I had one of the most surrealistic experiences of my life yesterday, and I'm not quite sure how to write about it here without compromising some of the people involved. So, I'm going to ask you all a hypothetical question. Say you met someone who had connections to fame...not someone who was famous themselves, but someone who knew someone famous, or was close to someone famous or was related to someone famous. Got that image in your head? Okay, let's say that person was related to someone famous that you particularly admired. It doesn't have to be someone that everyone in the whole world knows. It could be TV weatherman or the guy who sings radio jingles, as long as it's someone that you thought very highly of and always wanted to meet.
Now, imagine that you are at your local eatery, the one you always go to for your favorite comfort food. This is not a five star restaurant. Heck, its not much more than a hole in the wall, but its always crowded, the waitress knows you by name, and the food is just like Mama used to make. It's the kind of place where you might run into just about anyone: your third grade teacher, your parent's next-door neighbor, the sound guy for the band you played in twenty years ago and even the mayor on occasion. It's a great place to sit and read the paper or talk to friends and pass the time of day. But its not the place you'd expect to meet someone who knows the one person you've always wanted to meet. And yet...that's exactly what happens.
I'm not putting any definitions on this. I'm not saying it's the governer's nephew or Jennifer Anniston's second cousin. I don't want there to be any chance of this person thinking that I'm using them to make connections to the person they know because that's not something I would ever do. If I happen to meet Matthew McConaughey in a bookstore browsing through the paperbacks and he said hello to me, I might say hi and recommend he read
Angels and Demons if he hasn't already, but otherwise I'd let the poor man browse in peace. Famous people are just that...people...and they deserve to go to the grocery store or out to eat with their family or to have a drink at the local pub without being accosted by every Tom, Dick, and Harriet who crosses their path. I don't chase fame, and I don't tend to look at people according to what they've done. I like to judge them on their own merits and talk to them about how they see the world. I do this for everyone, famous or not.
Not that I've met an abundance of famous people. I met the mayor of Rockford once, who is a friend of my husband's ex-wife. I once shook hands with the guy who played Rum-Tum-Tugger in the original cast of Cats and got his autograph. I met a famous guitar player on a couple of occasions and he payed more attention to my bustline than he did to me. Of course, he's a busy man and when one has as many committments as famous people do, sometimes you just like to take a moment and stare at a nice rack. I can't say that mine is fabulous or belongs on the pages of 'Jugs' magazine, but they are a bit hard to ignore. So I didn't fault the guy for talking straight into my bra when he said hello. Oh, and when I was living in Tennesse the local news anchor used to shop at the department store where I worked and I once sold him a gift certificate. Other than that, I don't exactly rub elbows with the high and mighty.
I try not to make a big deal out of fame, since most fame is pure luck...being in the right place at the right time or knowing the right people. Every now and then someone makes it big through hard work, determination, and dedication. But fame is a fickle mistress and there is little one can do to attract her affections. So why should someone be treated as more than they are simply because they caught a break?
Anyway, back to my story. My husband and I were eating at our favorite local hash joint, where the breakfast is out of this world. It's a bit of a local hang-out, where anyone and everyone makes their way to the counter. The one I can say about this part of Yankeeland is that there are lots of little family-owned restaurants with inexpensive food, good service, and all the coffee you can drink. I like it, because it reminds me of places I used to eat when I was growing up, places that are hard to find now, even in small towns down south. So anyway, we're paying our check when he points out to me that a person standing at the counter is a relative of someone famous. Not that you would guess it. The person (and I'm not telling whether it was a male or female) was very unassuming, with a pair of faded jeans and a top that had an intimate acquaintance with the inside of the washer and dryer. This individual looked like we did - the just got out of bed and headed for the nearest coffeepot look. I gave a cursory glance, surreptitiously, of course because I'm not going to gawk, and waited for my husband to finish paying the bill.
As we were leaving, my husband noticed that this person was sitting with an old friend of his. He went over to say hello and the next thing I know, we're all sitting around talking to each other like we've known each other all our lives. It was the most fun I've had with other adults since the night Scott got punched in the mouth by a guy who wanted to take me home. But that's another post. Anway, we all got on like a house on fire and after taking up space for a couple of hours, we all exchanged phone numbers and made promises to get together again soon.
I have reasons for not saying who this person was, who they know, or anything else about them. I genuinely
liked them for who they were. It was strange, because I could see the resemblance between this person and their famous relation. They bear some striking physical similarities. But, at the same time, talking to them seemed so natural that any thought of their being related to fame went right out of my head. I also do
not want this person to think I only like them or was nice to them because of who they know. That is definitely not true. I would spend time with this person, have them to my house, cook them dinner, let them try my famous spaghetti because I thought they were really cool, and I think we could be friends. If they never mention their famous relative, that's fine with me. After all, I never met that person before now and if I go the rest of my life without meeting them then I've not lost anything.
