My Life As A Hobby

  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