Kindness and Two Cookies, part 3

The girl sitting next to me, named Judy, and I had become as good a friend as any boy and girl could in kindergarten. Judy had lunches packed by who I thought must have been a sixties answer to Martha Stewart or Julia Child. Her lunches were packed to perfection, with every thing looking like it had come out of a Cooking magazine or Southern Living, perfection inside of a ten by eight inch steel box painted to represent the juvenile owners loyalty to whatever show he or she considered their favorite. Judy’s lunches had the perfect balance of sandwiches (with the rims cut off) including meat (meat in a lunch sandwich was like Ice-cream for breakfast-unheard of amongst my dude friends), cheese, lettuce and tomatoes, “Charles” chips (the fancy kind the rich folks up the street had delivered to their door) in a small lunch box sized “Charles Chips” tan-colored container, cut up fruit (either an apple or an orange skinless, sectioned and beautiful), and some sort of incredible elixir of various colors that poured from her “Archie” lunch box’s matching Thermos. The topper was the awesome cookies she’d always have. This girl had a desert in her lunch and it wasn’t included in her sandwich, like mine. This girl must be rich too, I thought. Every day I’d go home and think of how cool her mom must have been. Maybe, I thought, she lived with royalty or was friends with the Governor. I just couldn’t fathom day after day having as cool a lunch as she did every single day and no peanut butter in sight. I’d get a cool lunch every now and again, but it was reserved for field trips to the Zoo or the Cyclorama, rare occasions, but never like Judy did.  She was the queen of the awesome lunch and she was still as skinny as a rail to boot, even after eating those awesome lunches. And she was my friend.

Every morning when I’d grab my two PB&Js, apple and milk offering and head out the door, Mikey and I usually raced to see who could get to the cross walk first. There was a cross walk guard, named Mrs. Fincher, and we’d always race to see who could get to her first. She was the nicest lady I had ever met, dressed in her official black Police cross-walk uniform, neatly pressed, wearing black shiny shoes and a skirt, proper for ladies back then. She and I got to where we’d talk every day with her breaking the ice at first. She was, after all, the law in those parts and I needed to stay on her good side. She’d ask me who my teacher was and what I liked as a class subject the best, and of course I’d say something stupid like “lunch and PE”. Looking back on it I’m surprised Mrs. Fincher didn’t lock me up for saying something so stupid. She would also inquire as to my lunch box and it’s contents, and I’d bust it open in the mornings and show her my meager but life supporting offering packed with speed and efficiency by my mom before she’d head out to her job. I always reflected on the incredible lunches my friend Judy had every day and sometimes I’d be downright jealous, not at Judy mind you, my relief coming by deliberating my lot in life as far as school lunches were concerned. Although I began to believe my lunch was kinda crappy, Mrs. Fincher was always nice to me when we’d discuss the issue, commenting about how many kids didn’t have lunches in other countries and I should be thankful for the one I had. She was right, of course, but it didn’t stop me from wanting to get the address of one of the kids in another country and mailing mine to them. When I’d see Mrs. Fincher on my way back home, she’d always tell me to make a muscle for her and she’d poke it like it was a delicate balloon and comment about how my lunch was making me grow stronger. That’s when I told her that I thought a cookie or two might not do me any harm either. She just laughed at me and told me to be careful running back home and she’d see me tomorrow.

One of our lunch periods, when I was busy suffering the slings and arrows of the PB&J crowd and admiring the incredible lunch that my friend Judy was eating, we got to the end of our meal and Judy, in her quiet sweet way told me she had two extra cookies and did I think I might want them. I was as dumbfounded as any kindergartener could have possibly been right then. I even remember the type of cookie they were, Danish Wedding Cookies, the kind with the powdered sugar covering a small chocolate-chip shortbread and boy were they good, and still my favorite cookie to this day. Judy was always very discreet when she gave me the cookies over the rest of that year, I guess not to embarrass me (or her). We shared cookies the next year in first grade, when we both wound up with Mrs. Russell as our teacher, and the following year with Mrs. Fussell in the second grade. We also had Mrs. Reynolds in the third grade together and Judy would always bring me two cookies in her lunch, like clockwork, and I’d always say thank you like it was a new gift. I’d see Mrs. Fincher every day at the cross walk and tell her I had a friend that gave me two cookies that day and she’d just smile. That was in 1968.

When school began in 1968-69, everything had changed. When I walked to the cross walk to see Mrs. Fincher, she was not there. I would sometimes leave early and run down to the intersection to see of she might come back by to see me just one more time but it was not to be. I really liked Mrs. Fincher and looked forward to her daily encouragements before and after school. When I went to school, I also didn’t see my friend Judy anywhere and I had finally figured out that she had moved away. I will confess to looking forward to the cookies, but I also was going to miss Judy too. She was my friend and I liked her as much as any kid could like a girl and it not be a guy’s girlfriend or sister. OK, girlfriend…I was forced into liking my sister out of guilt. It wasn’t just the cookies, it was the fact that Judy gave me the cookies…she gave them to me. In a confusing time of war and hippies and unrest, it was a kind gesture and I recognized it as such. A year later, my family moved away from the city of Atlanta to escape the violence of segregation and race wars after the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. We made our home in a town twenty miles west of the big city and a million miles away from the troubles living inside its borders brought.

It was my senior year at Lithia Springs High School, ten years later and a whole lot of teachers and friends, and I was ready to make my escape to college after my last year of high school football was concluded. I was popular student back then for some reason, but like every kid I knew had an insecure streak a mile wide I hid behind sports and girlfriends. I am proud to say that I was not a mean person to anyone, a lesson taught to me by my dad and mom and one I dare not break. I was walking down the “Senior” hall when she caught my eye on the first day of school my senior year when we were trying to figure out where all our classes were located. Many a thing about a person can change over the years, but not the eyes. I was lost in thought when we passed in the crowded hallway, but when I saw her familiar blue eyes, I knew that must be Judy! I think I circled around again so I could get one more look and sure enough, I was looking at my childhood friend. I walked over to her and asked her “Judy, is that you?” and she looked me in the eye and said “yes”. I think we talked until the bell rung, walking towards our classes and to my surprise, we had the same class and of course, assigned seats. Our teacher began calling our names and to my surprise he called out “Judy”…”Judy Fincher”…

“Here” I heard my old friend say.

I waited until after class and asked Judy the question that was on my mind, and that was what her Mom did when we were in Kindergarten. She told me that her mom was Mrs. Fincher, the cross walk guard. I was so happy I think I might have hollered if it wouldn’t have disturbed the force as far as being considered “Cool” was concerned. I asked Judy to please tell her Mom how much I thought of her back then and how much she meant to me as a little kid. Judy told me that my conversations with her mom at the cross walk was when she’d pack two extra cookies in Judy’s lunch for me. I asked her to please make sure her mom knew how much it meant to the little kid back then and the big kid standing in front of her. I’ve never forgotten her or Judy’s kindness to me. Judy could have given them to anyone she wanted, but her mom asked to give them to me, and she did.

We graduated in 1978 and somehow we managed to lose contact like so many people do when their lives and kids and husbands and wives and who is the most right or the most wrong became more important than what friends meant and remembering that getting along with your fellow-man was the most important business any man could undertake. I can say now that Judy and I had a conversation the other day via Facebook, where we reconnected after 32 years of graduation and raising kids. It was a sad conversation, unfortunately, and it revolved around Judy’s decision of whether or not to place her mom in a nursing home due to Alzheimer’s. We talked about God and his mercy and I assured her that God was not mad at her for any reason.

I hope and pray that somewhere in some small corner, in a locked closet, sitting in a small box on some long ago dusty shelf  in Mrs. Fincher’s mind, now ravaged by that terrible disease, she know’s that her two cookies were the first kindness shown me by someone not in my family. It was and still is a huge lesson for me and one I have passed on to my own children.