The experience was very strange, but at the same time, it was wonderful. I've not met a large number of people I can talk with around here. And, if truth be told, I didn't find a whole lot of them down South, either. I was too straightforward to fit in with the church crowd, too intellectual for the rednecks, and too motivated for the ne'er do wells. Here, I'm a bit too refined, a bit too well-mannered, and a bit too rebellious. I hate all the rules and the people who keep trying to catch you breaking them. My 'rules are for people who can't think for themselves' philosophy tends to make people gasp in shock. So it was nice to talk to someone who understands this point of view and who is also funny, genuinely kind, and completely up front about life. And, let me add, this person may know about fame but they are not living a life of privelege. They work three jobs, drive a ten-year-old car, and shop at second-hand stores, just like me.
I'm not really sure why I'm holding back. It's not like anyone ever reads this blog. At the same time, I can't relinquish my principles and risk embarassing someone who took the time to be nice to me. I guess the main reason I don't want to give too many details or say too much about the experience is because, after two years, I may have finally found a friend. And I need all those I can get!
The Fish Police
Okay, this technically isn't a Yankeeland diatribe because this kind of thing goes on everywhere, and it may even go on more in the South sense there's an awful lot of fishing, hunting, etc. taking place there. But anyway...my oldest daughter (you know, the one who's in that awkward stage between complete idiot and tortured genius) had her first run-in with the 'Law' last weekend.
She and some friends decided to go camping last weekend (why, I don't know. It's not like she was raised in a family of nature nuts and Lord knows I don't do anything outdoors that isnt' immediately accessible to indoor plumbing, but that's another post.) Anyway, they decided to go fishing and so she went to Wal-Mart to get her fishing license.
Now, first, I'm glad to know that Alabama isn't the only state that sells fishing licenses at Wal-Mart. Next thing you know, Illinois will be selling bait in the convenience stores right next to the beer and pork rinds! But anyway, after my daughter bought her fishing license she did what any woman would do...she put it in her purse. She took her purse with her to the campsite, but neglected to take it onto the boat when she and her friends went fishing. Let me just add that it seems strange to me that any of these people she hangs around with know how to fish, although they do resemble nightcrawlers in more than a few ways. They seem more like the type that would blow up fish with dynamite just to see what happens. But, apparently, they decided to do things the old fashioned way and actually used a boat and appropriate fishing utensils.
Well, it just so happened that as they were sitting in the boat with their poles (I never did find out if anyone knew what to do with the poles or if they actually used them to catch anything) the game warden came along to check and make sure everyone had their fishing license. My daughter didn't. She left it in her purse at the campsite, and even though someone went back to the campsite and brought her purse to her and she showed the game warden the license, he gave her a written warning for fishing without a license.
Now, if I was the game warden I would have taken one look at this boat full of misfits, including one obviously pregnant young woman, and figured they didn't know one end of a fish from another and weren't going to catch anything but a bad cold from sitting around in the night air. I would have left them alone and then watched from a difference as one got tangled up in the fishing line and another fell over board while saying, "Hey, guys, watch this!" Then I would have laughed long and hard and outboarded back to the game warden hang-out and told all my buddies about the bunch of complete idiots/tortured geniuses I just saw trying to commune with nature. But no. Instead, the Fish Police saw an opportunity to catch someone breaking a Fish Rule and they started inspecting everyone for their Fish License.
My immediate question was...why do you need a license to go fishing? Do they make you take some kind of test, like baiting hooks with different types of worms/minnows/balls of bacon fat to ensure you know proper baiting techniques? Do you have to read a manual and pass "Hooks, Lines, and Sinkers 101?" before you can actually get in a boat and drop a line in the water? I sincerely doubt it. As far as I know, in every state in the Union you can walk into any place that sells fishing equipment and buy a fishing license that allows you to fish pretty much anywhere that isn't private property. My next question was...why? Is fishing such a highly practiced sport that if it wasn't licensed our waters would be devoid of any kind of water wildlife? Not likely. Most people I know who fish don't catch much and what they do catch they can't eat because there are signs everywhere saying, "Don't eat the fish...they're contaminated by chemicals dumped before the environmentalists made us stop dropping our toxic waste in local waterways." So why do you need a license to catch fish? And why do the Fish Police have the authority to write you a ticket if you don't have one on you when you're in a boat? What if you aren't fishing? What if you're just sitting next to someone who's fishing and you're just enjoying a cold bottle of domestic beer? Are you still liable for the fishing that is taking place? Are you guilty by association, even if the people with fishing poles all have licenses and you don't? Do you have to be caught red-handed with a pole in your hand and no license in order to get a ticket from the Fish Police?
And what are the Fish Police doing, anyway? Are they just out, tooling around in boats, and writing tickets? Do we, as Americans, really care about how many fish people catch? If you don't have to pass some kind of test in order to prove comepetency as a fisherman, then why do you need a license? What are the Fish Police checking for when they check for licenses if God, his dog, and everybody can buy one at the local Wal-Mart. It's not like a driver's license, where you actually have to know the rules of the road in order to get one (unless you live in Tennessee but that's another post). The only thing you have to know in order to fish is that the bait goes in the water. Other than that, its fairly self-explanatory.
