My Dad's Birthday

December 7th, in Franklin Roosevelt's immortal words, is indeed a day which will live in infamy. But for me and my family, it will always be a wonderful day because 92 years ago, my Dad was born. Although he's been gone for over two years now, I still think about him nearly every day. Something will happen at work, I'll hear something on the news, I'll read something about some fresh new idiot doing something moronic at a church somewhere and I will think of him and imagine what he would say. I will remember his wisdom and try to channel it. I wonder what he would think of what has become of us since he went home? What would he think of Trump?

My father was a conservative sort but he was no ideologue. He carried with him a sincere affection for FDR and a life long tender hearted love for the poor and disadvantaged. But he also had no patience for people or governments who didn't live within their means. That's it. That's all I really know about my Dad's politics. Isn't that amazing? The man lived 89 years and for much of that time had an actual pulpit rather than a bully one, and I still know so little about his views on politics. The reason for this was simply the fact that Dad considered himself a minister of the gospel first and as such a citizen of the Kingdom of God, not any Kingdom of Man. Although he was very proud to be an American, it never preempted his loyalties to the cross of Christ. May we all go out and do likewise.

The last birthday we celebrated with Dad was nothing special. We brought dinner over to the house and gave him some gifts. Luckily I thought to write what follows. It was a nice memory, the sort that warms the heart and takes away some of the longing and loss that I feel on his birthday. But I have nothing to complain about where Dad is concerned. We had him for 89 years, almost nine decades of setting the personal integrity bar a mile high for his descendants.

Tonight we will celebrate my Dad’s 89^th birthday. His actual birthday is Saturday, but since we will be having dinner with him, we will have gifts tonight. Dad was born in 1924 into a world that none of us can imagine. In rural Buckingham Country, Virginia, electricity was a luxury item. The leading cause of death in 1924 was the flu, followed closely by diarrhea. The most valuable fuel was kerosene and it would be over 60 years until he lived in a house with central air conditioning.

My Dad’s father was a share cropper. No one from his family had ever attended college. By the time my father was 45 years old, he had served his country in the South Pacific during World War II, fathered four children, graduated from college, and then obtained a Master’s Degree in Theology from New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary, all while working graveyard shifts as a Teamster, loading trucks in 100% humidity five nights a week.

He was married to my mother for 65 years, until her death in June of last year. His health has been failing him for some time now. It has been our privilege to care for him over the past 18 months. He has made it so much easier with his easy smile, gratefulness and incredible attitude. I look at him now and can hardly imagine what it must have been like to live such a life, to start out in such humble circumstances and end up with such a long list of achievements, not the least of which was becoming the patriarch of such a large and loud tribe. But, he has managed it all without the accompanying ego that usually inhabits high achievers. He remains eternally humble and thankful for every blessing that has come his way.

Happy birthday Dad!

Why Are Farts Funny?

Since there are no earth-shattering news stories demanding my attention this morning, I am finally free to discuss a subject that has always fascinated me, that is, why are farts funny? Perhaps the question should be restated as, why are farts funny…to men?

Flatulence, even the word itself makes me want to giggle. From my earliest memories, hearing someone fart has elicited laughter from me. My best friend growing up was Al Thomason, and the two of us never laughed quite so much as when we were engaged in some raucous flatulence competition. I would like to say that those immature, adolescent days of tomfoolery are over, but although I am now 55 years old, I still laugh at the memories.

You could get ten world leaders in a room discussing an eminent threat to civilization, like some asteroid hurdling towards the planet, yet if one of them inadvertently let a loud one slip, I guarantee you they would all be laughing, except for Hillary Clinton. Woman don’t get it. All of my life woman have looked down on men who think farting is funny. It’s like it’s beneath them or something. They always screw up their faces and say, “that’s disgusting!” Actually, nothing could be further from the truth. If scientists are to be believed, everybody does it multiple times a day, making it an entirely natural, reoccurring bodily function, sort of like breathing. Only, there aren’t companies out there manufacturing remote control devices designed to project breathing sounds across the room. That’s because breathing isn’t, er, well, it isn’t hilarious! You can’t buy a breathing cushion, but whoopee cushions are the number one selling novelty gift of all times.

Here’s a thought experiment for all men over the age of 40. What is the most famous and memorable scene from Blazing Saddles? It’s my guess that 95% of you just said, “that scene around the campfire when all the bean eating cowboys started farting.” The other 5% of you never saw Blazing Saddles and therefore must relinquish your man cards immediately.

My point is that no matter how cultured and respectable we become as men, the fundamental hilarity of a well timed fart remains eternally funny. It is my considered opinion that this is an act of God. Our creator, in his great wisdom has placed within the heart of man a childish funny bone. The uncontrollable impulse to laugh at flatulence is a kind of divine comic relief, meant to remind us that no matter how terribly serious our lives become, we are still capable of laughter.

