Saturday, August 29, 2009

Do You Remember?

Do you remember when your parents left the front door unlocked and ghettos were neighborhoods? Do you remember when the American flag stood for freedom and we didn’t need laws to protect it?
Do you remember when celebrities actually did something to be known as a celebrity? Do you remember when criminals were despised and not on the best seller list, and when taxes were only a necessary nuisance?
Do you remember when sagging pants meant low on the hips, not around the thighs. And what’s the deal about girls showing off their thong underwear and boys parading around so everyone can see most of their boxer shorts?
Do you remember when the poor were too proud to accept charity and the clergy talked religion not politics? Do you remember when clerks and repairmen took pride in pleasing their customers and songs had a tune that you could sing-along with. 
Do you remember when people knew what the Fourth of July stood for and you never dreamed the United States could lose at anything. Do you remember when the world looked up to the United States. 
Do you remember when a Sunday drive was a pleasant outing and not an ordeal. Do you remember when people sacrificed to make our country great? Do you remember when people valued what they had and enjoyed reading something other than their e-mail.
Do you remember when receiving a free education was a privilege and students respected their teachers and elders. Do you remember when politicians were patriotic and meant it, and when everyone knew the difference between right and wrong, and there were no gray areas.
Do you remember when you considered yourself lucky to have a good job and proud to have it.
And, do you remember when you could enjoy sex and the only dying involved a broken heart.
Do you remember . . . 

Friday, August 28, 2009

Kids Say the Darndest Things

Yesterday I received an e-mail from my favorite neighbor Sandy Mitchell telling me to go to the enclosed web site (http://carolynspreciousmemories.com/Videos/artlinkletterkidsntribute.html) and watch the little kid on the left of Tennessee Ernie Ford. “He’s so cute!” The site was wrapped in doilies and was led by a old kinescope of Ernie singing a song surrounded by kids. 
As he sang, one of the kids really got into the rhythm and he truly was really cute.
However, below that “video” were three from the late Art Linkletter’s show, “The Kids Say the Darndest Thing.” In one, Linkletter introduced the segment by saying the kids are all between the ages of 6-9 and “I follow two rules: 1- I don’t tell them what to say because they can say things much funnier than I can tell them. And, 2- I don’t tell them what not to say because they are innocent and whatever they say would never embarrass me.” Not surprisingly, they were sometimes funny, sometimes embarrassing, but always entertaining.
I’ll not spoil your viewing by picking my favorites, but below are a few I remember from long ago watching Art Linkletter and listening to my own kids. He had a wonderful rapport with the kids, much like Bill Cosby when he reprised the show years later after it had gone off the air - remember his Jello commercials..
From memory and I don’t remember the specific questions asked, but they are fairly obvious.
“Well, I guess that’s the last we’ll see of her...”
“Big boys sleep alone and three-year-olds are too big to sleep with me.”
“Superman sleeps by himself.”
“Daddy, Daddy! Mommy didn’t sleep with anyone while you were gone.”
“Dad, did they get their money by genetics or did they earn it?”
I think the reason that stories about children are always popular is the fact that, for the most part, they’re always honest.
Children hug when they feel like hugging and kiss only when they want to express emotion. The things that make them the greatest gift, however, is the fact that they never say they love you unless they mean it.
You know, growing up is not all its cracked-up to be.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Skivvy and the Bayou City Boogie











