Growing Up Southern: November 8, 2017

La Jefa doesn’t agree that the only chance she gets to expand her mind is by hanging with me. But dig it man.

Oops. Sorry. Flashback. Getting those a lot lately.

Anyway, the other afternoon we were talking out under the tree and spending an hour in happiness. Our conversation turned to the weather, as it often does in Arkansas, where daily swings of 30 degrees or more are not uncommon. I made the mistake of commenting something or other about certain conditions proving so cold that it “would cut your water off.”

“Are you talking about frozen water pipes?” she asked.

“Uh, no.”

“What then?”

“Don’t you remember that old Jimmy Rogers song where he slipped in the line about the “wind so cold, man it cuts your water off?”

“Jimmy who?”

“Never mind.”

“So whose water gets cut off?”

“I explained that it was a man thing.”

“Oh. That’s pretty silly.” She mused for a moment. “What if you have to go really bad?”

“You just find a warmer place.”

On it went. But afterwards I felt I had accomplished something. Not sure what, but something.

An addendum: When the Lady Hazel heard us discussing this, she added, "It makes you go real fast."

Morning Thoughts: November 7, 2017

Planned to sit and relax for a while last evening, but nooo. A mysterious force turned the TV to a horror show. It was Hollywood on Trial. This was the 1976 documentary covering the 10-year reign of terror conducted by the House Un-American Activities Committee against American citizens.

The committee ostensibly originated in 1938 to investigate alleged disloyalty and subversive activities on the part of private citizens, public employees, and those organizations suspected of having communist ties. In the 1950s, it took out after Hollywood. In addition to ferreting out dangerous communist terrorists such as Zero Mostel, Will Geer, and Ring Lardner Jr., it seemed to possess fervent hatred of Hollywood labor unions.

During the 1950s, HUAC as it was called, destroyed the careers of some 200 workers in movies: actors, screenwriters, directors, producers, and skilled workers, all suspected of having ties to Communism and, one supposes, Russia. Its most infamous tirade was against the so-called Hollywood Ten, a brave group of citizens who were jailed for for standing up to the inquisitors.

In the process it turned friend against friend by forcing, cajoling, or simply allowing (Ronald Reagan for example) fellow actors and others to name and testify against their own fellow workers.

The Role of Shame is long. It includes, in addition to Reagan, such luminaries as Robert Taylor, Adolphe Menjou, Robert Montgomery, Walt Disney and the heads of the other major studios. In my view, the worst depicted was Gary Cooper. His smirking testimony against his friends was made the worse by a most cavalier attitude. I’m finished with him.

It was a sad time, certainly not one of America’s “great” moments. Further, it opened the door to the horrors of Joseph McCarthy, an even worse moment in time.

Oh, but all is well now. Russia is our friend, protector, and benefactor. How times to change.

Or do they?

Some things never change.

Morning Thoughts: November 6, 2017

Once again, we are numb. As a Charlie Chaplin character, a certain Monsieur Verdoux, said, "One murder makes a villain. Millions a hero. Numbers sanctify.”

He was talking of war, but the boundaries between outright war and everyday life blur more each day.

It takes more than one murder to transfix the news for us now. We are that inured to the insanity. We learn of the act. We become transfixed and attentive, not for the threat to the soul of America, but for a sign that our side is right. We then look at the numbers. Are there any new records set?

Then we look for the location and assure ourselves that the dangers lies nowhere near us.

For a tragic and alarming percentage of us, we await the identification of today’s monster. Will that person’s background fit some position they hold? Can they profit politically?

Perhaps, as we stand closer than ever in our planet’s history, to the final planetary war, or environmental implosion, these minor warmups, no matter how transfixing they are on the micro scale, serve to divert or prepare us for the macro disaster.

It seems as, in the words of Matthew Arnold, “I, on men’s impious uproar hurled, think only as I hear them rave, that peace has left the upper world, and now sleeps only in the grave.” And of all our nation’s populace, I’m the only person who has no idea of a solution.