I’ll never forget you Mrs. Fincher, or you either Judy.

Kindness and Two Cookies, part 2

My GPS sez to get back to my original point, so I’ll swerve back into that lane now.

This is the very point of this particular short story. I recall the very first occasion of a stranger doing something nice for me and just because they were a nice person. I was five years old and I was in kindergarten, living in the West End of Atlanta after we moved from College Park where the Airport is now located. I lived off Avon Avenue, a road that ran from Lee Street at the back entrance of Fort McPherson to Cascade Road at John A. White Park. On the Cascade Road/John A. White end I could occasionally get into the swimming pool with my young cussing coach and rapscallion friend Dickey McGrew. On the Lee Street end, with my friend Stanley Kinney, a guy whose family lived with his grandpa (or vice-versa) and held passes to gain entry legally onto the base to go swimming in one of the large army bases many pools. I tell you that just to let you know his grandpa whacked me with his cane one time for reading a note he wrote to Stanley. The old man couldn’t talk for some reason and he scribbled notes to his grandkids, considering them private. I had looked over Stan’s shoulder one time after the old man handed him a note and it was innocent enough, or so I thought. What I saw looked like hieroglyphics, and a waste of a perfectly good third grade education to me on the old man’s behalf. Gramps caught me on a glancing blow, seeing I was strategically standing with Stan between me and the crusty old man taking aim at my skull, a man who drove a wheel chair and was generally in a foul mood, I guessed, twenty-four hours a day. When the old geezer took his poke at me I saw the cane coming and slightly stepped aside, the bulk of the blow landing on Stanley and pissing the old man off even worse. He caught me on the arm at the bottom of his swing and for a brief second, I had his cane in my young hand. He snatched it out immediately and in one continuous motion swept Stan out of his way with the cane and quickly maneuvered that chair in an attempt to trap me and whack me but good. I meant no harm in reading the note, but you couldn’t tell the old man that particular fact and make it stick. I might as well have been stealing his pension or rooting for the commies. The crusty old codger kept one foot on his wheelchair footpad and one he used to aim the front of his rusty old chair with. I faked right and darted to the left, using Stan as cover. The old man took one last swing at me as I flew past catching me on my heel as I ran past him to the safety of the outside world, off the porch and into the yard. I guess I could count that as the first nice thing anyone I was not related to had ever done for me if you wanted to get really technical. The dodging skills I had learned in those scant few seconds would help me later on in school when playing “Killer ball” now outlawed in most states but a P.E. staple when I was a kid, but in football too. I’d see the old man on occasion before we moved away, and I’m telling you he had a sharp mind. Every time I’d pass by Stan’s house and glance up at his porch, there he’d be.  Sitting, staring at me like he had a death wish and putting a dent in my skull with his walking stick was quite possibly the last thing he had to accomplish before he died. I’d always smile and wave, hoping he’d know I wasn’t a bad kid, but he’d shake his fist and whack his cane on the porch like he was rattling his saber at a Yankee Soldier headed to Atlanta with a pocket full of matches. I figured it was best if Stanley and I were going to remain friends, he’d have to come to my house. I was too young to die and my Mom and Dad couldn’t afford a funeral, at least their own, when I’d hear them talk about the bills due every month. I figured if they couldn’t afford their own funerals, I was history, and forth on the list after my Dad, Mom, brother, then me. Of course, there was my little sister, and she came first so I was dead last when it came to gettin’ chucked in the clay. I was, after all, the middle kid.

I lived off Graymont Drive, approximately one half of the distance between Lee Street and Cascade Road. The elementary school I was to attend was named Arkwright Elementary and it required that my brother and myself walk to school. I really liked the walk as it wasn’t too far and it wasn’t too short…it was just right. I had numerous kids my age that all lived on my street and we’d walk as a squad. There were four Jimmy’s; me, Jimmy Pair, Jimmy Crumbley and Jimmy Smith, and I know now it was one of the many popular Anglo-Saxon names around the time I was born. The name “Jimmy” in Georgia was apparently as popular as “Bubba” in Alabama, but that’s a story for another day. There were also three Mike’s, two Chris’ and Timmy’s, a Dickie and few other assorted kids with normal names usually biblically based (except for Dickie, I guess).  Every house on my street had at least two if not three kids living in them, making for awesome summers of hide-and-go-seek and streets full of dodge ball and other games. It was a great time to be a kid, the Vietnam war had not begun in full, future  hippies were still interested in staying in school and the Beatles had only recently scandalized the airwaves on the Ed Sullivan show. I know now that it was the lull before the storm with racial hate groups, war protesters and assassinations flooding the air waves causing every kid I knew to lose his or her innocence in some form or fashion just a few short years later. My next door neighbor, Mikey Langford, and I met every morning at the street to make the short walk down Avon Avenue, on our side of the street, then have to cross over the busy street at the intersection of Avon Avenue and Westmont Road, then make the short two hundred yards and hang a left at Lockwood and the final one hundred and fifty yards down hill to the elementary school where I’d meet my first teacher, Mrs. Gray.

Mrs. Gray was a middle-aged and experienced Teacher looking back on it, and a no-nonsense type kinda like my mother, except she was nicer most of the time. I guessed she was paid to be nice too, besides being a teacher, my young mind decided. She had an assistant named Mrs. White and she taught us the easiest way to remember their names were to associate them with the colors of their names, and the fact that the confederacy was suited in Gray and White. Shoot, just saying something about the confederacy in school now would get you a  ”big neck” picture on the post office of the ACLU these days. I liked school well enough, I guess as good as any kid might back then. I wasn’t a trouble maker and had no plans to be, based on the speech that my dad and mom had given my brother and myself, something about our good name and the butt whuppin’s I’d get if I acted up in class. I believed my folks so I kept my pie-hole shut and did my school work. It was my first experience with being forced to hang out with girls and with assigned seating, I had them on both sides of me. It took some getting used to but I figured it out quick enough, plus there was always recess. That’s when us boys could get back together and re-enact any wars we might want to, or swing so high we’d get banned from the swing sets for a week, just boys being boys. Lunch in a lunch room was something also very new to me and my squad, and our teachers made sure we sat boy/girl/boy/girl to keep the noise to a minimum. I didn’t like that much either, but their was food involved, and my Mom packed my trusty “Wagon train” lunch box each day with two PB&J’s an apple and a Thermos full of ice-cold milk, but no desert or cookies. I didn’t think much of it and thought the jelly in the PB&J served two purposes anyhow.

Part 3 Friday!

Kindness and two cookies

A lot of people I know can’t seem to remember a thing about when they were growing up and circumstances that helped form belief systems held dear. It makes me think of the story about my Mom, cutting both ends off a roast before she would place it in the pan before cooking it to perfection. I asked her one time why she did that and she plainly told me it was because her mother did it. I asked my grandmother why she did it and she said her mother did it also. My Great-Great-Grandmother was still alive at the time and I asked her why she cut the ends off of her roasts and she said “Because I had a small pan, I cut the ends off so the juices wouldn’t make a mess of my oven”. See? That’s what I mean, you do something now because of an event or a circumstance from your past. My Mom and her Mom had no idea why they cut the ends off the roast. I never got around to telling either of them that particular fact and it probably wouldn’t have made a difference to them anyhow. I can tell you that finding out those types of habits and the reasoning behind them has helped me in some very different ways, one of which is to be aware of monumental and maybe some lesser monumental moments in my life, all of which impacted my life in some positive way.