Last Saturday around sunset, with Houston’s heat index hovering around 115ยบ, a tall, skinny man named Robert “Skivvy” Johnson robbed a McDonalds and was seen stumbling from the fast-food restaurant with several employees chasing him. 
While holding the sack and pistol in one hand and holding his trousers up with the other, Skivvy crossed a busy intersection toward a shopping center where he rushed into an O’Reilly Auto Parts Store. Sensing his predicament, he grabbed a hostage and drug her to the street. At this point, he was being chased by employees from O’Reilly’s, McDonalds and a member of Houston’s finest.
Somewhere along the way he lost the hostage when she shoved him into an Albertson’s shopping cart.  He had to do something so he hijacked the car of an 18-year-old, Lawrence Blackwell, pointed his pistol  and yelled, “DRIVE!”
He drove him to a nearby condominium where the harried bandit abandoned Blackwell’s car and literally kicked down the door of widow Miriam Trashell. Amazingly, the near-sighted Miriam was apparently expecting trouble because she immediately started firing her pistol at the intruder, who naturally returned fire – luckily neither hit anything. Houstonians become a bit testy when the temperature and humidity are high. 
Shortly, he had enough of Miriam Trashell and dashed through the remnants of her front door onto the parking lot where he accosted a driver who’d just entered. However, he didn’t get far because, for some reason, he couldn’t get the car through the security gate. He then dumped his second car and again took-off on foot.
He ran straight to a nearby Dairy Queen where he climbed inside the cab of a Ben E. Keith truck, pointed the now-empty pistol at the driver and, between huffs and puffs, demanded the truck. The brave driver yanked the gun out of his hand as the befuddled thief fell out the side door and again escaped into the night.
While being chased on foot by a Houston policeman and employees from McDonalds, the auto parts store, a Ben E. Keith meat truck driver and presumably the still irate Miriam Trashell,  he stumbled his way into a nearby residential neighborhood. 
The poor guy - I’m beginning to feel sorry for him at this point - jumps a fence where he’s attacked and bitten on the shoulder by a large gray Weimaraner. He then beats a hasty, albeit bloody, retreat back over the fence where he runs headlong into the growing posse. 
When last heard, he was being treated for minor injuries at Ben Taub General Hospital and obviously under arrest. While being handcuffed and bending over the hood of a Houston squad car, Skivvy was heard to say, “Who was that crazy woman in the apartment?”
Inspector Clouseau could not have planned a better August evening of entertainment in The Bayou City.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Tonda

At the conclusion of our third date, I matter-of-factly announced to Tonda that I’d like to marry her. It was not really a proposal. It was more of a statement of purpose.
We were standing on the unlighted porch of her parent’s double wide which sat anchored on their 32 acre family compound adjacent to Lake Texoma. The situation was unusual, at least for me (actually, probably anybody) because I’d had a date with her sister, Starling, the night before.
Being in my mid-30s and divorced for several years, I was dating and not overtly looking for a new wife; I thought. I’d had several not-serious dates with Starling and more than several serious dates with Martha who lived in Marshall, a smallish town in east Texas.
Martha was divorced, full of life, the sister and sister-in-law of my best friends in Sherman, and was the daughter of southern aristocracy and respectability. I liked her a lot. Then Tonda, unknowingly, swept me off my feet.
I’d met Tonda briefly in Jack Stafford’s office five years previously. By briefly, I mean the encounter could have been timed in seconds. I remember her having longish red hair and a terrific smile. Unfortunately, I remember little else. 
