My Life As A Hobby

It wasn’t a Red Ryder like the one in Christmas Story, but there was a time in my young life when, like Ralphie, I just had to have a BB gun. Why my parents would even think about getting me one is still beyond belief ; but when I consider that my father was a chemist who brought me anything I wanted from his laboratory, I shouldn’t have been surprised.  What’s a few BBs when he’s supplying me with sulphuric acid?   So on Christmas morning of my12th year, I discovered a Daisy BB gun underneath the tree.   It was beautiful. It looked like one of the Winchesters you would see in an old John Wayne movie.  Daisy called the model 1894 “a spitting image” of the gun that won the west. And it certainly won our neighborhood.  The 1894 had more power than the Red Ryder.  It would hold 50 BBs in the chamber and shoot them as fast as you could cock the lever.  And I shot plenty. Squirrels and chipmunks ducked for cover when they saw me coming.  It wasn’t long before I began using the 1894 for

  Dreamland - an ultimate BBQ joint.  I love me some BBQ. That’s because I’m southern, and it’s the law.  If you cut me, I will probably bleed smoky, sweet, red sauce. Any kind of meat is fine, but I have a strong lean toward pork ribs. I firmly believe a properly barbecued pigsicle can change your life faster than a Baptist preacher’s sermon.  I’m also a big believer in Alabama barbecue.  It’s very underrated.  I’ve been to places like Memphis, St. Louis, Kansas City, and North Carolina - Alabama ‘cue more than stands up to any of it. Sorry, Lewis Grizzard. I will eat BBQ anywhere, but my favorite places are always the joints.  For those of you that don’t know, a BBQ restaurant is not a BBQ joint. Let me elaborate. Once I ate in a BBQ establishment in Kansas City that had white tablecloths. It was decent ‘cue, but white tablecloths?  Just a few miles away was another place that had a policeman patrolling the parking lot and an old screen door in front. That, my friends is a joint

  My last photo of Mom taken just before her accident.  Christmas is known as the season of light. It’s the time of year when Christians all over the world celebrate the birth of the light in the person of Jesus. That’s why our home and trees are illuminated – it’s a reference to the light God gave us in a world of increasing darkness.  However, there are a few times in your life when you are fortunate enough to see a glimpse of The True Light.  This is one of those times.  This is my story. I was backstage at the Comedy Club, waiting to do a holiday show, when the owner burst into the green room.  He told me my mom had been in a wreck and I needed to get to the hospital immediately. I ran to my car.  All manner of thoughts began racing through my mind as I raced downtown.   I bolted in the emergency room and saw my sister, Paula, who was sitting between my aunt and a young black woman. Paula stood up, escorted me to a corner and told me everything she knew.  It wasn’t good.  So

  I am not an athlete - never   have been.   I wasn’t picked last in the school playground games, but I was, shall we charitably say, usually in the lower percentile group.   I tried to play football in high school but I was not very good.   Plenty big, but too slow. Then I cracked a vertebrae, which ended my NFL aspirations. Golf was and is my passion, and I am a decent player - but I lack any natural ability. Whatever skills I have were acquired by spending countless hours on the practice tee. So I’m envious of anyone who is a “natural athlete”, those people who excel at every sport they play because of a God-given gift. My gift was writing and making people laugh - whoopty do! But there was an exception. There one sport that I was good at.  I was a natural from the first time I picked one up. I could throw a Frisbee.  Thank you Wham-O!  Now there are a number of sports and competitions that involve the iconic disc, but in the late sixties, it was still considered a toy of sorts. 

  I knew that eventually this day would come. If I can be honest with myself, I’m glad.  Nevertheless, feelings of sadness and nostalgia are washing over me now.  That’s because next week we will finalize the sale on my Mom and Dad’s home.  Let me clarify. This was not the house I grew up in; instead, this was where Mom and Dad spent the last 15 years of their lives.  I spent a lot of time over there too.  Maybe I should say I did time over there. In a way it was my own personal version of the Shawshank Redemption.  Mom was always calling me over to do something.  I planted shrubbery in the worst dirt this side of the moon. There was so much red clay it was better suited to making pottery. I built a raised planting bed beside the patio so my father could tend to tomato plants from his wheelchair.  I made a rock garden with a small waterfall, and even constructed a gate for her privacy fence. And of course, I cut the grass and edged about every 2 weeks.  All of it was a labor of love. A

    This is for anyone who’s said fixin’ to, tumped over a glass, or rurnt something.  This is for the person who agrees with a statement by saying, “I heard that!”, calls every soft drink a Coke, and eats grits without sugar.  This is for married couples that think dinner at Waffle House is a perfect date night. For men who call their friends “Bubba”.  For parents who pick up their children from school at noon because a half inch of snow is forecast. This is for grandmothers who make tea so sweet that it’s almost brown glucose, and for her grandkids who wear a Panama City Beach tee shirt to school on picture day.  These are not stereotypes.  These are facts that could be a Jeopardy category – Things Southerners Do. I’ve been all over the country, so I know that every region has its own peculiarities and nuances.  But we seem to get hammered especially hard down here.  Facts are OK, the stereotypes are not. The dictionary defines a stereotype as a widely held, but oversimplified image

Remember when Halloween was just for little kids? If you’re like me, you can recall going door to door wearing that lame, store-bought pirate costume you just had to have.  The one that had the slinky outfit that covered your regular clothes and was topped off by the cheap plastic mask with the frozen facial expression.   It was almost impossible to see or breathe out of that thing.   And before you went out trick or treating, your Mom made sure you put on a jacket over the entire outfit. Talk about a buzz kill.   I never saw a buccaneer wearing a windbreaker, matey. But it didn’t matter, because  you always brought back about half a pillowcase full of candy. Some of it was so chewy that you would pull out at least three fillings. I don’t know why the American Dental Association doesn’t sponsor this holiday.   Eventually, you out grew the whole Halloween thing. It became another fond childhood memory.   But times have changed. Now adults are all up in  Halloween. In fact, it’s the b

The Visitor in the Second Row I’m gonna be honest - I wasn’t sure I was going to write this because lots of you might think I’m crazy. This is not a joke, there’s no punchline at the end.  Its not a made up story to get views or likes.  It’s not a Halloween story.  It’s not anything like you would see on those stupid ghost shows on TV. I saw it as sure as I’m sitting here.  It’s an experience I’ve never had before, and I’m getting goosebumps just typing it.  Maybe it was my imagination, but it was so vivid and lasted so long that I just can’t believe my mind conjured this up.   I was happy to hear that my niece’s infant daughter was going to be christened because that meant I would be going back to my Mother’s church.  It’s a small Anglican house of worship nestled in the woods on top of a steep hill.  Mom loved that church - so much so that when she passed, they gave her a special tribute. For several years one of her Sunday best hats was placed where she always sat on the second row.