I will share with you that I have always been keenly aware of my surroundings. I also have memories that most folk might not even conceive of having. I was born in 1960 in the early part of March. I missed being born on leap year by one day, and I  think it might have been cool to have been born on February 29th for different reasons. Having a birthday every four years is not an advantage and is down right disastrous as a kid, until that kid turns forty and he is celebrating his tenth birthday. Then on your sixtieth birthday you have your fifteenth birthday. If for no other reason, it would be a novelty, but that’s not what this particular story is about. I recollect when my parents lived in the now western end of the end of the runway at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta, Georgia. Now this was in the early sixties, 1962 to be exact and I was two years old. You could see the planes taking off and landing from where we lived and a lot of times, me and my brother would just sit and drink Kool-Aid watching the big jets land and take off. Where that house was is now under a four-foot thick concrete slab that makes up that end of the landing strip in the busiest airport in the world.

I have had visions of my father setting me up on a table in a small room on the eastern side of an enormous back porch. The room was where my dad would go and practice his “schemes” as it’s called, learning how to throw mail into slots with speed and accuracy. It amounted to entry-level work at the United States Postal Service and it was difficult and tedious, timed for accuracy and very much hard learned memory work. He practiced every day after he did his job at the time, whatever it might have been, so he could do better for his family. I vividly remember how he’d sit me up on the table and put rubber thumb covers on his hands to help make the letters stick to his fingers so he could make the process go quicker, and occasionally he’d tickle my belly. He had a few of the rubber thumb gadgets and I’d play with one while he practiced his craft. He was surprised when I told him that fact, telling me I was only two at the time, and how in the world could I have possible remembered that. I also remember him and my mom playing badminton across the back fence with our then neighbors, the Breimers. They were friends of ours most of our lives, so that wasn’t something I had to recollect, just to make that clear. I also remember when John F. Kennedy was shot, all the neighbors gathering at our small house (it was a mansion to me, I was, after all, a kid) and the ladies crying and the men outside, all with stern looks on their faces and hearing words like war and assassination for the first time in my young life. It’s amazing what a mind can do and what it recalls. I guess every brain has rooms and closets and memories are stored there never to been seen again or like me, I can recall some things but not all. It doesn’t make me special and I ‘m certainly not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I’m proud to say I’m not the dullest either. Of course, that depends on who you’d be asking.

I’ve learned over the years that you might want to be careful disclosing how skillful you might be when it comes to fixing a car or doing a brake job, or plumbing or preparing tax returns. Selective memory is an option, but I’m trying to live a better life, so selective memory might be the first cousin to flat out lying. My bones creak a lot more than I recall them creaking and I seem to have a lot more patience with kids now that mine are mostly gone. I have a two year old grandson right now and he can officially do no wrong in my eyes. I’m at a good point in my life, I have a bride that still loves me or does a righteous job of faking it after twenty-six years and I guess that’s adequate time for two people to figure each other out. If we can survive the next twenty-five together then it will have been a one to one proposition…one day of figuring each other out and one settled. I can live with those odds, seeings I am the reason we probably didn’t get along most of the time in the first place. At the times she’d get her fill of me, she’d tell me she never got her way and that really bugged her a lot. I could see her point to some degree, but one particular time when we were having a “discussion” and in sight of the “nitty-gritty” reasons we might not be compatible on any given day, I slipped up. Like a dumb ass I said, “You’ll never get a hundred percent of your way with me, I’m hanging on to ten percent even if you tell me you saw Elvis and I’m standing with you when he passed by”. Being married this long has taught me that trying to be “right” 100% of the time is better reserved for immature married folks and those hell bent on keeping score-thing is, no one wins. I know it’s all give and take, compromise and love each other more every day. I love her and would give up my life for her. She’s the greatest.

More on Wednesday!

One New Car, 17 wrecks, and a possible Mercy Killing, Part 2

Part 2. 

I arrived at my brother’s house and when I did, my brother asked me where in the hell I’d been. Apparently my Dad had already called asking if I was there yet. I guess after I cleared the driveway he must have realized that his middle kid, the one with the impractical car that drag raced on the weekends after his football games, was driving his brand new car that he just took delivery of. Now I’d have rather died than hurt my Dad or Mom, their property, their home, and especially their good name. I called my dad and like the smart suck-up I had developed into told him his car was running fine, no scratches and all was well. My brother and I sat in the new car and checked out all the options, rolling the power windows up and down, moving the power seats back and forth and making the cool stereo sing at its limits, it’s eight track blasting loud enough for my brothers neighbors walk outside to see where all the commotion was coming from. It should be known that my brother owned a house at a very young age and he was the neighbor every one did not want. He had a wicked home stereo and a huge set of speakers, worked second shift and usually had a visit or two weekly from the local police because of the excess noise. He had long hair, dressed like a rock star and had weird friends. He was my brother, I loved him and accepted him the  way he was. He was a shitty neighbor and I have always prayed I wouldn't end up with a neighbor like him when I got older, but that’s really not important right now and not germane to this story.

Upon arrival, I pulled behind the car of one of his scumbag friends, Art, a dude that had a future. A future in the Federal Penal System being the “wide receiver” on the prison football team, if you catch my drift. I didn't like his ass, and I was not in the minority. My circle of friends had a hit-list of people that we considered a waste of skin and Art was at the top of every friend I had, and most friends he had, lists. He was the kind of guy that would get your home phone number, disappear, and months later you’d get phone bills in the thousands. My brother was victim to Art’s phone call theft ring and I remember seeing the life leaving his body when my brother was choking the very life out of him for the offense. He stopped just before Art gave up the ghost and at my suggestion, taking Art’s one and only prized possession, a Gibson Les Paul three pick-up Custom model. Art started to protest but relented when my brother verbally dove on him like a wolf on a steak, literally with his hands around Art’s neck. I persuaded my brother to not kill him and even suggested the guitar swap as collateral for the future repayment of the enormous phone bill Art had run up on my brother’s  home number. I knew to watch Art and never, ever trust him. And besides, my brother was not an athlete, so the prison football team was not an option and killing even a worthless human, like Art, would land him there.

After we’d all got a good look at my Dad’s new car we all walked back into my brother’s house and as soon as we cleared the door, Art suggested that  he go to the store and pick us up a six-pack of cold beer. I was game for a cold brewski and I could cover up the smell with a stick of chewing game. Of course, my brother gave Art ten bucks to get the beer and he said he’d be right back, a convenience store just one mile up the road from my brother’s humble abode. I told Art I’d have to move my dad’s new ride so he could get out and Art stated clearly that he’d move the car. I told him he’d better not even fart in the front seat of my Dad’s new ride or I’d personally take pleasure in ending his worthless existence, completing the task first begun by my brother after he’d milked my brother for the phone bill. My brother and I were still in the house when we heard what we thought was Art, in his car, leaving for the short trip to buy us a cold six. Fifteen minutes passed and I told my brother that I’d better get myself and our dad’s new set of wheels back home. He followed me out the door and to my horror, Art had taken my Dad’s car, sans permission from me, and he had been gone way too long. 