I, like everyone else, understand full well that the purpose of the Fish Police is not to make sure people are fishing properly, or to make sure people aren't catching too many fish, or even to make sure that people aren't driving around sauced to the gills with a high-powered outboard motor under their control. No, the purpose of the Fish Police is to generate revenue for the gubmint. Let's face it, if all you have to do to get a fishing license is pay a fee...the purpose of said license is to bring in money for the government agency who controls the licensing. And the purpose of having Fish Police patrolling the waters checking for licenses is to generate more revenues by fining people who don't have licenses or who left them in their purse when they got on the boat. It's not about the fish, people. It's about the money.
Or, in the case of Nothern Illinois, it's about making sure people aren't breaking any fish rules. There can never be too many rules, or too many people making sure those rules aren't being broken at any time, and this applies to fish, too. Ergo, the Fish Police.
That being said, I would like to formally propose that governments everywhere start the Parent Police. In order to become a parent, you have to pass certain written and practical exams proving you will be a competent parent and won't let your child throw screaming fits in Wal-Mart while you're paying for your fish license. Then, after you pass the test and are allowed to keep your child, the Parent Police are free to write you a ticket anytime they catch your child engaging in behavior that you, as a parent, are responsible for nipping in the bud. For instance, parents who let their children run wild in doctor's office and think that controlling them means telling them, "Little Johnny, if you don't stop dismembering your sister I'm not taking you to Wal-Mart and getting you a fishing license." These people would then receive a ticket (no written or verbal warnings allowed) and they would have to pay a fine for being a stupid parent. Imagine the revenue that would generate!
Then maybe, just maybe, after the government collects all the stupid parent revenue they can go back to letting those of us who want to sit in a boat in peace and quiet alone to drown worms in peace!
Bible Thumpers
Recently, I used my cell phone to access the latest headlines so I could keep semi-abreast of what's going on in the world. The nature of my job makes it so that if its not related to potty-training, biting, and temper tantrums I'm not likely to know much about it. Anyway, I scrolled through the usual stuff about war, economy, and man's inhumanity to man (gas prices) and happened upon a 'news of the weird' article on a prison guard arrested for assaulting an inmate with (of all things) a Bible. Apparently, he thumped the inmate upside the head for sassing him, or something like that, and used the good book to inflict a sizeable knot upon the inmate's head.
First and foremost in my mind was the question, "The man's in prison. What is he expecting to get beaten with--pillows?" The next was, "Was it a Scofield King James or one of those awful NIV translations?" Because everyone knows a King James bible carries more weight and is a much more efficient weapon when combating the devil, his minions, or sassy prisoners.
I'm not saying the prison guard was correcting in beating the man with a Bible. I mean, come on. Do you really think you can pummel a man into the Kingdom of Heaven? But let's get real, people. This is prison. Personally, I think if you've committed a crime grevious enough to warrant incarceration you deserve pretty much what you get and be grateful you aren't busting rocks in the hot sun. And whatever happened to sentencing prisoners to hard labor? Our nation's roadways could benefit from orange jumpsuited road crews cleaning up and repairing potholes and stuff. It's a much better way of repaying one's debt to society than sitting in a cubicle, chain smoking and watching cable TV while fashioning a weapon from a bar of soap.
But this post is not really about our current legal system and its inability to rehabilitate wrong-doers. It's not really about using the Bible to mete out corporal punishment. It's about a question my husband asked me the other day.
"Honey," he said (he usually begins every question this way which makes it hard for me to determine if he's going to ask me something serious or just question me about where he left his slippers), "Stephan is taking his Bible to school every day. Do you think this will cause some kind of problem?"
I had to sit and think about this for a minute. Our stepson, like most teens, is searching for meaning and his place in the world and, having been raised semi-right, wants to search the Bible for answers. So, he's taking his Bible to school to read. How could that possibly cause problems? I mean, when I was growing up and to a certain extent yet today you are expected to belong to some kind of Christian organization, be it a church group, a Bible study group, or an after-school off-campus club. Most kids have more than one Bible and have one in their possession at any given moment, school or otherwise. Heck, most classrooms had them on the shelf in case anyone wanted to look something up during English class. How could bringing a Bible to school cause problems?
Then I remembered. I'm in Yankeeland. Where people are inordinately concerned about rules, regulations, and making sure no one else is doing anything they shouldn't be. And with all the rigamarole about prayer in school being unfair to those who choose not to believe and the all-out push to eliminate anything remotely Christian from our textbooks, classrooms, and public buildings, well, bringing a Bible to school could be almost as bad as bringing a bomb. What happens if it goes off and truth flies everywhere, hitting impressionable kids at random? I mean, heaven forbid they decide to join a Bible study group instead of meeting their friends to drink and smoke weed. That just wouldn't be right.
