My Life As A Hobby

Our usual Sunday post-church visit to my grandparents house was unusual that day. Things were kind of quiet. Normally, when my sister and I barged thru the front door like a giant pitcher of Kool Aid, we were greeted by my grandfather. He would fold up the Sunday paper and stand up to say hello.   However, on this particular day, he just sat in his recliner, barely speaking to us.   We went straight to the kitchen to report this odd behavior to my grandmother.   “Memaw, is something wrong with granddaddy?”, I asked.  My grandmother nodded and said, “Well, honey, your granddaddy had kind of a bad night last night.”  “What happened?” “We went to see his doctor on Friday, and doc’s been telling him to quit getting so excited about things because it’s not good for his heart. Well, your grandfather didn’t listen, and the doctor finally laid down the law.  He said granddaddy can’t watch wrestling anymore. And last night was the first Saturday night he had to do without it.” You rea

    During my senior year of high school, I had something to think about besides what colleges to consider. I needed to know my draft number.  In 1969, the draft lottery began to fill the military’s need for soldiers to take an all-expense paid trip to southeast Asia.  This was a serious jolt to an 18-year old’s reality.  One day, you’re concerned about high school football playoffs and homecoming dates – then in just a few months, the Vietnam War is front and center. The first year of the draft lottery, over 162,000 teenagers had to trade in their high school letter jackets for olive drab fatigues. The system was very easy to understand.  The first of each year, the Selective Service put 366 blue capsules in a container. Inside each capsule was a day of the year. The order the capsules were removed  determined your draft number.  A low number meant you had to make some decisions; go in the Army, go in the National Guard, go to Canada.  Or you could be creative. When I attended my

  Oh Lord, I can almost smell the estrogen.  It’s so powerful that it overpowers the hundreds of bouquets of flowers that parents and grandparents have brought in the auditorium. Everyone taking their seats are smiling and laughing.  That’s because the program hasn’t begun. I’ll check in about 3 hours and see where the smiles are then. In some circles this is known a dance recital, but I think of it as a level of Dante’s hell.   The opening of the event was very unusual: the emcee asked any veterans to stand and we greeted them with applause. My, have things changed. When I was a kid in the Vietnam era, a lot of the audience would’ve probably spit on anything concerning the military.   Then someone sang the Star Spangled Banner, and when the singer finished with, “…and the home of the brave,” at least a dozen people yelled,”Roll Tide!”  I’m ashamed to say I was one of them. Hey, I got caught up in the moment.  I suppose I was having a bit of a Vietnam flashback myself. This rec

Sometimes it’s hard to explain to people under the age of 40 that there was a time when most families only had one car. That’s understandable, because now the world is overrun with three car garages and circular driveways so full of full of automobiles that I expect to see a car salesman walking around.  But it’s not hard for me to comprehend.  I remember when we were a one car family.  In fact, since we only had one car,  I have fond memories going with Mom to pick up Dad from the pipe mill where he worked.  I would hide under a blanket and scare him every evening. Gee, I wonder why he never figured out I was in the back seat? At the time, owning just one car really wasn’t a problem for us because we lived close by the plant where my dad worked.  However, when we moved into the ‘burbs, it was time for my old man to get a work car. In case you don’t know, a work car was a dependable beater that could withstand the rigors of commuting on two lane backroads, and more importantly, par