Or, maybe we men are just disgusting.

Weird Stuff My Mom Used to Say

I was with one of my dear 82 year old clients yesterday when I heard her use a word I hadn’t heard anyone use since my Mom passed away. As she was fumbling through her files looking for something she said, “fiddlesticks!” It made me smile to hear that word again, and it also got me to thinking about several odd words and phrases that Mom used that I seldom hear from anyone else. Here are just a few:

John Brown. This all-purpose word appeared often in Mom’s vocabulary. She used it as an adjective as in, “I’ll be John Brown!” I took this to mean that she was either surprised or agitated. She would also use it as a substitute curse word as in, “If you kids think you’re gonna sleep until noon on a Saturday, you’ve got another John Brown think coming!” When I was little, I had no idea who or what a John Brown was. When I learned in school about the wild abolitionist and slave rebelling instigator John Brown, Mom’s use of the term gained her considerable street cred with me. Who was this white, southern woman using John Brown’s name as a slang term??

Draw back a nub. “If you try to steal a roll from this basket, you’re gonna draw back a nub!” Although I knew she wasn’t violent enough to make good on such a claim, still there was something about the way she said it that made you think twice.

I swannee. Clearly, this word served as some sort of milder, more Christian alternative to the conventional I swear.

Phooey. At times of great or even minor frustration, Mom would let loose with Phooey! Lately, Pam has taken this word up to my great delight.

I declare. Sometimes this came out as “I do declare,” or even better, “I declare honestly.” Whenever I heard the phrase, I knew that something truly profound was about to come flying out of my mother’s mouth, and I better pay attention.

Whether these expressions were used in isolation or on those rare occasions when several of them would appear in the same excited sentence, they communicated very specific moods. And although none of us kids knew exactly what they meant, they always made us perk up. Whenever you heard something like this:

“I declare honestly, if you kids don’t get out of my hair, all of you are gonna draw back some John Brown nubs!”…you knew it was time to back off.

I would give anything to be able to get her all riled up so I could hear them again.

Christmas Spirit

Christmas came to my house yesterday. Pam’s iPod was plugged into her sound dock, blasting out the Holy Trinity of Christmas music, Nat King Cole, The Carpenters, and Harry Connick Jr. Several trips into the attic filled our living room with 29 years of Christmas nicknackery. By the end of the day, garland had been hung, candles and swags had been placed on every window sill, five trees had been decorated, and the entire house had taken on the smell of Yankee Candle pine cones. The only epic fail of the day came at my expense. We have a ten foot tall holly tree in the front yard that I like to load up with those old 1950’s style lights, the big ones that get hot to the touch after being on for 15 seconds. I carefully laid out all four strands and made sure they all worked, then climbed the ladder and went to work. 125 lights later, I was done. When it was time for the grand illumination last night, the entire house burst into magnificent, festive color, except for the three feet of darkness at the very top of my holly tree. I checked the box, made in China, Hecho en China. Once again, foiled by free trade globalists and their cheap foreign labor.

So now I enter the 30 days of the year when my house looks its best. At night, a warm, inviting light bathes every room. From the street the place looks like a Thomas Kinkade painting. It’s the kind of house that a man wants to come home to, and never leave. Yes, my house will be a fire hazard for the entire month of December, one crushed bulb away from burning to the ground. But Christmas spirit is worth the risk.

                                                                               

Madness

Mall mayhem...
Suspected shoplifter shot after dragging cop through KOHL's parking lot...
Brawls...
Woman uses stun gun in shopping fight...
Man stabbed over parking spot...
Shopper Kicked Out Of WALMART For Filming Fight...
Man shot walking home with big screen...
Shoppers Trampled In Race For $49 Tablet...
SALVATION ARMY kettles stolen...
REPORT: Profit margins jump for sales 'hoax'...

 

These are the top headlines from the Drudge Report for the day after Thanksgiving, 2013. It’s actually an improvement over last year, since the body count was lower. The irony of a holiday called “THANKSgiving” being disgraced in this manner is especially galling. On the very day when we are supposed to be thankful for what we already have, millions of Americans have been whipped into a covetous frenzy of consumerism that turns them into animals, fully capable of assault and battery over the prospect of saving a buck on the latest trinket.

What in the hell has happened to us?

Unkalduga Claus. The Legend Continues.

Thanksgiving 2013 is now in the books and by all accounts, was a huge success. My niece Christina did a fabulous job of hosting all 25 of us in her tiny house. The food was outstanding, especially Jenny’s rolls. We were all able to be together with my Dad, so everything worked out perfectly. Well, except for the insidious, corrupting presence of two cats, the aura of which played havoc with the lungs of several guests, including yours truly, cutting short an otherwise wonderful afternoon.