One group demands a cure that will never happen. Their demands only strengthen and further enrich those who don’t agree with them. The barriers grow more strongly constructed. Where leaders once spoke, following tragedies, to heal, comfort, and provide hope, they now speak—or in more cowardly fashion, tweet—for political gain.

We insert the insipid phrase “thoughts and prayers” as a universal balm that replaces reason, analysis, and action. One can only wonder at the result, had FDR simply offered thoughts and prayers to those who lay at the bottom of Honolulu Bay, and their families, or to the farmers starving to death on the plains comprising the Dust Bowl.

I’m left, once again, with the pure and sanctified knowledge of one sure thing, following yesterday’s tragedy. There is one certainty on which we may count in the near future:

Nothing will happen except that we will receive more mind-deadening facts. We will do nothing, learn nothing, agree on nothing. Our addictions to violence and the tools of violence are simply too great. The desire for political and monetary benefits profound in our culture now, and they demand profound disagreements.

Which of these great philosophers is right?

“Das ist die Dämmerung der Götter.” - Richard Wagner

“So long, it’s been good to know you.” – Woody Guthrie

“Wherever human beings are concerned, trend is not destiny.” - René Dubos

“I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail.” – William Faulkner

“Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence.” – Helen Keller

“I have a dream …” Marin Luther King, Jr.

“… choose you this day whom ye will serve …” – The writer of Joshua 24:14-15 KJV

Is in up to each of us" So be it. As for my family and me, we choose peace, hope, and compassion.

.

Morning Thoughts: November 5, 2017

I was in an ugly frame of mind this morning: another year older, eye swollen shut from a wasp sting, and a list of “must do” items a mile long. The bi-annual ordeal with time change has begun, and, furthermore, it’s Sunday.

On top of all that, I’m scheduled for an overnight trip this week. That means I’ll have to pack a bag, wear a suit, and sleep alone in a galaxy far away.

If that doesn’t suck enough, I need to patch a hole in the roof of one of the buildings at the farm. Along with the “year older” bit, the height at which I become debilitated from fear of heights is a foot lower, now standing at six feet—two feet lower than the roof.

Just thinking of the national news creates ten percent rise in my blood pressure.

The devil on my left shoulder began to list my shortcomings.

- I’ll never write like John Steinbeck.

- I’ll never play guitar like Steve Davison or Mike Benetz.

- I’ll never create woodworking masterpieces like the fellows at the hardwood store.

- I’ll never be elected to the Piddlers’ Hall of Fame unless I drop my remaining consulting work.

- I’ll never finish Finnegan’s Wake.

- I’ll never convince some of my friends to use The Sermon on the Mount as a voter’s guide.

- I’ll never give Scarlett Johansson a case of the vapors.

Wait a moment!

That's when I woke up. I looked into the sleeping face of the prettiest woman in my world. A soft glow surrounded that face like a thin gauze pressed from fairy dust. She smiled in her sleep and whispered "Matthew McConaughey" but I knew she was thinking of me.

I smiled. Another year older and another year wiser and less likely to panic over what someone possessing high power tweets. America has survived worse.

Music? If it still makes you smile, to hell with fame and fortune. And the most important thing about woodworking is not making masterpieces, but not cutting off your fingers.

Voting? The arc of history will flow back to justice, peace, and compassion, just you wait and see.

Another year older, but not another year deeper in debt. Our investment portfolios have risen steadily since the Great Recession and we’re currently taking profits in prep for the next GR, or, as we financial gurus put it, “when the chickens come home to roost.”

I’m too old for the draft, but also more advanced in my knowledge of avoidance should we actually achieve the current goal of a two-front war. The bone spurs only bother me at heights above six feet, and helicopters go a lot higher than that.

The three of us are in good physical condition for our ages, and we all still enjoy a glass of wine, a good laugh, and happy music.

With these thoughts a’swirling, I went to the bathroom and stared at my swollen face. It stared back and said “Just remember, this face once snared one of the most beautiful girls in Arkansas."

True that.

Then I walked to the table and fired up the trusty old computer. Lo and behold! That great teacher and writer: The Journalist Sonny Rhodes, had lauded something I wrote.

Suddenly, I was beautiful again.

When you're loved by
someone like this, you
have a damned fine life.