Our next meeting was when she visited Starling after filing for divorce from Floyd, a manager of a Gibson’s store (an early rival of Wal-Mart). After Starling and I had attended something or other at the country club, we went to her parent’s house, played cards and visited with Tonda and Granny. We had a proper good time and, I’m embarrassed to say, I was now smitten with three women – two of whom were sisters with one of them not officially divorced. Tonda still had that red hair, her vivacious personality and was currently unavailable. 
Within days, in which Starling and I had another date, Tonda returned to her home and five year old daughter, Courtney, in central Texas, but you know what they say about “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
In the meantime, Starling and I had a few more dates, but my ardor had slackened considerably. Thank goodness Martha was still in east Texas.
Then one day Tonda reappeared, this time for good, and she and Courtney moved into a very tiny travel trailer (a cat could jump from front to back) that was a stone’s throw from her sister. Life was again somewhat complicated, but I didn’t care. Tonda’s divorce was officially immanent so I asked her out.
Tonda, being the kind person that she is, asked her sister, “How serious are you and Allen?”
“Not too,” replied Star. “Why?”
“Allen has asked me out and I wondered if you’d mind,” responded my non-officially divorced future wife. 
“Sure, why not,” said Starling, taking care of a third of my dilemma. 
Without me telling Martha, Martha knew that the attraction was gone. We’d last seen each other before my fateful third date with Tonda. Maybe she could tell something from the tone in my voice during that last call. Maybe she had also met someone or someone, at least, closer to her home. I’ll never know. I do know that she later met and married a surgeon in that smallish town in east Texas and hopefully lived happily ever after.
Meanwhile, Tonda and I dated with the energy that somehow thrives on the lack of sleep. I was working full time in my studio in Denison and acting in a community theater in Sherman until 10 p.m. each night. I’d then drive out to her -did I mention small- trailer. We talked until the wee hours and Courtney would either fall asleep in Tonda’s arms or had drifted off while I was in the middle of Act II.
Tonda’s divorce became final and we set an indefinite date for sometime in the future. We were now officially engaged.
One of the first persons we told was Jack Stafford, our good friend and assistant minister of our church. We asked him to officiate our marriage, but, much to our surprise, he refused, saying, “It’s much too soon after Tonda’s divorce. It will never work. I won’t do it.” 
We decided to decide later about the minister. No marriage date was set with both of us agreeing that when the time was right, “We’ll do it.”
Fall and winter passed with us blending our two families. My ex returned to nursing school in Ft. Worth to become a nurse anesthetist and I gained custody of my kids Andy and Kelly. Courtney and Kelly became sisters almost immediately, and Andy discovered baseball cards and loud music. Tonda and my ex became good friends and I discovered they are very much alike. By the way, Tonda’s ex (remember Floyd) tried to talk her out of our engagement by warning her I was “a ladies man.” I took it as a backhanded compliment, and I think Tonda just laughed.
Despite Floyd, all the kids, and the smallish trailer, one fine day in late April when the birds were chirping, the leaves were returning and the planets swung into alignment we decided, “It was time.” We got the license, called the other minister and our parents. “We’re getting married on Saturday at First Presbyterian Church and we’d love for you to be there,” was our simple verbal invitation. Jethro, my German Shepherd/Saint Bernard stood-in as best dog. We and the three kids were married on a bright sunny morning in the church courtyard, with parents and Starling as witnesses.
That afternoon our honeymoon commenced with us buying two carts piled with groceries and Tonda watching me play in a softball game. 
That was 29 years and three months ago. I couldn’t be happier. I made the perfect choice. Jack has made a lot of terrific decisions in his life but boy, was he wrong on this one.  But, we still love him and rib him about it every chance we get.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