I was at first furious and fully prepared to end the life of the same no good rotten bastard that had done my brother and numerous others wrong. I would be doing society a favor and save the prison system the money it would take to incarcerate him. Minutes turned into hours and I finally had to call my dad and lay the bitter truth in front of him. His brand new car that he trusted me with, purchased that very day, was now being driven by a worthless human being that I had somehow allowed behind the wheel of his new car. My sincere sorrow for his car missing was only exceeded by my anger at my brother for allowing me to convince him not to kill Art earlier that same year. I asked my dad to please stay calm and he was, his Marine Corps training and his “Government Voice” in full view and aimed at me and me only. He asked if we thought he should come over to my brother’s house and I immediately said “NO!”. I needed the time to gather myself for the onslaught that was to come when I did get home, and besides, my dad had traded his car in on the newer car that day.  When my brother got me back to my house he practically power slid in front of my parents house kicking me out of the passenger door, and in one fell swoop floor boarded his car and hauled ass back to freedom. I so wanted to be with him, in his trunk, holding onto the roof of his car, anywhere but at home. I walked the last few feet to my parents front door and when I cleared the door sill my parents were sitting, quietly, on the sofa in our living room. My dad said one word:

“Explain”

I told him the entire story and it was the truth. My brother called from the safety of his house and corroborated everything I had said concerning the fifteen minutes I was at his house with my dads car. My dad calmly said “OK, son, I’ll take it from here”.  Damn, I would have much rather had the shit beaten out of me or tied behind my mom’s car and dragged around for a few miles. I went to my room, shut the door, and prayed in earnest for the very first time in my 16 years walking the planet. I heard my dad talking to the sheriff’s office when I accidentally picked up the phone in the back of our house. I placed my hand over the “Talk” end and listened as my father gave the details to the officer on the other end of the phone, my dad matching the officers dry talk with the mastery of a Marine Corps drill instructor. He hung the phone up and said “Jim, you can hang up now” making me feel worse than I had ever felt in life. I was going to kill that no good lying thieving worthless pile of dog shit as soon as he showed back up.

The police finally caught up with Art in south Florida after he had wrecked into no less than 17 cars over the ten days he decided to disappear with a new car that he didn’t own. The police took Art into custody and he did a sweet piece of time for that stunt, his final mistake was saying that I had given him permission to take my dad’s car. When I heard that I asked my dad to please let Art off and I’d go to south Florida and pick him up, transporting him back to my beloved Georgia. When the judge told Art that, he asked if he could just do time there in the quiet jail where he had been caught. I made sure Art knew that if I ever saw him again, I would finish the job my brother had started. The difference was that this time I would be an expert in CPR, just so I could kill him, revive him, and kill him just one more time to make sure it took.

We were waiting at the dealership when my dad’s formerly new car was delivered back to the dealership. It had 1700 miles on the odometer, cigarette burns in the seats and headliner, the speakers that delivered the wicked stereophonic sound were all blown from excess volume, carpets were stained with bright red Georgia Clay and every corner and edge on the exterior was either dented, crushed, slammed, scraped and generally knocked out, or in, opposite of where it began life a few short days earlier. The motor was smoking and the transmission was slipping from the abuse Art had dealt the Police car. It was a pitiful sight to see and my dad made sure I was there to see it when it was delivered to the body shop of the dealership.  It was obvious the guys that worked there knew the entire story and most looked at me like I had shot the Pope, and being a Catholic was the number one hiring requirement for a job there. I quickly realized explaining my side of it was useless and I was mature enough to know that any words from me would sound like a lame excuse, so I just kept my cake-hole shut and my eyes forward. My dad’s insurance company had to pay for every car that Art hit and the damages were, to say the least, extreme. My dad asked his insurance company to total out his new car but they refused, insisting they could fix the car like new. It took a month for my dad to get his car back and it was never the same. It had problems and spent a number weeks back and forth in the shop getting sorted out.

I saw Art maybe six years later when I was in college when I was staying at my brother's house while home visiting from School. I was asleep on his couch when I heard the doorbell ring at 5:45 in the morning. I was out the night before until late and when I opened the door I was met by one who looked like Ted Kazinsky, also know as the “Uni-bomber”. He said cheerfully with terror filled eyes remembering my last promise of homicide if I ever laid eyes one his worthless carcass again;

“Hi, Jim, how’s it going…is George home?”

I looked at him and all the tired left my body in a split second. My last words of mercy to Art was “I’m gonna close this door and count to five and I’d better see your worthless ass clearing the trees when I open the door or I will kill you dead” I shut the door and counted to three, cheating Art out of two counts, the incident involving my dad’s car rushing back. When I snatched the door open with “Three” leaving my lips, Art was indeed gone, I saw the bottom of his shoes as he ran for his life.

I promised the world that I was going to give it a mercy killing if I ever saw him again, making it a better place to live.

September 10th, 2001. Then and Now.

So here I sit in the ICU waiting room on September 10th, one day before the 12th anniversary when the United States lost what little innocence it had left before that most terrible day of days on 9/11. I think back and I have no idea what I was doing on that day before, other than the fact that had I called into a radio station and won the only thing I had ever won in my life, a pair of Atlanta Braves tickets and a DVD of the Baseball movie "61". I think Mark McGuire and Sammy Sosa were batting it out that year, both exchanging home runs with the advantage of steroids, all in pursuit of Roger Maris' 61 homers hit in one season. Difference was, Maris used nothing any stronger than Cow's milk and red meat for his energy. It was a good reason to watch baseball back then, and now, when I think about it, the tickets and the movie giveaway were in recognition of those two gents and the excitement surrounding that event. It was but a brief second in time, what amounted to a moment when I wasn't on the phone attending to one of my numerous bank customers. That or one of me and my and business partners many sub-contractors whose names were less important than their willingness to work fast and efficient, the primary requirement for success in any given field, much less our growing construction company we had build on dirt  and will power alone.

I just happened to have the radio in my truck up at the right volume, I was between calls, not thinking about who to call next; my wife, a friend, a boss or an employee. Right then all the planets had lined up properly, Even my phone was in dial mode, so in that split second the DJ rattled off the phone number and laid out his requirements: be caller number nine.

I entered the proper digits, pressed the send button and to my surprise, was answered with a ringing response, almost immediately. It must have rang seven or eight times, me perusing my schedule book and loosing interest and hope in why I was wasting my time on trying to win anything. I was moving the phone away from my ear, preparing to press the "END CALL" button and as I did, I heard a faint voice on the line...."HELLO, you are caller nine! Who am I speaking to?" I couldn't believe it. I shared my credentials with the DJ and was instructed by whatever person coordinating post-op affairs for the station, her telling me that I needed to come downtown on Peachtree street to their offices to pick up my winnings. I wrote down the address, then called my bride and told her about my good fortune. She was like me in that aspect, neither of us had ever won anything, so this was a treat for us both. Now I will confess, she won a puppy in a raffle she'd donated five bucks to a few years earlier, but I insisted she turn it down. She was a bit miffed, but I reminded her that stepping in dog doo-doo in the middle of the night was grounds for termination. Her disappointment was replaced by good common sense, knowing we still had our youngest daughter and our two high school aged kids at home. We'd both had our fill of poop with those three. We were busy dealing with the daily crap that was our lives, and a dog, even a puppy, was more than we both needed right then. Anyway, we already had a cat, and he was an all purpose outside hunter killer, and as far as I was concerned, one pet was enough.

I had asked my wife to accompany me to the Braves game that next day, but she refused. Two heavily involved high school athletes in our oldest two kept her daily schedule full, add in a seven year old daughter and you have a certified superwoman in the form of my bride, holding it all together. You also have someone not interested in sitting in the hot sun, thinking about what tomorrow held, while being distracted by the distraction that was a baseball game. That meant my number two guy was my building partner, Scott, and we were going to see the Braves! Our absence for a few hours could be excused away with the fact that I had won tickets to the big time baseball game in downtown Atlanta, so everything else could wait. We made our way down crowded Peachtree street, it still early out and unusually cool for that time of the year. It was sunshiny and hot in the forecast later that beautiful day, both our schedules were cleared off for the event, and we were glad to have a distraction, something we'd both get to talk about over the years to come.

I had picked up my tickets and my movie, and was headed down Peachtree Street when the call came.

