my brother, Ricky, who was to be my best man. Others stayed stashed away somewhere. They directed us to a room just off the front of the church. I could see the crowd beginning to gather. Then I saw Leland Bassett sitting alone on one side of the church. The ushers, one my brother’s friends and a couple of Brenda’s neighbors from her childhood, were busy. They were placing everyone away from Leland, on the other side of the aisle. What was that all about?

Have I mentioned that I had never been to a church wedding before?

Several hundred years later, the church was full and the ushers escorted Hazel and Sainted Mother down the aisle. By this time, there were a few family and friends on my side and the ushers had begun to guide the overflow toward them. I panicked at a wandering thought. What if I needed to attend the men’s room before things got started?

Then the piano hit a chord and a voice of wondrous beauty filled the air. I have no memory of the song, except that it was quite beautiful and expertly delivered. When the singer finished it was so quiet that I could hear my blood flowing. Someone told my brother and me to walk out and stand, side by side, facing the audience.

Oh my goodness. I looked out at all those faces and just wanted to take off running. We could still elope later. The piano started again, with a familiar tune. At the far end of the church, She walked in with her daddy, and I forgot all about running.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 36 (Cont._4)

Woke up early the day of my marriage, still wondering what I had gotten myself into this time. I had 12 hours to figure it out. I went back to sleep. When I finally did get up, I called my folks to make sure they were set. I called the office to check on things. I went over my modest wardrobe for the event. I checked on all the details for the honeymoon trip. I put my new purchase of Will the Circle Be Unbroken on my phonograph and sat on the couch thinking. It still didn’t make sense.

How had I moved from a lowly Naval Bosun's Mate, driving an admiral's wife and friends around Charleston Harbor to a developing professional about to marry the prettiest girl in Arkansas in the space of less than two years? I tried to think. That wasn't what I did best, but it helped pass the time. The effort proved too great, and I fell asleep again.

Later, I tried to pick the guitar like Doc Watson. That didn’t work. Then I tried to write down my thoughts like John Steinbeck might. That didn’t work either. I tried some calisthenics but that made my head hurt. Was I a failure at everything? Why would anyone want to marry me, especially such an “aggravating beauty” as I had landed—or was about to land? What if she changed her mind at the last minute? It would just show that she had come to her senses at last. Nobody would blame her.

Was there hope for me? That freeway, I thought, that ran to Lonoke would lead straight on to the east coast if one didn’t stop. From there, a man could escape to France, where I heard they had wine with breakfast. And here I was, fixing to be stuck in Arkansas the rest of my life. Or was I? One simple missed turn and the whole world awaited me. Maybe Brenda's mother, Hazel, was correct in worrying that I might not show.

Then the vision engulfed me: the smell of her full and flowing hair after she had washed it, the taste of that first kiss, the faint freckles under her eyes, the feel of hands when they held my arm, and the excitement in her voice when she told about going out on a snowy morning with her daddy, pretending to be rabbit hunting.

Oh, what the hell?

You might better be
getting your mind right.