I assured my husband that it's okay for a student to have a Bible in his possession, and to even read it and talk about it, as long as the teachers don't act or say they agree or condone it in any way. Our son would not get in trouble for having his Bible at school, although he could get his name on a list of potential troublemakers. That would mean the hall Nazi's would have to watch him extra hard as they patrol the perimter of the cafeteria. And I wondered, at the same time, if more kids brought Bibles to school if less kids would feel they needed to bring guns to school? And at the risk of alienating all the fundamentalists who are reading this and shouting, "Amen", I personally don't care if someone wants to bring the Talmud, the Koran, or any other holy book to school with them. If they are on a quest for truth, if they are searching for something outside of themselves, something that gives them meaning, hope, and encouragement, then they aren't sitting at home planning to blow up their classmates or kill their teachers. Maybe they would respect authority a bit more. Maybe they would treat each other with a bit more kindness and consideration.
And then, imagine this, teachers actually encouraged all these students to get together and talk about their beliefs and their Bibles and their gods. In place of secular humanism, we had a free marketplace of ideas, where each person could decide for themselves what they wanted to accept as truth and each person felt they could open up to the ideas of others and understand why there are so many different religions and points of view. Even those who do not believe in anything would be welcome to explain why.
I wonder if such a thing is really possible, or has the Thought Police become too feared for us to attempt such a change? For only in an atmosphere of true freedom can truth be measured and found to be valid. But who am I kidding? It's not going to happen.
I told my husband not to worry about my son taking his Bible to school. If all else fails, he can use it to beat off attackers and keep smart-alecks in line.
James "Buddy" Oliver
My uncle was a rounder, even from his youngest days. A black-haired, black-eyed hoodlum who could do most anything with his hands and had a gift for music. He was a bit of a cowbird in a robin's nest, a dreamer and a poet in a coal mining town. He was an intellectual, and that and a nickel got him a cup of coffee in Walker Co. Alabama.
I heard stories about my uncle. He liked to drink, he liked to drive fast cars and take crazy chances. He hated where he lived, and often butted heads with my grandfather, a lifetime coal miner whom I never saw without a Swisher Sweet in one hand and Pabst Blue Ribbon in the other. He was a couple years younger than my mother, who was the perfect golden child who did everything right. After he was born, my grandmother banished my grandfather from her bed, which may explain why my uncle bore the brunt of his father's anger.
He joined the Navy as a young man, I'm not quite sure when but I know it was after WWII. He wasn't what I would call an ideal military man, not with the family insanity chromosome bubbling in his gene pool, but the Navy did allow him one saving grace: he got to travel.
Apparently, he took his travels seriously. He went to India and the Middle East (this was back when they still had Shahs and
Sheiks and nobody was blowing themselves up in the name of Allah) and discovered Eastern mysticism. For a young man brought up in the
hocus-
pocus of
charismaticism and borderline snake handling, the idea of eternal oneness and reincarnation must have seemed like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
He got back from the Navy in time for the beatnik revolution and from what I can tell, set his sights on becoming a misunderstood genius. He did quite a few drugs, expanded his mind, deserted his first wife and took up with an older woman who became my aunt sometime before I was born, and generally lived up to the family reputation for black-
sheepedness. According to my grandmother, he went to air conditioning repair school, worked for NASA for awhile and had a very high security clearance, but when the hippies moved to the forefront of American society he expanded his mind once too often and ended up losing it all together.
You may not know this, but
there's no cure for someone who fries their brain on drugs. At least, that's why my family whispered behind their hands for years, starting when I was a wee thing and culminating when he died in 1998. You can go crazy from some kind of brain problem, like schizophrenia or
bipolar or
OCD and they can treat that. Then you can get a normal job, like working for the postal service (but that's another post). But going crazy because you took too much acid is a no-fixer. You're pretty much stuck being a
loony toon.
My uncle was about as
loony as they came, especially for me, growing up in white-bread middle class suburbia. My parents did as most rural kids who came of age after the Great Depression did. They got the hell out of Walker Co. Alabama, got a higher education, and bought a house in the suburbs. They had the requisite two children, bought two cars, a television set, and complained about the lack of respect young people had for their country. My uncle, on the other hand, couldn't hold a job to save his life. He drifted from big idea to big idea, each one sure to be the one that makes him a millionaire. Each time, he conned money from his mother and set off into the sunset, only to arrive back home in a few months, broke and with another bright idea.
Each time, my grandmother would swear she wasn't going to give him another dime. And each time, she would tuck a hundred dollar bill in his pocket or in his hand and kiss him and wish him luck. She would tell everyone who would listen how she prayed constantly for her errant boy, that he would get "saved, sanctified, and filled with the Holy Ghost." (It was always a three-step-plan for my Grandmother, never a package deal like it is for us Baptists.) But, like most of us with those Irish ancestral genes, she took a small bit of pride in her wild colonial boy. He was, after all, a genius.
For a brief period of time, my uncle settled down and married the aforementioned older woman. They had one child, a little girl they named after my grandfather. She, the poor lass, inherited every crazy gene this family had to offer plus a few from her mother's side. But that's another post. Domesticity didn't suit my uncle, though, and by the time my cousin was about three years old he'd become a professional wanderer once again.