"Hey Son" my Dad said as I answered the phone, "It appears that a small plane has hit the World Trade Center 1 building in New York City. That has got to be a mistake. But I'm looking at the building billowing black smoke on TV right now, where are you?" I was at Peachtree and North Avenue headed south, so Scott and I agreed to hang a right and down one block, park, then run inside the Varsity, home of a 100 TV sets. When we entered, all the employees were crowded into the TV rooms along with the early patrons. We all sat in the giant drive in Hot Dog stand, biggest in the world and the loudest, and you could hear a pin drop. We all stood together, watching, listening to the morning show hosts, all speculating on what might have happened. The word "terrorists" was mentioned a few times at first. Then again, then again, then it happened.

The second plane slammed into the second World Trade Center building and the once quiet room erupted into gasps and shouts of disbelief. people began to cry and shriek. I heard "Oh no....oh no...oh no..." more times then than I have ever heard in my life. Everything was moving in slow motion.Then we heard that planes had been hijacked and were headed to all major cities, Atlanta included. I recall the throngs of people pouring out of the buildings in my hometown, folks running and how courteous drivers were, helping each other out to blend in and and get out of town. I got home and told my wife what was going on, we ran to the school to get our two older kids out so we could all be together and sort this whole thing out as a family, cause that's what families do. We all sat together when the first building fell, and I'm sure we all cried together seeing the devastation. When the second building came down and we had learned that the Pentagon had also been hit, we prayed together as a family like we had never prayed before. This was real.

 Those buildings fell a few thousand times over the next week.Every bit of commerce had halted. I made my kids walk outside and look up, telling them they might not ever see the sky, plane-less and silent, again in their lifetimes. We were, after all, twenty minutes from the worlds busiest airport, Hartsfield-Jackson. I saw flags and patriotism like I had never seen before in my life. The Stars and Stripes flew in front of every home. Churches were full. People were on the same wavelength, no agenda's, helping one another. I saw every member of congress stand on the steps of the capitol building and sing "God Bless America". Our great President, George Bush, was the man for the times.  Rudy Guiliani, the Mayor of New York, was the man for the times. We were gonna get the sons-a-bitches that did this.

Then there was the toll. The lives of thousands of Americans who kissed their loved ones for the last time on the morning of 9/11. Some parted happy and some did not. Human stories of families and the hope for the future erased. Talent, tremendous talent, was lost to a terrorist attack. Some took control of their lives and lept from the buildings, not allowing Al-Queda to control the last part of it, exiting on their own terms.  Families torn asunder. Lives decimated. Brave souls in countless fire departments, police forces, security guards, all ran towards while others ran away to safety. Regular human being became super human saviors to co-workers, escorting the wounded out to safety then running back up to help others escape the flames, not knowing that 800 million tons of debris was minutes from sealing their fates and altering history forever.

I think about all the husbands who never saw their wives again. Wives who never saw their husbands again. Brothers and Sisters who'd never see each other this side of heaven again. Children who'd never ride on the shoulders of their fathers, or be hugged by their mothers. No graduation parties, no birthday parties, incomplete wedding parties...no family portraits with everyone there, Picnics, vacations, all unrealized possibilities. In an instant, they were gone. And we were all changed.

I think about that day, September 11, 2001, as I look down on my big brother, frail looking as he battles infection, laying in ICU. He's got a fighting chance. He'll make it through this. I thank God he has a chance. And I think of those brave souls who didn't have a chance twelve years ago, and on that day they didn't know it. And I remember them. 

And I pray. 

One New Car, 17 wrecks, and a possible Mercy Killing Part 1

I had just turned 16 years old and was fully able to drive. I had my own set of wheels, a cool 1965 GTO my Dad helped finance for me and my one possession that was exclusively mine at that age. I had numerous friends that were all “Car Guys” meaning we all helped each other keep our cars running. A new car was as rare as one of my friends with straight “A”s on their report car at school. As a sidebar, I have noticed that the biggest difference between today's driver age kids and my generation is as follows; this generation feels cheated if they don’t have a BMW, Volvo, or some other fancy scmancy (I'm tellin' ya, it's a word) European car as a way to say “Yes, I am a kid of overextended parents trying to live vicariously through my well dressed child who will eventually live in my basement because I haven’t made him/her wipe their own ass since they were old enough to form a sentence”. My generation knew that if it had four wheels and good tires and it could run, man, that was good enough. A car was a car and that was a good thing. No one in my age bracket drove or thought a new car was even a remote possibility. There were one or two spoiled rotten ass cracks that drove cars that might have been a few years old, but by in large we all drove cars that were a minimum of 10-15 years old.

Our parents, on the other hand, had the cash and the credit to buy a new car and that is the basis of the short story you are about to read.

My Dad, God bless him, had just purchased an exceptionally nice new car. It was the loaded out dealer demo model that had every option conceivable, from stereophonic sound with eight-track tape to the ubiquitous butt-scratcher seat option. That car was new and it had  it all. It was Chevrolet’s nicest offering for a man who didn't have kids to haul around anymore, so he had graduated from the station wagons and Luxo-tanks to the nice mid-sized cars. He settled on the loaded out LX Nova, four door, due to the lone fact he had to transport folks around for his day job. “L” meant that it was the luxury edition, the “X” meant it came with the special Police package, bigger sway bars and springs/shocks, bigger engine meaning more power with upgraded coolers for everything from the transmission to the oil. It was definitely a “Dad-mobile” but that thing was like riding in your living room and it would handle like a Corvette. I went with him on the test drive with the sales man and that dude laid into that car like a fat man at a free Bar-B-Que and Pudding Bar. I remember hearing the salesman say “This car is so fast at take off, it would ’skin back’ and uncircumcised man” meaning, well, you know what it means and if you don’t, well, go back to your Mineral water Latte’s and re-runs of “Will and Grace”.

I sat in the show room of the dealership while my Dad filled out all the purchase paperwork and secured the financing on his new set of wheels. I sat and stared longingly at the Corvettes and the Z-28s sitting on the showroom floor knowing three things for sure. The only way I was going to have one was if one magically fell from the sky, I had a slip and fall accident in the show room and sued, or I won the lottery. I played football, so to fake an injury would mean I couldn't play the game I loved so that option was definitely out. If a new car fell from the sky or I helped a millionaire change a flat tire and he rewarded me with a new car (also very unlikely) I still couldn't afford the insurance and gas so that was also out. Georgia didn't have the Lottery and at the time I was too young to play so I was screwed on every possible chance of driving a cool car that was sporty.  Getting the chance to drive my Dad’s new luxury Police car Dad-mobile, his very last American car before his career graduated him into Mercedes Benz’s, was my only shot at getting to drive a sporty new car…even if it wasn't mine. I felt certain that the chance of me getting to drive his new wheels was equal to Skylab falling into my front yard, so I just decided keeping my GTO running would do and that was good enough for me. Anyway, I loved my Goat and it was perfect as far as I was concerned.

I was finishing my day-dream when my Dad walked out of the finance office at the Chevrolet dealership in my county and he looked happy, even if he was in debt for a car for the next four years. He looked at me looking at the sports cars and tossed me the keys to his new ride and said “You Drive”. I drove that car 35 miles per hour all the way home, on the interstate, not wanting to be the person that scratched his new set of wheels. People were flying by us at nearly double the speed I was driving, blowing their horns and giving me the middle finger greeting usually meant as an insult. I would have returned the greeting, standard fare for guys my age, but I was with my dad in his new wheels and I was on my semi-best guard keeping my hands at ten and two following every rule listed in the Georgia drivers manual. He held the keys to my small kingdom in that my GTO was on his insurance policy and I had to convince him I wasn't going to race my car when my buddies and I finally had the engine rebuilt. It was a lie straight out of the bowels of hell, but as he put it ” A good attitude is worth faking”, meaning I needed to project the image of a law-abiding citizen behind the wheel of any car he and I were in so I played the game. He finally insisted I get his rolling Living room with the Police car suspension up to speed so I obliged. Dad asked me if I thought my brother was at home so we could show him the newest addition to our automotive family and of course I told him no. It was our way of covering for each other, meaning my brother usually had a girl or some unsavory friends at his house and didn't like surprise visitors…especially his parents.

