Growing Up Southern: July 22, 2017

It was simpler being a kid back when I was one. Your choices were clear. You were a Roy Rogers man or a Gene Autry man. Me, I always chose Roy. Don’t ask me why. They both dressed a little over the top, and had a habit of breaking into song when they should have been beating the living tar out of a bad guy or two. They were our heroes nontheless.

Toys were simpler too. You just found a sweet gum sapling about five or six feet long and a piece of leather for the reins and off you went. A good sturdy stick-horse would carry you through many an adventure and gallop you away from any danger. They weren’t as smart as Trigger or Champion, but then we weren’t either.

Of course, you needed a good hideout in the woods to rest during heroic episodes. They were ideal for hiding such precious loot as partial bags of Bull Durham tobacco, Bugler rolling paper, matches, and pilfered bullets in the off-chance that one of us ever got a twenty-two. Franklin R. Alread, who was the oldest of our gang, snuck a magazine full of pictures of naked women into our hideout once, but we “eeewed” him away with it.

We really didn’t care too much for the smoking either. We talked about it more than we engaged in it. Besides, only the bad guys smoked, as a rule. You never saw Gene or Roy doing it.

I’ll tell you one thing we didn’t like for sure. Robert Hester’s brother, Bobby Joe, found a half-full bottle of whiskey on the side of the road once, and I don’t care how much they seemed to enjoy it in the picture shows, we took one sip and threw that bottle of stuff into Bayou Bartholomew. I imagine it is still there.

Of course, girls weren’t allowed in the hideouts. My sister used to sneak up and try to catch us in some mischief, but we could usually hear her coming. We looked and looked for a snake to throw at her when she tried it again, but the little critters must have heard about our plans and, as they say, “lit out for the territories.”

After a hard day of such cowboy heroics, we would head back to our homes, victors all. We would count the number of women we had saved, the number outlaws we had chased from the county, and the bands of Indian renegades we had defeated. We weren’t altogether sure why we wanted to save the women, but if Gene and Roy did it, that was good enough for us. Besides, tomorrow we were going to be pirates and they didn’t give a hoot in hell about nothing. You never saw one of them singing to no woman.

Life blessed us free and easy, in those days. Had someone told us about the future, I’m sure our spokesperson, Benjamin “Boogey” Shannon would have said something along the lines of, “You mean they make those poor little kids sit around and stare at little black things in their hand all day? Where the hell is the fun in that?”

(Have a memory from growing up in the rural South you’d like to share? Send it to me. I’ll bet we would all like to hear it).

Well … there was this
one girl we might have
let into our hideout. But
she was special. 

Sailing To Oblivium: July 21, 2017

There is another memory of growing up in a small country grocery store that I wouldn’t believe had I not seen it. Those were different times, you know, very different times.

Most of the business that supported the store came in the morning, at noon, (“dinner time”) and late afternoon as people got off work. Since families had only one car, if any at all, there was not much traffic at mid-afternoon. After crops were “laid by,” there was even less.

During weather such as we are having lately, the only relief from heat in the store was a large pole fan aimed directly at the counter. It provided a minimum of comfort for both customers and the proprietor, my daddy.

Now here is where it gets a little unbelievable. As I have said before, my parents arose each morning at 5:00 a.m. in order to catch the early traffic. One can imagine how someone may have felt by mid-afternoon. Needless to say, small stores like that didn’t turn enough in sales to allow hiring help. You owned it—you ran it—and you just grabbed a little rest when you could.

I have seen my daddy, back in the old, old days, curl up on the counter of the store, under the fan, and nap briefly at that slow time of day. If a customer did come in, it would wake him and he would be right back on the job. Even had he not awakened, the customer would have probably just put an empty bottle in a rack, grabbed a “cocola,” and left a nickel on the counter.

Those times are long gone, in many respects. For one thing, the traffic never ceases these days on that once quiet highway, a graveled one in my early youth. Now, four lanes of asphalt accommodate a steady stream of drivers going somewhere, to do something, for some reason. They drive at speeds my mother would have described as “sacking air,” so one would imagine their purpose is an important one, but of that I am not certain.