I remember my uncle in bits and pieces. Young and strong, holding my hand as we waded in the creek behind my house in Gadsden. A bit older and married, with a guitar in his hand, playing and singing at the family fish fry. Once, I remember my grandmother, my uncle, my dad, my brother and me went fishing one evening and came back well after dark. I was about four or five at the time, and my mother was pitching a major
hissy fit about my being out in the night air. (night air is bad for little Southern girls. See "Gone With The Wind.") My uncle told her to hush, that I was fine and had caught more fish than everybody else in the boat.
My uncle always had a soft spot for me. Perhaps we recognized each other as fellow travelers on the road to insanity. Perhaps it was the creative genius burning inside us. He always saw himself as a tortured poet who never wrote. I always saw myself as a gay waiter in a biker bar. Being a poet in a village of redneck idiots means you get beat up a lot. Whatever the reason, he always had time for me, even when he didn't have time for his own family.
When my uncle died, he'd truly become all we feared he would. He was a gray-haired hippie, with long-hair and a long beard, who sat around the house naked because it was painful to wear clothes. There was nothing physically wrong with his skin, but he believed if he put on clothes he'd be in excruciating pain. He looked a lot like Walt Whitman, which is one reason why I've never cared for Uncle Walt's work. If I wanted to hear a madman babble, I'd listen to my uncle.
My uncle left nothing behind of himself in this world. He was cremated and my wacky new-age aunt planted a tree and spread his ashes around the base to nourish it. She claims she sends his spirit out on errands from time to time. I told her I'd pick up my own milk, but thanks for the thought.
It's funny, but when I think of my uncle I think of him as the young man in his high school picture, his hair slicked back with hair cream, his dark eyes flashing. He's become something of a legend in our family, and my brother, I believe, tries to emulate him.
As for me, I've gone both ways. I've been a crazy,
unmedicated poet and a stable, steady, hard-working girl. I've done my share of wandering and I've tried sinking a few roots. In my heart, I know I'm more like my father than my uncle. I'll let my brother claim his legacy. I think my true self lies somewhere in between.
The Bear
Okay, its been a couple of weeks since I posted, which is a cardinal sin in
blogland, because if you don't keep your blog current, nobody will come read it. But, after battling gastroenteritis and my daughter's severe sinus infection, and the birth of my stepson's first child (at age 15, no less) I think I can be forgiven for my lapse in Yankee-bashing.
Yesterday was the 24
th anniversary of the death of Coach Paul "Bear" Bryant. All the Yankees around here are all up in the air because the Bears are going to the Super Bowl to get their ass kicked by Peyton Manning's Colts. You'd think it was the second coming of Coach
Ditka or something, the way they're all waving flags and
hootin' and
hollerin'.
Maybe it's just me, but I can't get excited about
Da Bears when comparing Yankee football to The Bear. But then again, nothing and no one compares to The Bear.
Coach "Paul" Bear Bryant. There's a wealth of tradition, respect, and character in that name. It rings through the halls of football fame with a clarity unreachable by any other, no matter how many games they may win. Other coaches may surpass his winning record. Other coaches may set traditions and build football dynasties. But there can, and always will be, only one Bear.
If asked, I could not explain what it is that makes him so special. I only know that when the man walked, mountains moved out if his way like the Red Sea before Moses. When he talked, everyone paused to listen. Rival football teams respected him and loved him. His opponents always shrugged sheepishly when crossing the field to shake his hand, as if they were ashamed at having won.
Bear Bryant always believed in the team. There was no one man any more or less great or special on an Alabama Football team, which is why none of them won the
Heisman Trophy. Some may have been nominated, and some may have distinguished themselves, but they were always willing to
sacrifice personal glory for the glory of the team. It wasn't Bart Starr's team or Joe Namath's team or anybody
else's team. It was the Alabama Crimson Tide, every last one of them playing their hearts out, win or lose. And they did lose, but they did it with grace and dignity.
Alabama faced and toppled Titans:
Notre Dame,
USC, Penn State, Ohio State, Tennessee,
LSU, and countless others. Some years they won, some years they lost, but they always played with the best they had. Some say that winning tradition is gone, that Bear Bryant was too good, that no one will every fill his shoes and that the athletic department is spending too much time trying to
resurrect him. I disagree.
There are generations of pride, tradition, and spirit in the Crimson Tide, and when they take the field, you can feel it rising up with the roar of the crowd. For just a moment, there's the ghost of a man with a checkered cap standing next to the goal post. I can still hear his rough, gravelly voice talking about each player as he names them, their parents, their home town, and what he had for dinner when he went to recruit them. Because that's the kind of man he was.
I'm sure he had faults. He was no saint. He drank, he cussed, he had some racist attitudes common for his day and age. No one's nominating him for sainthood, although it does seem that football in Alabama is more religion than sport. But there's a
melancholy sweetness at remembering the man and his times and what he brought to our state and our team.