Morning Thoughts: November 4, 2017

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about the concept of caregiving. My friends know why. It is a duty and gift that can drain and inspire, both at once. This is so true when one is discussing the care of the elderly.

It is not an easy thing to do. It is one of those challenges that, as described by my Sainted Mother, “you just have to back your ears and do it.”

The medical profession defines “caregiving” as: "… the act of providing unpaid assistance and support to family members or acquaintances who have physical, psychological, or developmental needs. Caring for others generally takes on three forms: instrumental, emotional, and informational caring. Instrumental help includes activities such as shopping for someone who is disabled or cleaning for an elderly parent. Caregiving also involves a great deal of emotional support, which may include listening, counseling, and companionship. Finally, part of caring for others may be informational in nature, such as learning how to alter the living environment of someone in the first stages of dementia.”

We modern Americans differ on the concept. Some, in agreement with the current Catholic Pope, stick to the ancient admonition that we should minister to those who mourn or are poor in spirit, and that we should be merciful to others and makers of peace. Others of us don’t.

Historians of Christianity, from what I’ve read, attribute a strong allegiance to caregiving among the early Christians. It seems that they were known for their strong sense of concern for the welfare of one another. Further, mercy and compassion, it seems, formed strong components of that caregiving.

I’m talking here of the very earliest of Christians, when the movement was still a cult. It existed before (1) the writings of Saul of Tarsus, later “the Apostle Paul,” (2) the writings of the gospels, (3) the selection and arrangement of the gospels by a bunch of elderly men self-appointed to the task, (4) the design of a male-dominated and hegemonic administrative structure to carry out the intents of the latter so-called “Christians,” and (5) the ultimate epochal movements that allowed individual reading and interpretation of Christianity’s most sacred texts.

Each of us is free to form our own analysis and opinion concerning the evolution of Christianity and its acceptance of the ancient warning to care for “the least of those among us.”

Let us return to the medical definition of caregiving. I’m struck by the passage that “caregiving also involves a great deal of emotional support, which may include listening, counseling, and companionship.” Until one has found themselves, their friends, or their families in the position of caregiving, one can’t appreciate the toll that it takes on the giver. Ofttimes, that person needs caregiving as much as the actual patient. Perhaps that is why such a large portion of America’s population chooses not to be bothered.

There is a temptation to compare providing care to the elderly to providing care for children. “They took care of you when you were young. You take care of them when they get old.” While it is true that some demands, such as tending the very helpless, maintaining constant vigilance, and the testing of patience are similar, one difference hovers over the process like a cloud over a lonely mountain. The care of a child can lead to a brighter future, a family, and a treasure trove of waiting memories: achievements, graduations, weddings, and careers.

The care of the elderly leads “only to the grave.”

The world's best caregiver

Growing Up Southern: November 3, 2017

Once, as a pre-teen, I took a ride with one of the vendors who called on my father’s little grocery store. It was an interesting trip.

We drove out to the railroad yards to see about a shipment of something that my father had ordered and which had gotten misplaced. My fellow traveler’s name was Bill Shepherd, a member of one of my home town’s most prominent Caucasian families, and a hero of mine, hence my going along for the adventure.  As we walked across to the area where the shipment was supposed to be, though, a man accosted us.

“Mr.,” he said, “can you spare a little something for a man who’s on the down and out?” He tipped an ancient hat of undetermined origin and style. All I know is that it wasn’t a Greek fisherman’s hat for he was neither Greek nor a fisherman. He was, instead, one of the last of a long-standing American tradition.

“They don’t treat us hobos very good these days,” he continued, as sincerity, pathos, and noxious odors oozed from him in equal proportions.

I had no money so I looked to my companion. Sensing my pity, I suppose, he fished out a dime, maybe even a quarter, and handed to the man. A quick salute and “thank you,” and he turned. As a railroad man walked up and began conversation with my guardian, I watched the hobo stride quickly away. He eased between two lines of boxcars and I could barely make out a group gathered around a fire, and waiting for him.