Back toward town a short distance is a Walmart store, located on a site, incidentally, that once housed a stock car track. Any number of supporting businesses are located there now as well. Suffice it to say that a motorist headed South would have no use for a country grocery store these days.

And even if one did exist, the noise of modern life would probably keep the storekeeper from grabbing a nap.

Just remembering …

Sailing To Oblivium July 20, 2017

It was just a little country grocery store but, in some ways, a microcosm of a part of America—more Cannery Row than Peyton Place or Revolutionary Road.

It sat beside a state highway that connected the City of Pine Bluff to lower Arkansas (L.A.) and had maybe a tenth of the traffic that uses that road today. It had enough traffic to support the store, though, and the store made enough money to support a family: ours.

The building could be seen from a mile away, as a motorist crossed Bayou Bartholomew, the longest bayou in the world, to be immortalized later by guitar wizard Steve Davison.

A strange cast of characters met there each morning, along with the sporadic customers. My father would open before daylight to catch those going to work. He closed late in the afternoon, often putting in 14-hour days during the long days of cotton chopping and picking. We all helped, at various times.

The regular crew would gather around a pot-bellied stove at the rear of the store somewhere around mid-morning, after the traffic slowed. Sol, a master “body man” would quit sanding a car next door and wander over for a bottle of “Sweet Lucy,” i.e. Garrett snuff. Then came Sam the Bread Man. He would fill the rack and settle in for a break. Sam had been a teacher once. He couldn’t feed his family on the wages of a teacher, but he could still quote long sections of William Cullen Bryant’s Thanatopsis. He would if you asked him to.

Various salesmen and retirees made up the rest of the crowd, along with a few souls that were chronically allergic to work. Those included a man named Elmer, who had tried every known type of employment a rural life could offer, even preaching. When asked why he quit that job, he said, “Well, to tell the truth, I liked it. Didn’t have to work too hard. Got to visit all the women whenever I wanted. Felt good about spreading the Gospel. But, to tell the truth, the son of a bitches just wouldn’t pay me.”

That was a sample of the type humor that could break up the place.

My daddy ruled the store. My mother ruled my daddy. So, the crowd behaved, mostly. Since our house connected onto the store, only a screen door stood between our kitchen and the back of the store. Often, my mother would stop her ironing and cock an ear when the voices up front lowered to a low murmur. “They’re telling jokes,” she would say. Usually, she would allow them one or two, but would then start stirring around, making noises to signal that things were getting out of hand, and the boys might better behave.

They would, for they all feared her above anything.

During deer season, they had a special tradition. Daddy would put a big pot of seasoned water on the wood stove and everyone would bring something to put in it. There was little planning involved, so the results varied, but they always declared their deer-meat stew the best ever made, as long as my mother would furnish the corn bread. I can still smell those days if I try.

The store is gone now, “supermarketed” out long ago. None of the crowd is still alive, just a memory of Sol taking his first dip of the day, Sam quoting poetry, or maybe the way a certain man talked when describing a legendary coon dog. There is nothing left at that spot but those memories. Even the old building fell when they widened the highway.

I like to think though, when winter comes and men head for the “deer woods,” that there is some little white building somewhere, maybe high in the Arkansas Ozark mountains, where a bunch of men are seated around a wood stove on empty nail kegs, cooking a stew and telling jokes in a low voice so no one can hear. America would be better off for it.

The old place with Sol's body shop next door.

Sailing To Oblivium July 19, 2017

I’m trying my best not to be an old grouch today. So far I’ve not been successful. Maybe a little Doc Watson music would help. Or Steve Davison. I’ll think about it and try to escape what John Steinbeck called “the blackass.” I still wonder why I’m stuck with it.

It may have to do with the subject of my previous post: the weather.

Nah, I went ahead and braved it yesterday. Worked out fine. Felt like a real man afterwards.

It may have to do with the fact that we are moving away from governing in this country and toward opposing, vilifying, blaming, and destroying.

Nah. Who cares?

It may have to do with the fact that there is this chord position on the guitar that my beloved mentor Mike Benetz insists I use (I call it “Mike’s Misery”) that requires bending the last joint in one finger into a 90-degree angle with the next, and my body is rebelling.