The Sun and the Moon



The sun and the moon
I don’t know who wrote “the Best Things In Life Are Free” but the song writer was a wise person indeed.  Do you remember, “The Sun and the Moon. . .’?
Its lyrics are great but the author left out something– rain on a tin roof, and it should have been included. 
Last week it was thundering and raining so hard I couldn’t wait to snuggle into bed. I love the sound of rain. It’s so soothing, at least it is to me, but it scares some people. Meanwhile. I just drop deeper into sleep.
When we first moved into our new home, I was not yet aware of its night time idiosyncratic sounds and it was a pleasant surprise when I heard the sound of rain striking metal right outside our bedroom window. It’s funny how one simple sound can bring back many memories. Aromas can sometimes do that as well. And while I don’t live in the past, neither do I have any regrets about my childhood. 
The rain splashing on tin took me back to my boyhood when I always looked forward to spending the night in my grandmother’s cottage on Mockingbird Lane. She had this large evaporative cooler that hung out her dining room window. When it would rain, the sound created on that metal housing, mixed with the hum of the big fan blade was truly mesmerizing. Last week that simple sound took me back to my grandmother Mimi’s house. I miss her a lot.

'The Bible tells me so...'






Storytelling, terrific acting and writing are the keys to a wonderful cinematic or stage performance. Those are the reason’s why I enjoyed and still enjoy watching West Wing on television. I generally try not to get too involved in serial TV because my activities are so unpredictable that scheduling becomes a problem. I know I can time shift with a VCR but I just didn’t find one that was worth the effort until West Wing.
One of my favorite episodes was called, “The Midterms.” (Did I tell you I’m a political junkie and, reading my blog, you can probably tell I lean a bit to the left?)  Most weeks the ensemble cast is involved in several different but converging story lines, and this episode was no different.
Toward the conclusion, the White House is hosting a group of radio talk show hosts with the President Bartlet scheduled to attend. I love the ensuing dialog. 
Below is a transcript of the scene:
C.J. (Press secretary to gathering of radio talk show hosts at the White House)
Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Ladies and gentlemen. The President of the United States.
Everyone stands and claps. The flashbulbs go off as Bartlet enters the reception.
BARTLET (President)
Thank you. Thank you, very much. Thanks a lot. I wish I could spend more than a few minutes 
with you but the polls don’t close in the east for another hour and there are plenty of 
election results left to falsify. 
(Everyone chuckles.)
BARTLET
You know with so many people participating in the political and social debate through call 
in shows, it’s a good idea to be reminded...
(Bartlet loses his train of thought when something attracts his attention. The camera pans over 
to Jenna Jacobs, sitting on her chair.)
BARTLET
...it’s a good idea to be reminded of the awesome impact... the awesome impact...
He finally gives up and addresses her.
BARTLET
I’m sorry, um... you’re Dr. Jenna Jacobs, right? 
JENNA JACOBS (Conservative talk show host)
Yes, sir. 
BARTLET
It’s good to have you here.
JENNA JACOBS
Thank you.
BARTLET
The awesome impact of the airwaves and how that translates into the furthering of our national 
discussions but obviously also how it can... how it can...
(He sighs, and addresses Jenna Jacobs again.)
BARTLET
Forgive me, Dr. Jacobs. Are you an M.D.?
JENNA JACOBS
Ph.D.
BARTLET
A Ph.D.?
JENNA JACOBS
Yes, sir.
BARTLET
In Psychology?
JENNA JACOBS
No sir.
BARTLET
Theology?
JENNA JACOBS
No.
BARTLET
Social work?
JENNA JACOBS
I have a Ph.D. in English Literature.
BARTLET
I’m asking, ‘cause on your show, people call in for advice and you go by the name of 
Dr. Jacobs on your show. And I didn’t know if maybe your listeners were confused by that, 
and assumed you had advanced training in Psychology, Theology, or health care.
JENNA JACOBS
I don’t believe they are confused, no sir.
BARTLET
Good. I like your show. I like how you call homosexuality an abomination.
JENNA JACOBS
I don’t say homosexuality is an abomination, Mr. President. The Bible does.
BARTLET
Yes, it does. Leviticus.
JENNA JACOBS
18:22
BARTLET
Chapter and verse. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions while I had you here. 
I’m interested in selling my youngest daughter into slavery as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. 
(small chuckles from the guests) She’s a Georgetown sophomore, speaks fluent Italian, and 
always clears the table when it was her turn. What would a good price for her be? While 
thinking about that, can I ask another? My Chief of Staff, Leo McGarry, insists on working 
on the Sabbath, Exodus 35:2, clearly says he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated 
to kill him myself or is it okay to call the police? Here’s one that’s really important, 
‘cause we’ve got a lot of sports fans in this town. Touching the skin of a dead pig makes 
us unclean, Leviticus 11:7. If they promise to wear gloves, can the Washington Redskins 
still play football? Can Notre Dame? Can West Point? Does the whole town really have to be 
together to stone my brother, John, for planting different crops side by side? Can I burn 
my mother in a small family gathering for wearing garments made from two different threads? 
(Jenna Jacobs fidgets uncomfortably.)
BARTLET
Think about those questions, would you? One last thing, while you may be mistaking this 
for your monthly meeting of the Ignorant Tightass Club, in this building, when the President 
stands, nobody sits.
(Jenna Jacobs squirms in her seat but doesn’t rise. Bartlet glares meaningfully at her. 
She finally rises out of her seat.)
It was only a TV show but it highlights arguments that are heard too frequently. Presumably the person using the Bible as a reference assumes his/her opponent is ignorant in Biblical scholarship. Interesting when she’s suddenly cast with a more than worthy opponent. Regardless of how someone feels about this particular issue, the Biblical references don’t hold water in modern times. It’s unfortunate we need a fictionalized television show to highlight our debates and sometimes follies. Besides, one of the tenets of Christian teaching is tolerance. Maybe we should all practice it more often.