When we finally arrived at our house I pulled up to the garage and no further. My dad asked me to go ahead and pull all the way in but I refused. I told him he was going to put the first scratch on his new car and that if I did, I might not ever get a chance to drive it again. He smiled and told me to hop out, he slid over and finished the job after I exited from the driver’s side. I was happy for my dad and I knew he would get a lot of years of enjoyment from his new wheels. When we walked in our  house (his house, but hey, I cut the grass) the phone was ringing and my dad answered the phone in his usual business manner, only letting up if he knew the caller. I called it his “Government Voice” and it was effective on sales people and kids calling to say they were going to be late getting home or, God forbid, in jail. I realized he was talking to my older brother and he told him all about his new car and my brother chided him for not bringing it by for him to see. I heard him say “Jim will bring it by in a few minutes so you can check it out”. My pop was in a good mood and this was a good day for him. he said “Jimbo (me) take the new car and take it by and let your brother see it and maybe take it for a drive”. I was a bit surprised, and I was  sure the salesman at the dealership didn't whack my Dad over the head to convince him to buy the shiny new car now sitting in our garage. I was sitting there watching him and the salesman banter back and forth through the sales dudes glass office, obviously dickering about the price and payments, but ended it with a smile and a handshake and no obvious head injuries, at least any I could see.

I was booking down the interstate, “Bodhisatva” by Steely Dan blasting out of the quadraphonic speakers dynamically placed in the optimal location for extreme listening satisfaction. By the way, I read that in the owner’s manual while I was breaking in the Police engine on Interstate 20, all windows down and 100 miles per hour reached for the first and probably last time in the “LX”s life. I was the king of the world, a small world, but king just the same. I was able to get the wider than stock police wheels and hi-performance steel belted radials covered in nice white-bread hubcaps to break loose in all the curves between the exit of the interstate and my brother’s house. I took the long way there and had planned to take the long way back, just to properly break in my Dad’s Hot-Rod luxury Cop mobile, knowing he’d never get the car faster than ten miles per hour above the speed limit. He was a good man and a great father, and not deserving of the fate his car was about to deal him. I didn't wreck his brand new car but, like the title of this story says, “One new car, 17 wrecks, and a mercy killing.”

I'll wrap this one up Wednesday, it's a good one!

The Best Spider is a Flat One, part 3

Dickey and I were just minding our own business, checking out the snakes of varying sizes and lengths, wondering if any of them had actually eaten a human being whole, or maybe a goat or a volunteer zoo guide. Neither Dickey or myself was paying attention when our creepy Zoo guide changed my life. I was intently staring into a snake display when I hear gasps and looked at my then best friend and noticed his eyes were as big as two over-easy fried eggs. I looked at him and said “What!!??” He pointed at what I thought was the front of the line and when I turned around, I was about a foot away from Mrs. Applescwartz’s face, her blood-shot eyes and yellow teeth glowing in a smile that telegraphed revenge rather than joy. I sometimes still smell her breath whenever I smell a dead skunk or a rotting animal carcass on the road. I immediately backed away and when I did, Dickey shouted “Holy Shit!” (he was a pro cusser back then and the first one I had ever met who was my age with such skills) and dang near trampled a few of our buddies trying to get away. I thought maybe it might be our guide prepared to crown us with the broom she had hidden under her dress, the one she used to fly back and forth to work on, because we’d not been paying her the attention she thought she deserved. But then I looked at one of the girls in the front of the line, square in the middle of “suck up” land as we called it. She pointed at me, then pointed at her own shoulder, a sign that I should do the same.

I looked left and saw nothing. I looked right and came face to face with the biggest, hairiest, most giant-fanged, big-eyed man killing spider I had ever seen in my life. I looked again at Mrs. Applescwartz and her look of satisfaction, knowing she had just scared a kid damn near to death, namely me. I also noted the look she had was actually one of admiration, reserved for the same spider who currently was taking up space on my eight year old shoulder. I wasn't a world traveler at all, but I guessed that spider must have been French. It had the hairiest legs I had ever seen, and that included my Dad and Dickey's Aunt Edna. Right then, I did what any animal lover would have done. I took my left hand, balled it up in a fist and hit that damned spider as hard as I could in an attempt to get his hairy ass off of my ham sandwich eating self. It fell off of my shoulder to the concrete floor, right on its hairy back. I remember it’s eight giant hairy legs twitching a few times and then spreading out as if to show us all how big it actually was from the bottom. It was kinda like young men showing each other how big their bicep muscle was. But this, well, this was different. I knew that truth when our host began to scream and holler. She reached down and scooped up the critter I thought was like a turtle, unable to operate properly when on its back. That was not the case.

Here is the truth about the whole incident. I killed the spider before it killed me and that’s how an eight year old brain worked. Next thing I know, Mrs. Applescwartz grabs me and pulls me over the railing, by the ear mind you, and we start walking towards only God himself knew where. I didn't have a clue where we were going right then and that was a deep concern for me, considering the speed at which we traveled. For all I knew she was hauling me back to Willie B’s cage and was going to toss me in for murder. I figured all the Zoo animals were friends back then, and Ole Willie was judge and jury if you messed with one of the clan. I tried to wrench away a time or two, my teacher Mrs. Reynolds trailing behind us trying to get the attention of our guide and simultaneously inquiring as to where she might be headed with her student in tow, one who she was solely responsible for that day. I knew this because the permission slip said so and George W. and Ruth Hall signed it and made it law. I was really hoping Mrs. Reynolds was concerned about me, but in reality she was just covering her own ass. As I recall, she had a nice one, but I was primarily concerned with the one attached to me. My dad was going to hear about this one, I was certain.

We marched around that Zoo a few times, I assumed for Mrs. A-hole to get her story straight and to enjoy terrorizing yours truly. We finally landed at what I assumed was the administration building where I was sat down along with my emotionally and physically exhausted teacher. Our guide then disappeared behind an official looking door and from behind it I heard shouting and all kinds of commotion, I guessed was all aimed at me and my dastardly deed. When the door opened, a giant dude in an official looking Zoo uniform emerged and Mrs Reynolds and I were invited into the huge office where I was told to tell my side of the “story”. Mine was simple. I was minding my own business, looking at some really cool snakes, when the next thing I know I am face to face with a man killer in the form of a giant hairy spider. I slapped it off my shoulder out of fear and the rest of the story involved a two-mile walk with Mrs. Applescwartz dragging me around by the ear, me winding up in the seat I was sitting in right then.

The Zoo suited dude looked at Mrs. Reynolds and Mrs. Applescwartz and asked, “Is that the truth?”. Mrs. Reynolds looked at Mr. Zoo Dude and said, “Yes, that’s exactly the way it happened.” I then asked him if my Dad was going to have to pay the thousands of dollars for the exotic and expensive spider that I killed, and if I was going to reform school and grow up to be a bum and eat out of trash cans when I grew up, like Mrs. Applescwartz said I was, all for killing the giant spider. He looked at our Zoo guide like he might melt her “Wicked Witch of the West” style, if he had a bucket of warm water to toss in her direction. I wondered to myself if piss would have done the job, because I think I whizzed in my Levi’s from the whole ordeal so I had some liquid to spare. If I hadn't pee’d my pants yet, I could whip him up a quick half-gallon right then, on the spot, if need be.