Coach Bear Bryant was one of the few men my father ever respected. He was quite vocal about men he of whom he did not approve: F.D. Roosevelt, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (that's another post) and whoever coached for Auburn topping the list. But when he spoke of Bear Bryant, he lowered his voice, removed his hat and placed it over his heart, and bowed his head reverently.
"You see that, Scooter," he'd point at the TV screen, "Bear's putting his second team in. He ain't gonna run up the score on his opponents. That shows respect!"
And sure enough, as soon as Alabama had a two or three touchdown lead he'd put in his skinny, uncertain, deer-in-the-headlights-can't-believe-I'm-playing-for-the Bear
freshmen and sophomores and let them get some field experience. Sometimes they'd score a few points, sometimes they'd let the other team score, but Bear did not believe in running away with a football game.
My dad lived to watch Bear Bryant coach each year. And I still remember where I was and what I was doing on the day Bear Bryant died. I was a junior in high school, and my mom had just picked me up from school. We were riding down the hill past the Oxford High School athletic building (in Oxford, Alabama) when the radio announcer came on and said that Bear Bryant had passed away earlier that day.
"That's not true!" I cried out.
But my mother assured me it was. Bear was gone, and with him, a generation of football greats. Later that evening we drove to my grandmother's house. I sat on her sofa late into the night and watched the television coverage. All across the state the death of this man was reported and covered the way the death of a president would be by the nation. Flags flew at half-mast. Grown men cried. And late in the night, as i lay in the dark, I mourned my childhood passing.
Later that same year I moved to Tennessee, and for the first time for as long as I could remember, Tennessee beat Alabama on the third Saturday in October. It was fitting, I thought, that I leave my home state once its greatest legend was gone. It was also fitting, I thought, that nothing seemed right to me since.
My father passed away in December of '05. He lived 79 years, the majority of them happy ones. He waited until after football season to go, and even though it wasn't a stellar one, I know he enjoyed it.Somewhere up there, I hope he and Bear Bryant are talking over past games and having the time of their afterlives.
And so
Da Bears will play the Colts next Sunday, and I'll be hoping that a Mississippi boy who played for the Vols will make mincemeat of the Yankee infidels while my husband embraces his
SuperFan roots. Because if there is one thing Alabama football taught me, its that the War was never really over. And the South will Rise Again.
The Dog Poop Police
One of the things that has puzzled and mystified me since I moved here is the Yankee penchant for getting in other people's business. It doesn't matter what it is, if someone thinks you're doing something wrong they rush to tell you so even if they don't know you from Adam's house cat.
Take today, for instance. My husband, stepson, and I went to take our new puppy for a walk. Now, first I must mention that we inherited this dog from my stepson's girlfriend and she already named him Vince Lombardi, or Vinnie for short. Vinnie is a decidedly Yankee dog name. Down South we name our dogs things like Duke, Ole Blue, or the obvious Bear (if I gotta explain that one you don't know squat about the South.) We do name our dogs after football coaches and players, but we do not name them after Yankee football coaches. 'Nuff said.
So my husband and I are enjoying walking with our son and Vinnie, who is adorable and reasonably well behaved. We went to a local park, where I suggested we let Vinnie off his leash to run amock the way dogs do in wide open spaces, but that idea was vetoed because my hubby was afraid he'd find a hole in a fence and run amock outside our jurisdiction. (Yankees are big on fences. If you don't believe me read Robert Frost, famous Yankee poet.) We let Vinnie pull us around the park, sniffing at leaves and possible squirrels and every spot where a previous dog might have left his calling card, all of us having a grand old time and then headed home.
On the way home, an older gentleman came out of his house and called out to us. I was expecting a neighborly type of greeting, something along the lines of 'Fine looking dog you got there. What's his name?" Instead, the old geezer had the nerve to begin his conversation with, 'Where's your pooper scooper?'
At first, I thought he was kidding. Pooper scooper? This isn't Chicago. The dog isn't going to poop on the sidewalk for pete's sake. But now, the lederly Mr. Yankee was quite serious. My husband told him we just acquired the dog yesterday and didn't have the requisite scooper yet. The other guy then informed us that a lot of kids go play in that park, you know.
By this time I've begun to realize that the man is not trying to make friendly conversation. He's trying to take umbrage with us for not following the laws of dog poopiness. My husband, in true Yankee fashion, just smarted off back to the old man with a commjent about how we'd call him next time to let him know the dog was going to poop in the park. I looked at both my husband and the other man as if they'd both lost their minds. What did they think they were doing? They never met each other before. ONe did not have the right to correct the other, and the other did not have the right to be a smart ass to the one. That is not how things are done.
Apparently, that is how things are done in Yankee World. A perfect stranger can stop you on the street and tell you you're breaking some sort of rule or minor infraction and you're supposed to either acknowledge they are correct or tell them in no uncertain terms they can practice acts of biological impossibility. (My husband is very, very good at the latter.)