Nah. My body has rebelled against any method of fun I’ve pursued for decade after decade and I’m still erect, … my posture, that is.

I’ve got it, the source of my curmudgeonery! They’re stopping Riverfest in Little Rock. Too bad. For them that likes that sort of thing, it was just the sort of thing they liked.

I hadn’t been in years. Nothing against it mind you. I just don’t like to be around that many people at one time. And I never did care for the play money. Oh, I understand its purpose. I just never cared for it. Mostly though, it was the crowd. I just don’t like that many people, especially on days like today, so you can imagine.

And … the whole thing had gotten a bit over the top for me. It has probably been ten years since a band performed there that I recognized. And the last time I went, purchasing a beverage of choice took close to an hour. And there were thousands of people there of the type who, as they say in the Arkansas Delta, "make my ass want a dip of snuff."

I remember the first time I went to one. I think it was the very first. Our neighbor from across the alley came to the back door and said. “I think they’re having something down on the river.”

“Big deal,” I said.

“I heard they have beer and music.”

“If you’re waiting on me, you’re backing up.”

We drove down, parked on Markham, and walked toward the sound of music. Yep. The “Greasy Greens,” one of the best local bands Little Rock ever produced, were playing. There was beer. And almost everyone from our downtown neighborhood was there. It was like a big block-party. There wasn’t a single pistol in the whole crowd.

The festival grew a lot after that. It really had, in my humble opinion, gotten out of hand. How do you keep something like that under control? Maybe they could just bring the Greasy Greens back down, (I think some of them are still around) park beer trucks along the paths, invite street musicians and other performers in, and let people relax and enjoy themselves like they used to.

The City of Little Rock could just put the whole thing on. It would provide some relief from worries about the news, give some local artists a chance to perform, promote harmony, and give our city manager something to do.

There. I feel better already. Can’t you just feel the smile?

Sailing To Oblivium: July 18, 2017

They call them “the dog days of summer.” I always wondered why. The dogs don’t seem to like them anymore than I do. Interspecies commonality?

Down here in the south, the heat is partnered with the humidity, doubling the misery. A walk to the garden and back makes your shirt wet. Further effort than that can make you curse your parents for birthing you in this location.

On the worst of days, you don’t even see any mad dogs or Englishmen out and about.

The old folks used to describe it in typical earthy phrases like “It’s hotter than hell’s pepper patch.”

A shipmate from Southern Missouri used the analogy of a pregnant prostitute in church, but I would never stoop so low as to repeat it. Those wild and obscene days ended long ago. Sort of.

I just say that it’s hotter than Donald Trump at a “truth or dare” party.

Why do we call them “dog days?” A trip to a favorite website, Wonderopolis, enlightens.

The ancient Romans called the hottest, most humid days of summer “diēs caniculārēs" or “dog days." The name came about because they associated the hottest days of summer with the star Sirius. Sirius was known as the “Dog Star" because it was the brightest star in the constellation Canis Major (Large Dog). Sirius also happens to be the brightest star in the night sky.

Sirius is so bright that the ancient Romans thought it radiated extra heat toward Earth. During the summer, when Sirius rises and sets with the Sun, they thought Sirius added heat to the Sun's heat to cause hotter summer temperatures.

Those old Romans were a real hoot, weren’t they?

When exactly are dog days? The Old Farmer's Almanac lists the traditional timing as being July 3 until August 11. Since any questioning of the efficacy of that revered source would threaten my marriage, we’ll accept it. Thus, we are smack dab in the middle of them.

I do know one thing. Having raised a couple of fine rows of corn in our garden, I decided, post-harvest, to chop down the stalks and feed them to a friend’s cows. Took me about an hour. As I finished, without a dry thread of clothing on me, I couldn’t help but thinking about the book Twelve Years a Slave.

In it, Solomon Northup, a free black man from upstate New York, is abducted and sold into slavery. He tells about being forced to along with other slaves, to cut sugar cane from daylight to dark on a Louisiana plantation. I try but I can’t imagine it.