That night Mrs Reynolds called my house to talk to my dad. I just went to my room and assumed the position. Again, I thought back then my dad had invented ass whippins, all because of me. And I had just killed the Atlanta Zoo's only man-eating Arachnid and ruined my Dad's financial future. For all I knew, he'd spend the next twenty years paying for the hairy beast Mrs. Applescwartz had put on my person and I sent straight to Spider Hell. He was surprised when he cleared my door and saw me sitting on my bed, looking like I was in for the big one. I thought maybe he was going to tell me the whereabouts of the reform school I was leaving for the next day or what restaurants might have the best garbage can fare. But he looked at me and said:” You've had an interesting day I hear. Why don’t we run down to the Varsity and get a Frosted Orange and you tell me all about it”.

It turned out to be a good day in young Jimmy Hall land. I got to ride shotgun in my dad’s awesome black 63 Riviera. I remember riding with the windows down and the cool breeze blowing on that most memorable of days. All was right with the world. Since then, I have one basic rule when it comes to spiders and it is this:

The best spider is a flat one .

The Best Spider is Flat One, Part 2

Then there were my friends. One in particular I felt a kinship to and liked because of his loyalty. His name was Dickey McGrew. Dickey was a guy who changed the world I lived in by his attitude about numerous things I held dear. He was a cool dresser, wearing bell bottoms and tie died shirts, considered extremely edgy back then and that dude could cuss like a sailor. Most parents instantly disliked Dickey based solely on his appearance alone, and that was a shame. I was a Levi Strauss wearing, tee-shirted, P.F. Flyer wearing all American looking kid back then and Dickey was my friend. Plus, Dickey had a mom who was a full on hottie. She was built like the much heralded “brick shit house” of lore, better explained in an excerpt from “The Train Ride”, a book I wrote a while back. It goes something like this:

Dickey was the first guy we knew that cussed and had a Playboy collection, and I instantly liked him. Moms have ESP, so mine knew right away he was trouble. His mom, on the other hand, was a full-on hottie and the only mom to wear Go-Go boots and a mini skirt to our intramural football games. Oh the shame of it all. I was sure that catching her as a wife was like the dog that actually caught the car he was chasing. She, Raquel Welch and Anne Margaret were the original reason I became and still am a boob man and she populated many a young boy’s dreams back then, namely mine. We used to call Dickey’s mom the “Dairy Queen” and for good reason. She always looked like she was shoplifting two cantaloupes or a dead heat in a blimp race, in the tight shirts she always wore . She loved me for some reason and would always hug me when she saw me. I really liked it as she always smashed my face into her rack and would not let go until I got dizzy from lack of oxygen. I figured if I were going to die this would be how I wanted to go out and certainly not driving my Dad’s prized possession across Avon Avenue. I hoped my headstone would read:

HERE LIES MASTER JIMMY HALL

KILLED BY BOOB HUG SUFFOCATION

That sounded a whole lot better than,

HERE LIES MASTER JIMMY HALL,

JUSTIFIABLY KILLED BY HIS DAD

FOR WRECKING HIS SWEET ASSED BLACK 63 RIVIERA

WITH SILVER, YES SILVER, LEATHER INTERIOR.

Death by boob suffocation would look good on a tombstone and the getting killed by the dad thing took up way to much space. Dickey’s mom was every young boys dream and every married man’s wife’s worst nightmare as she was a veritable Playboy bunny with kids that cussed and had Playboy books. I asked her to adopt me one time, thinking I could get away with cussin’ and I figured a whipping from her must have been like a dream. She called my mom and told her about my plans and I think my mom agreed to the adoption itself, but also told her she would more than likely bring me back after a few days. I was willing to risk it if Dickey’s Mom was willing.

If you are wondering about the wrecked Riviera, well, that’s a story for another day. This story is about hating spiders. I constructed the characters in this story carefully so you’d know the players involved.

It was the spring at Arkwright Elementary School in the West End of Atlanta, located near the back gate of Fort McPherson, Mitchell’s store and the first McDonald’s hamburger joint I remember. Arkwright Elementary was located on the steepest hill I have ever seen and it was about a mile from my house by foot. I walked it every day with my same street buddies, Dickey included. That day we all toted special lunches because it was field trip day. Not the normal peanut butter and jelly sammich and an apple lunch with a cold milk back. It was the fancy-schmancy (it’s a word) “once in a blue moon” kind that included a honey bun and a coke, and a sandwich with real meat and cheese, with potato chips tossed in. It was, as I recall, a beautiful day. I had no idea what kind of a day it would turn into a few hours later but it really makes me laugh when I think of it now. Then? Well, it started out like a trip to Six Flags over Georgia with no lines at any of the roller coasters, but ended up like Barnabas Collins from Dark Shadows actually walking out of your closet in the middle of the night in some stormy, nightmare come true.

My class arrived at the Atlanta Zoo on that beautiful day, along with numerous other third grade classes from the other elementary schools in the area, us excited by the rare bus ride to the event. When we disembarked (fancy word for ‘got off the bus’) the process was this: your class exited the bus and was immediately assigned a volunteer familiar with the Zoo. This person would serve as a guide who explained, in agonizing detail, every aspect of the compound. Everything from the acquisition of the land to how many times the bigger critters took a dump on a daily basis. It was a cool enough trip, but being led around by a lady named Mrs. Applescwartz stunk, and, she looked exactly like she was named. Skinny, Cat eye glasses, Bouffant hair do, clunky high healed shoes that could be best described as “practical” when a dude would say “hideous”…and a dress that looked like it was a semi formal kilt, but for women and a knee-length. She had a screechy voice and never stopped talking, even when my teacher, Mrs. Reynolds, tried to ask questions.

This trip was getting old quick. Finally, after a good hour and a half, we entered the giant indoor cage where the famous “Willie B”, the giant gorilla, lived. Mrs. Applescwartz actually stood at the edge of the cage, beating on her chest until Mr. Willie B, hairy massive gorilla he was, began beating on his own chest like a competition for the last bunch of bananas might be at stake. Ole Willie then went “ape shit” (me learning the true meaning if the term right then) jumping all over his cage like the wild caged beast he actually was. Later on, I guessed it was her way to aggravate the poor caged, hairy giant into a frenzy. She came across to me as that kind of person after nearly two hours under her leadership.

Then it happened.

We left the Gorilla cage and headed for the final attraction, the much-anticipated “Reptile House”, an out-door venue that was actually a giant round building with all of the displays holding the slithery and horror movie type critters behind glass enclosures. You entered the exhibit through a set of waist-high heavy rails that left a funky, sour milk smell on your hands if you slid them across it too long. The displays were designed around the outside of the building and just wide enough for a loose single file line and a guide out front. My buddies and I were at our normal outpost, the back of the line, waiting for our turn to see the giant snakes, turtles, fish, lizards, and yes, spiders, all from some remote place on the planet where Marlin Perkins visited on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. If you’re from my generation, that’s the show that came on after the crappy cartoons like “Jot” and “Clutch Cargo” on Sunday mornings, just before “Gospel Singing Jubilee”.

The Reptile building was big enough for our entire class to stretch around so that the front of the line and the back of the line met at the combined entrance/exit. Dickey and I made up the very last two spots in line, meaning for a brief moment in time, Mrs. Applescwartz, Dickey and I were within a few feet of each other. It was awkward, like the “floor sweepers” crossing paths with upper management in the same coffee shop awkward. Us back-of-the-liners rarely intermingled with the goody two shoes types, even if only for a split second. Right then it was inevitable, and that would prove to be my folly.

More Friday!