This would never, ever happen where I'm from. For one, its the height and epitome of rudeness. For another, there's a dog involved and its far more interesting to talk about dogs than it is to talk about who is breaking what rule. Had I been in Alabama, Tennessee, certain parts of Georgia and possibly Mississippi the conversation would have gone far differently.
The old gentleman would have remarked on what a fine looking dog we had, and was it a golden retreiver? When we responded affirmatively that yes, it was a golden retreiver and his name is Vinnie, the gentleman would then do one of two things. He would either reminsice about dogs he owned as a child or ask us why in the world we didn't name the dog Bear, Duke, or Ole Blue. Either way, the converstaion would have been about the dog, not about poop.
After a bit of discussion about dogs, breeds of dogs, names of dogs, and how great it is to have a dog he would have asked us if we were headed to the park. We would have answered, why yes, we are headed to the park. Depending on where you're from, that would have been followed possibly by an inviation for the gentleman to accompany you to the park so you can continue the conversation about dogs, or he would follow with an invitation to stop back by when you leave the park so you could talk some more. If both invitiations are declined, it is then perfectly acceptable to remark, "Hey, I don't know if you know this or not but since that park is used by neighborhood kids everyone really appreciates if dog walkers use a scooper if their dog does his business. You know how moms are when kids track nasty little surprises into the home."
At this point, we would thank the old man for his advice, assure him we'd remember the next time we walked to the park, and bid him a good day. He'd pat the dog on the head, smile, and go back inside. Both would leave feeling good about the conversation and happy about talking with a neighbor. At no point would the word 'poop' be mentioned and a cordial relationship would be established before any correction is made.
See, there are different codes of behavior in the South than in Yankeeland. What the old gentleman did this morning was rude, plain and simple. What my husband did was return rudeness for rudeness. Both people walked away feeling a bit prickly and not at all inclined to discuss dogs or anything else. My question is: Why?
What is this drive Yankees have for correcting perfect strangers? Is there some sort of 'rule police' waiting to get you if you fail to scoop up dog poop in the park? And for that matter, who cares if a kids gets dog poop on their shoe? Let them leave their shoes on the back porch until they dry and then bang the poop off of them the way we had to when we were kids.
It's behavior like this that causes no end of consternation for transplanted Southerners forced to endure Yankee manners (or lack thereof.) And it makes me understand why my husband responds as he does to rude people. After all, its hard to be congenial when someone starts a conversation with everything you're doing wrong.
So if you are a Yankee and you're reading this, I would like to cordially invite you to mind your own business. If you see someone doing something they shouldn't, do what Southerners do. Give them a disapproving look, shake your head, and pull your children to the other side of the street incase their behavior is catching.
Or better yet, smile and ask them if they own a dog.
Pop a Corkscrew
I always heard, growing up, that Yankees did a lot of drinking. I'm not talking about meeting down at the local beer joint for a few pints before heading home, or slipping down the holler to fetch a jar from Old Dooley, who kept his own supply of corks for a different purpose, if you know what I mean. I mean they drank all the time, anytime, and it didn't matter where, when, or with who.
Southerners are a little different, although we have our share of drinkers and no mistaking it. But we, as a general rule, are selective about who we drink in front of. After all, it wouldn't be seemly for word to get out down at the First Church of Self-Righteousness that the Sunday School teacher had a cocktail or two to celebrate her birthday.
See, in Dixie we don't do our drinking for all and sundry to see. Why, here in
Yankeeland you can have a church wedding and serve champagne at the reception all in the same building! If you suggested that idea where I'm from people would look at you kinda funny and ask, "You
aint from around here, are ya?" No, here the
churchouse is for weddings and funerals and general repenting of wrongs. You can have your reception inside the church but if you want to drink anything stronger than ginger ale punch, or smoke a cancer stick or two, you have to go out in the parking lot with the rest of the deacons.
Which leads me to the subject of corkscrews. Now, in the South we have bottles with corks in them, but we don't need a special tool to remove them. After all, Old Dooley didn't need a special tool to put them in, and we sure as hell ain't gonna be sniffing the ones we pull out of the bottle, since heaven only knows where its been. But here in
Yankeeland, corkscrews are
de rigeur. Every household must have one, sometimes more than one, and the fancier they are, the better.
When I first moved up here and started unpacking my kitchen ware, I was digging through my husbands already acquired tools and
knickknacks and found at least three different corkscrews. While none of them were especially fancy, I did have to wonder why he had three of them. And then it
occurred to me. He was married three times before he met me. The corkscrews must have been wedding presents. After all, what self-respecting Yankee wants to have friends over for Italian food and not be able to open the bottle of wine that's presented? So, for each marriage he must have received a corkscrew from well-meaning friends wanting to save him that
embarrassment.
Personally, I can't stand wine. Who wants to drink soured grape juice when there are so many different grains to distill? Once, in college, I decided to drink three bottles of Boone's Farm in one evening. While I lived to tell the tale it did spoil the whole wine experience for me and I can't stand the taste of it. Which is sad, because I have exquisitely sensitive
taste buds and would have made an excellent sommelier.