I just hope that our plan to “make America great again,” doesn’t refer to those dog days of a different type.

I don't know. They seem happy enough.

Sailing To Oblivium: July 17, 2017

As far as I’m concerned, there are enough things causing friction in our lives that we don’t need to produce it knowingly. But some do.

Carl von Clausewitz, whose writings on war have affected the actions of generation after generation of generals, expounded on it in his classic work, On War. “Friction is the only conception which, in a general way, corresponds to that which distinguishes real war from war on paper.”

In other words, it all looks easy in some Chateau miles away from the trenches where men exist, under adverse weather conditions, suffer almost constant bombardment, and operate under standing orders to “report to the front and remain there in service until death, incapacitation, or the end of the war.” They know that a line drawn on paper, marking a direction of attack, doesn’t recognize the fact that, in reality, it leads through two feet of mud.

In other words, amateurs in the business, or people with nefarious motives, can get a lot of others killed. Unexpected changes in the weather, a surprise movement by the enemy, lost supplies, or a lapse of leadership on the ground can add untold friction to the best plans.

Now to our present condition in America. I seem to remember that Clausewitz also warned about creating unnecessary friction on our own part. Consider the habits of the Nazi army in mistreating civilians in captured territory, habits that generated resistance (friction). Napoleon Bonaparte didn’t create the kind of friction that Hitler did. We are told the French basically allowed a captured populace to continue operating as they had, as long as they didn’t cause trouble. Further back in history, we read of a similar practice during the so-called Pax Romana.

Okay. Okay. I’m getting to it.

With both Clausewitz and history on our minds, how the hell do we explain Donald Trump? Avoid friction? Why he arises during the early hours of the morning with one thought in mind, apparently. That is to create as much discord, distrust, and enmity among the American people as possible. Why?

Did he think governing the strongest and most important country in the world would be easy?

Does he think that making people hate him makes him powerful?

Does he think discord is the right way to progress?

Does he, even on the brightest day, imagine there are good, honest, loyal Americans that don’t share his views but who could be valuable allies when treated with understanding and a willingness to compromise?

Does he, as it appears at this point, think that we can “make America great again” by destroying everything that makes America great?

I don’t know. I’m just confused, some would say a lingering condition. I do know, however, that there are people whose political beliefs differ from mine, and that many of those people are good, honest, and loyal Americans. When we sit together in fellowship and good humor, we agree on most things and, I’m certain, could find many bridges with which to cross any gaps that do exist in our beliefs. They are not “losers.”

Nor did a much greater man than Donald Trump could even imagine—I’m talking about Abraham Lincoln—call the people of the South “losers” in April of 1865. He treated them as fellow countrymen and countrywomen. He was a man who understood the negative effects of friction.

Just thinking …

Sailing To Oblivium: July 16, 2017

There’s a passage in Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony which goes from dark brooding to sublime sunshine in only a few measures. It took longer and worked just the opposite for me last evening.

The sublime? This one is easy. It was enjoying dinner with one of my favorite couples, Brenda and Troy Galloway down from Bentonville, Arkansas. Yes, that’s where Walmart makes its headquarters, and Troy is Community Development director there. He is also a Brigadier General in the Army National Guard. Brenda serves as the official version of a truly gracious All-American. One of their daughters just graduated from West Point and the other will soon enter her second year at the United States Merchant Marine Academy.

The very model of a modern flawless family? “Pert near,” as we say in South Arkansas. I’ve always been lucky with friends.

As I say, it was a most pleasant evening marred only by the fact that my Brenda couldn’t join us because of caretaking duties. She gets her turn soon when she flies to Texas for a Don Henley concert while I assume the homecare role.

The dismal? Imagine my disappointment when, after such delightful evening, I awoke after midnight experiencing the now-familiar pain and nausea that accompany the passage of a kidney stone.

Yikes!

Four hours later, the pain left as suddenly as it had come. I now have a souvenir to remind me that things can, and do, shift back and forth between the sublime and the dismal, sometimes quite rapidly. The trick is to accept both and just hang the hell on.

And dance whenever,
and wherever, you can.