The best part of the day was when I was able to introduce the little ones in the family to the wonderful but little known story of Santa Claus’ younger brother, Unkalduga Claus. While big brother gets all the headlines, Unkalduga just plods along doing his important work on Thanksgiving Day. What important work, you might ask?

You see, UC visits the homes of especially deserving families on Thanksgiving. He doesn’t go in for all of the universal, egalitarian, every kid gets a trophy nonsense. There are no naughty and nice lists with UC. He understands total depravity. So his visits are all about mercy, unmerited favor. He only visits the biggest families who are packed into the tiniest houses. His is much more targeted relief than Santa ever thought about being. So, after the meal is over, and the adults are all about to climb the walls, Unkalduga Claus walks right through the door( chimneys? PUH-LEEZE), with his black bag-o-fun, gathers the kids around and hands out nerf guns to all the good little boys and girls who ate their dinner and kept the whining to a minimum. After stirring them up to a frenzy, he loudly proclaims, “So, let’s go outside and put somebody’s eye out! Who’s with me??!!”

The reason you haven’t heard of UC, is basically the fault of the biased liberal media. They never got on board with Unkalduga because there were no merchandizing opportunities. Plus, the guns thing made them nervous. They couldn’t get behind a guy who was encouraging even pretend violence. They also had trouble with the black bag-o-fun shtick, since it could possibly be interpreted as racist.

So, Unkalduga Clause toils on in obscurity. But the Dunnevant/Roop/Schwartz/Garland/Hawkins kids now all know the truth. His appearance yesterday got everybody out of the house and into the back yard. Screaming nerf bullets were flying through the cold fresh air. A remote controlled Mustang was involved. Several adults were surprised by the suction-cupped fury of a 16 shot rapid fire nerf ambush. When all the dust had cleared, no one’s eye had been put out, however…a couple of the more enthusiastic adult participants were in need of inhaler treatments.

So, another successful Thanksgiving was enjoyed by all. Now, there are only 364 more days until the black bag-o-fun makes another appearance. Can’t wait!

The End of Breaking Bad

Since it had been my son who had goaded us into watching it in the first place, we had saved the last three episodes of Breaking Bad until he came home for Thanksgiving so we could watch them with him. Thus ended the most mesmerizing television experience of my life, and now that it’s over I will attempt a summary.

Breaking Bad is at once violent and delicate. It is both a raw action thriller and a subtle exploration of the human condition. It’s a Greek tragedy with lots of explosions. It is loaded with long scenes of dialogue so quiet and powerful they will plunge you into an hour of melancholic self reflection. Yet, its most compelling character can hardly make it through a scene without using the words “bitch” or “yo.” Perhaps it’s an overused superlative, but everything about Breaking Bad, from the acting to the direction, to the writing is brilliant.

If you want an analysis of the plot, you’ll have to Google it yourself. I won’t here give much away since I don’t want to spoil it for anyone who hasn’t seen it. There are however, several scenes that have stayed with me for days. Like a good book that haunts you afterwards, I have found myself pondering these scenes at the slightest provocation:

·        The scene where Jesse confronts his encounter group with the foolishness and naiveté of their philosophy of “loving yourself no matter what.” Wracked with guilt, Jesse cries out to them, “No matter how many dogs I kill, nothing ever happens…You know why I’m here? To sell you Meth. You guys are just customers to me. You alright with that?”

·        The scene in the last episode where Walt is reduced to pushing his last 55 gallon barrel of money, Sisyphus-like, through the dessert, a scene so rich in irony, so full of symbolism it summarizes so poignantly what the entire show was about.

·        The scene where Walt reacts to Skyler’s fears for their safety by screaming, “I am the danger! I’M the one who knocks!!”

·        The scene in the basement of Jesse’s house between Walt and his very first victim, where Walt is struggling mightily with his own conscience, trying to gin up a murderous impulse. Their calming, almost endearing conversation, the eerie calm before the terrible storm created in me such tension, I literally jumped when Walt finally leapt into clumsy action.

There are so many other scenes like this that I could go on for days. Suffice it to say that Breaking Bad is populated with characters of Shakespearian complexity; the tragedy of their lives woven into a story with more twists and turns than a West Virginia mountain road. For me, the theme of the show was simple. Breaking Bad is the story of the ruinous descent of sin, of how normal, decent people can be transformed from good to evil by a series of bad decisions.  When one bad deed so easily leads to another, and the lure of power and money arrive, life can make an ugly hash of one’s moral convictions. What started out as a desperate but understandable attempt to earn some money to pay for cancer treatments and provide for a dying man’s family, morphs into a criminal enterprise drenched in blood. Towards the end, Jesse asks Walt, “Are we in the meth business or the money business,” to which Walt replies, “Neither. We’re in the empire business.” Such is the dark, degenerative power of sin.

I awoke this morning at 6 am and the first thought that popped into my head was this. If it hadn’t been for Walt Whitman…he would have gotten away with it. It's always the poets that end up getting people killed.