But, I digress. It seems to me that Yankee households need corkscrews for some reason, and that is why my kitchen drawer still holds three of these utensils that we never use. My boss, on the other hand, has a magic corkscrew that somehow removes the cork from champagne bottles with little or no twisting involved. I know this because while I was at the counter inventing Neopolitan shots (Vanilla Stolli, Strawberry Stolli, Creme De Cacao, and a splash of Godiva Liqueur) she was opening the fancy champagne so we could toast 2007 in style.
Personally, I'd rather toast with straight vodka but people look at me funny when I toss back a shot of Absolut without grimacing and say something like, "God *&^%, where the &^%$ are you from?" But at least I know what to shop for if my idiot daughter decides to marry her baby-daddy.
I'll go straight out and buy them a corkscrew.
Whatever Happened to Personal Responsibility?
Well, friends and neighbors, its been awhile since I gave you all a dose of life in Yankeeland, and its not because I've had nothing to say. Believe me, I have a lot to say but precious little time to say it. So, this being a new year and a new beginning of sorts, I thought I'd catch you all up on what's going on.
It seems that since I first posted my musings on the family traditions of mental illness, idiots, and tortured geniuses my daughter has firmly aligned herself with the 'idiot' party. She was, briefly, somewhat of a cocaine addict, although she was able to pick that up and put it down at will. Then she dropped out of rehab, left home, dropped out of school, and got pregnant. Forgive me if I'm mistaken but I don't think anyone can call that 'tortured genius' material. Nope. The girl's definitely a moron. Now she's in Tennessee with her dad and the father of her child and doesn't understand why Yankeeboy wants to go home and doesn't want to stay with her in Dixie and live happily ever after. (Personally, I don't understand why he doesn't want to stay in Dixie, but since I have a hard time staying in the same house with my daughter I can understand his dilemma to a degree.) Now she's mad at me and my husband because we won't send them money to come home. Why would we want them to come home? I've dealt with this girl for the past 18 years of her life. Let her father have a bit of the pleasure and I'll enjoy the peace and quiet.
I just don't understand it. Here is a child who thinks, because she turned 18, that she's entered the magical land of adulthood, where you can do whatever you want with no consequences and everything is provided for you by elves or fairies or those funny looking creatures reported to live under naughty childrens' beds. The words 'school', 'job' and 'personal responsibility' seem to mean little or nothing to her, and while her boyfriend is a nice enough boy he doesn't have a very firm grasp on those concepts either, bless his little impregnating Yankee heart. It's almost enough to make me go back to church!
I can't say I was always a model of responsible adulthood as a teenager, but I knew a few things. One, I knew that if I broke the rules, I'd get an ass-whuppin', even if only in the figurative sense. Second, I knew that if I wanted to obtain the things necessary for a comfortable life I was going to have to get out and get some kind of decent education and a job. Either that or marry a rich boy whose daddy was generous with allowances. Seeing as how rich boys were in short supply in my neck of the woods I opted for education and a job.
My daughter says I'm a hypocrite for several reasons. One, because I dropped out of college. That somehow makes it okay for her to drop out of high school, according to idiot logic. Two, because I've smoked pot with my husband. That somehow makes it okay for her to do whatever drugs she wants to do, never mind that I'm a consenting adult fully aware of the consequences and risks involved and able to limit my consumption of any mind-altering substances to a few special occasions each year. Three, I'm a hypocrite because I got pregnant before I was married. That makes it okay for her to do the same thing...never mind the fact that I was 22 years old, already engaged to her father, he had a job and a high school diploma (as did I) and I was living on my own supporting myself.
Okay, at the risk of this degenerating into a rant rather than a pointed observation of cultural differences I have to ask what the hell is wrong with kids these days? When did all their problems become the parents fault? What about mea culpa? Doing the time if you do the crime? Paying the piper for dancing to his tune? Are all those time-honored idioms a bunch of mindless drivel now?
And now here comes the pointed cultural observation: My grandfather (whose father was the one who made that classic remark about bread and whiskey I mentioned earlier) was abandoned, along with his 5 other brothers and sisters, after the death of his mother. She died of tuberculosis when he was 8, and his father, who totally gave up bread in favor of the whiskey, stayed gone most of the time. He had to drop out of school in the third grade and go to work in the coal mines to help support his family. His older sister would hook him to the plow and he would pull it while she steered so they could plant food to eat. The dog would go out and kill small game so they'd have some meat on the table. They endured poverty, hunger, and want but they all grew up to be fine upstanding citizens. Two of the girls became nurses. My grandfather became a train engineer and worked for Alabama Power until he retired with a nice pension. Another brother became an executive for one of the steel mills in Birmingham (although he did live a rather shady double life for awhile). They endured their hardships and became better, stronger people for them.
Not so my daughter and her boyfriend and all the other malcontented young people. No, they have to whine and complain and demand their needs get met without contributing and if you ask them to do so much as lift a finger to keep the house they're living in running smoothly, then you're a bad mother. It's enough to make you want to Yankee swear.
But that's another post.