Monday, August 24, 2009

A vehicle I loved

Saturday, while driving to the cleaners to drop off a few shirts, I was stopped by a traffic light at Josey Lane and Frankford. Also stopped, but heading toward me on the opposite side of the street, was a 1963 white Studebaker Lark. When available, my dad would let me drive his car, a red ‘61 Studebaker Lark VIII with red and white leather interior and the Regal trim. I loved that car. Sounds snarky to love a car, but to a kid who didn’t have one it was wonderful.
First a little background. Dad was, and is, the most conservative guy I know. His cars were always white, always four door and always prim and proper. I don’t know what got into him in 1961 when he traded in his Buick, but I was astounded when he drove that somewhat compact, fire engine red car into the driveway. It had bucket seats (that folded flat, for sleeping?) and a console with a metal interior large enough to ice four cans of beer that, conveniently, even had a drain. Once, in a burst of extra money from my Morning News paper route, I splurged and purchased a reverb for the car radio that broadcast a semblance of stereo sound.
Needless to say I borrowed the red beast whenever available. Dad was kind enough to make it available very often.
After graduating from high school, I joined the Marine Corps and was fortunate to get a Christmas leave which involved an interminable bus trip from Camp Pendleton in California to Dallas. 
On New Years Eve I took Margie Asbury to a party, and after midnight we left to attend another gathering. At the hilltop intersection of Forest and Hillcrest, I looked both ways and slowed for the blinking yellow light. It looked safe so I started across. Unfortunately, a speeding car was hidden by the crest of the hill and hit the red Lark in the right rear quarter panel sending us into a violent spin. The impact caused the bucket seat to fold flat and Margie did a flip through the back windshield, and I was tossed out the driver’s door. Pretty good argument for seat belts, huh? But heh, this was before seat belt laws. 
Margie was okay, aside from bumps and bruises, and so was I. We were unhurt, but not so my first favorite car. It was totaled. On Margie’s side a 24 inch long, decorative metal strip (from the Regal trim) was bent inward and pierced her seat like a spear from Braveheart. In this instance, Margie probably would have died if she’d been wearing a seat belt. We were lucky.
Saturday, as I took the shirts to the cleaners and glimpsed across the street, I remembered a great little red car.
TRIVIA
(Try it without Google)
The answer will be in tomorrow’s blog.
Yesterday's Trivia: If a female dolphin is called a cow, what is a male dolphin called? A bull
Today’s Trivia: In Chinese, what is the word for mother?

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Sometimes simple things can be confusing

During a visit to Jack Tar Village in Galveston, TX, we stopped for dinner at their restaurant. I love their food, but hate the way their rest rooms are designated for males and females. They have male and female dolphins on the doors, nothing else - no bonnets, purses, shotguns or boobs to make obvious which is which.
I was in a hurry but stopped and studied the three dimensional dolphins. Not coming to a definite conclusion and feeling somewhat stupid, I took a deep breath, made my choice, opened the door and peaked in. (Getting way ahead of me aren’t you?)
Ever spent 20 minutes in an isolation booth while lifting your knees to your chest and holding your breath?
The moment of truth came almost immediately when I heard the tap, tap, tap of spiked heels on tile. My fears were verified when I heard female chit-chat. I honestly didn’t want to listen, but what can you do when you’re eight feet away. I was frightened my cell phone or change would slip out of my pockets, roll under the partition and interrupt their conversation. You become very religious on these occasions. 
They talked and talked. Meanwhile, my bad knee from high school football started cramping. I was beginning to have visions of a banner headline in the Galveston Daily News, “Retired teacher arrested in women’s rest room at local resort.”
I thought they’d never leave, but eventually they did, never once powdering their noses. Now I was scared I’d run into more ladies before attempting my exit.
Uncoiling, I took the gamble and hurriedly slipped out the door. Seconds after limping through the door a lady approached. She, not surprisingly, hesitated at the door’s female dolphin signage. Adjusting her bifocals, she tilted her head back and studied the door. Turning toward me she asked, “Excuse me, is this the ladies room?”
Acting like a passerby, “Not sure,” I innocently responded. “But the little figurine should tell you. Is it male or female?”
“Beats me,” she said and brazenly marched through the door.
Some people have all the luck.
Trivia question of the day
(Try it without Google)
The answer will be in tomorrow’s blog.
Yesterday’s Question: A group of geese on the ground is gaggle. What is a group of geese in the air? A Skein
Today’s Trivia: If a female dolphin is called a cow, what is a male dolphin called?