Probably, they are all gone now, the hobos. Once you could see them, some still children, standing in open boxcars as trains passed through my home town. Most would wave merrily as if to say, “I was once imprisoned in an automobile just like yours, but look at me now.”

That was years ago. That poor demented kid who was the subject of Jon Krakauern’s Into the Wild, a 1996 non-fiction book, supposedly rode freights on his way to his self-imposed doom. That’s the last I’ve read of the practice. I haven’t actually seen anyone riding the rails in a half-century or more.

Hobos enjoyed a sometimes positive image in their day. Popular entertainment forms cast them as independent souls, belonging to neither boss nor wife. North for summer and south for the winter, they customized life to fit their own preferences and whims. People wrote songs about them. Studios featured them in movies. Folk tales about their colorful lives abounded. Remember Sullivan’s Travels starring Joel McCrae and Veronica Lake?

Some old railroad men from my home town weren’t as charitable. They related tales of co-workers found behind train engines with their skulls cracked, for the cash in an honest worker’s pockets, by a “King of the Road.” Where you stand depends on where you sit, after all.

Still, as the pressures and inanities of the modern world press upon us, it tempts one to, from time to time, imagine sitting on the floor of a speeding boxcar watching America roll by with no need whatsoever of our puny skills and abilities, and no regard for our laughable aspirations.

Yeah. Tempting. I can almost hear the whistle screeching if I close my eyes. Goodbye to stress, troubles, deadlines, and obligations. Can you feel the breeze? I can.

But first, I have to go feed my wife’s cats.

Morning Thoughts: November 2, 2017

He was a kind and gentle man. Having marched crossed Belgium as a rifleman with the 79^th Infantry Division in 1944, he never harmed another living thing needlessly after he got home.

He had only the most minor of shortcomings, none rising to the level of faults. He avoided fancy doings and digs, preferring the company of his family, other farmers, and his cattle. And, cursed by the lack of a devious bone in his body, he was forever proving to be overly trusting that others were as honest as he. Naturally, people took advantage of him.

I speak of course of my father-in-law, the late Julius Cole of Lonoke County, Arkansas, who loved his daughter more than life itself and tolerated me as long as I behaved accordingly.

There was this predilection he had for fried catfish, and that prompted a classic instance of deceit. I suspect, if it turns out a particular way, there are several spots of an hour or so in Purgatory reserved for the “perps.” It would serve them right.

I mentioned yesterday the legendary Murray’s Catfish Restaurant in DeVall’s Bluff, once the unchallenged best catfish place in America, a title since moved to a new location by the son of the founder.

Anyway, the original Murray’s was not a place you would go to unless you knew you were going to it or were with someone who did. Almost inaccessible, it consisted of a series of mobile homes joined together at odd angles and hosting tables on each side of a narrow aisle. Once in, though, one might expect to see the Governor of our state, a crowd of “bond daddies,” state celebrities, or a congressional delegation, along with locals and national travelers who had wormed the location from someone or other.

Imagine the joy in which Julius received word that a family delegation was coming to town from the Chicago area, and that a “trip to Murray’s” loomed as part of the visit. Joy of joys, he loved that place. The day couldn’t pass quickly enough, although he may have sensed something odd about the plans when they told him to wear a sport coat and tie.

Going formal to Murray’s Catfish place meant making sure you scrapped the cow manure off your boots just before you went inside.

Here lies the sad truth, dear reader. There are two Murray’s in the central Arkansas area.  Yep. You guessed it. They had kidnapped this poor innocent soul for an evening at Murray’s Dinner Theater in Little Rock. One can only imagine the level of crestfalleness. (Is that a word? Let's make it one. It's the only one that seems to fit).

There’s more, the horror, the horror: Murray’s was featuring a musical as the entertainment portion of “dinner theater.”

He never talked about the evening much. When I asked him how it went, he would begin repairing a broken fence wire with short, jerky motions and mutter something about people “prancing around like a bunch of g#%#%*&!%*d idiots.” I never pushed the topic for I was pretty sure he still remembered how to use a rifle.

As for the joyful band of sadists who pulled off this subterfuge? They all thought it was funny.

No true Arkansan would pass this
 up for an evening of song and dance.