The Best Spider is a Flat One, Part 1

I’m a big dude, and I mean big. I’m six-foot four inches of former college football player with size fifteen feet weighing in at a stealthy 375 pounds, give or take a mediocre steak dinner with all the fixin’s…or two. I’m the guy who has successfully eaten the biggest steak on the menu in a real Texas steakhouse (in Texas I mean) with the looming promise of it being free if eaten in a predetermined time frame set by the establishment offering the deal to the eating public. I personally guaranteed
my success by walking into the steak house with out a dime to my name, so it was either eat and win or face whatever consequences might attach itself to failure. Consequences like going to jail or washing dishes till my debt was satisfied. It was the best sixty-five ounces of formerly corn-fed Texas steer I have ever enjoyed in my life up to that point. It wasn't the "Big Texan", the 72 ouncer served at "The Big Texan Steakhouse" in Amarillo, but they were first cousins. Sometime when I'm in Amarillo, I'm gonna check that one off the old bucket list. Not attempt, mind you, I mean check it off, period. Some folks want to jump out of perfectly good airplanes with a giant silk bed-sheet attached by ropes strapped to their backs, packed by someone they don't even know...or do other stupid stuff involving excess gravity. Me? I'm for the more "ground bound" challenges, at least ones that when accomplished, allows the "checker-offer" the chance move on to the next item on his or her list. Oh, and doesn't involve lawyers, finger pointing, and assignment of blame if said Bucket-Lister's attempt goes south and he or she croaks. All bucket list stuff ought to come with a waiver and a witness.

But that's just me.

I’ve also done most of the macho things a dude might do if needing to prove his manhood to other men. The kind of stuff most women think silly or stupid but most men appreciate. I rode a giant-assed, pissed off bull on a dare and got thrown off that beast, twice, right after I got called "city boy" by a bunch of Pro Rodeo wanna-bees. Too much liquid bravery enhancer caused that screw up. Truth was, I'd hung on longer than they expected, and I guess I was embarrassing them at their own game. I’ve lined up across from a few future NFL linemen in my college football career and bested them. I’ve bench pressed 400 plus pounds a time or two in my life, squatted the equivalent of a small car or a kindergarten class, all at once. I’ve worked at a steel mill as a summer job in 800 degrees of dry heat by the melt shop cleaning up steel slag, so hot it would make the majority of the population melt from heat and fatigue. I’ve worked moving 200 pound rolls of sod grass all day for minimum wage in the humid Georgia heat, ten hours a day for an entire summer between my college years. I considered it “educational incentive” of sorts, promising myself I’d get through college with a diploma intact with my full name emblazoned across it, and I did. I stepped onto an airplane after selling my prized 65 GTO to spend a summer in Lake Tahoe working. I left the Atlanta tarmac with out a set plan, just rented a car in Reno, drove to Tahoe after I landed and sorted it all out when I got there. I even got hit head-on by a two ton Jeep when I turned thirty years old and it didn’t kill me. It came dang close, but it didn’t extinguish the fire lit up on March 2, 1960 on that snowy night in Atlanta, Georgia. Why do I feel the need to tell you how tough I am, based on how dudes determine how tough another dude is on any given day? Here’s the reason in a nut shell:

I hate Spiders.

I. Hate. Spiders. Big, small, medium it doesn’t matter. I am an equal opportunity confessed serial killer of all things Arachnid, no matter breed or size. I jump up on furniture when I see one. I holler in girly range tones. I forget my religion and cuss like Ragan in The Exorcist movie, ready to hurl green upchuck and talk in hellish shrill voices at a moments notice. It’s like I become an instant black belt in every conceivable martial art discipline if I run into a spider web. If you saw me the seconds after I walked into one, you’d think I had mixed judo, jujitsu, drunken boxing and Choi-Quang-Do, with some other as of yet undiscovered ninja moves, with parts of the “Twist” and the “Mashed Potato” dances thrown in for good measure. Any spider is the proverbial mouse to my elephant. You get the picture. Let's move on, shall we?

I have a specific reason I hate spiders and I am going to share it with you right now. I’ve kept it to myself for forty-four years and it’s about time it got out. I think just about anyone would sympathize with me once he or she finished reading this story. If you don’t, well, you are just plain mean and your mom dressed you funny as a kid and you are a communist. The story you are about to read is true and no names have been changed to protect the innocent here. It starts with a trip to the Atlanta City Zoo, my then best friend Dickey McGrew, and a certain skinny, bouffant (pronounced boo-font) hair-dooed and cat-eye glass wearing volunteer, sister to the Devil himself, assigned to Mrs. Reynolds third grade class of which I was a member in fair to medium standing. I’d say good standing, but as Mark Twain said in “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn”…”If I’da said it I’d be lying it.” I was a good kid as far as I could tell, I just couldn’t get my teacher to believe it on a daily basis. If she would have known my Dad better she would have known how committed I was to being a good kid and how important it was to my long-term survival. I guess making that particular connection is one every kid my age struggled with at one time or the other. I know I did.

My Dad was a man from exceptionally modest means, raised in the mountains of North Carolina in the community if Unaka, just two miles outside of the metropolis of Hanging Dog. At the time of this story he was an up and coming executive in the United States Postal Service. He was a future master of all things mail, M.I.T. (yes the one on Massachusetts) and Duke School of Business Graduate, with numerous other educational and executive based accolades rounding out a great career. In 1968, the year of this story, he was a postal supervisor, dealing with folks who gave original meaning to the term “going postal”. He had a kind and gentle nature about him, but he was “the” disciplinarian around our homestead. His Marine Corps background meant one undeniable truth: what he said was the gospel. If you crossed the line in his careful but simply built matrix of rules, you paid the price. He made those rules crystal clear so that me, my brother and sister wouldn’t trip up and cross the “line”, as it were. He used to tell us “I’ll show you where the line is, and each of you should stay back ten feet behind it in case you stumble and fall, you won’t cross over.” Wise words for me and every man, still to this day.

My dad was a great dad and I mean that with all my heart and soul. He was funny and loving, always including me in his outside activities. He liked old cars and he always included me in his hobbies regardless of how simple or complex. I was a kid who loved his dad and wanted nothing more than to please him. As I stated earlier, he was a Marine, and that truth meant that every thing he owned, from tools to clothing to automobiles, remained in immaculate and “as new” condition during it’s tenor in my dad’s possession. He was a very disciplined man in all aspects of his life and he considered his children his greatest responsibility. That meant numerous lectures about life for me over helping him changing oil in the family car and maintaining the yard, including how young men ought to act when at school. He told me at a young age that I carried his name and his father’s name to school with me and it was important to be a good kid. The rules I mentioned earlier were the foundation upon which he molded his young people into respectable future older people. I had great respect for his authority at a very young age, I just didn't seem to have the ability to maintain that respect 100% of the time I was breathing. He told me once. "all you have to do is 'want to' badly, and it will become habit". Thing was, my "want to" and his didn't seem to line up when it really counted the most.

My dad was also an inventor of sorts. He single-handedly, in my estimation, invented the two-sided belt. I discovered this fact when I got in big trouble at school. I don’t remember what the occasion was, but I’m sure it involved me begging my teacher not to tell my dad of whatever infraction(s) I had committed leading her to send the dreaded “teachers note” home to be signed by my parents two. His belt was thin, the style back then, formal black with a polished silver buckle on one side, used to complement his immaculately polished wing tip black shoes on work days. The other side, I discovered, was a bullwhip, the likes of which Indiana Jones might covet, and use to whip his way out of trouble when it popped up. When I broke the rules, my dad used it to "keep me in the rows" when I brought such notes home, breaking his most basic of rules. My dad was not abusive in any way. He was not a "dog kicker" after a bad day at the rock pile. Every single whippin I got was the sole responsibility of the same person writing this story, and no other. Heck, I even thought for a short while I was the reason whippins were invented.

I’m telling you this part, the dad part, so you’ll know what I was up against way back in the year 19 and 68.

More of this true tale on Wednesday!