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Rasslin' - It’s Not Fake - Is It?

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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
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The Little Blue Capsule

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    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
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Tutus, Taps, & Terror

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  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
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Beater Cars

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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
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My Music’s Better Than Yours

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  I saw a bumper sticker on a car not too long ago that said,”It’s not that I’m old, your music really does suck.”  Preach it brother.  Bob Seger put it best when he sang, “Call me a relic, call me what you will.  Say I'm old-fashioned, say I'm over the hill. Today's music ain't got the same soul - I like that old time rock 'n' roll.”  I might change the last line to,  “today’s music sounds like a Buick that needs a brake job stopping on a hill.”  You’re welcome, Bob.  If you’re thinking,” Oh no, it’s not another one of old people telling us how bad our music is.” Well, buck up, Sparky, because it is. There is no doubt that many things in today’s world are better than they were a half century ago. But music ain’t one of them. And it’s not even close. The music in the 60’s 70’s and 80’s rules.  Artists that most people under 35 don’t even know have influenced some of the so-called music that they listen to today. And I wish they had influenced them even more
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Nudity, Noise, & Dangerous Toys

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I have been yelling like a, well, a grumpy grandfather. It’s embarrassing really - yelling for quiet. But it’s necessary when you have a houseful of screaming kids.  I know my voice only added to the pandemonium, but I had to do something. The TV was blasting, an iPad was playing music, and a naked 3 year old was running thru the den like a mini streaker.  When you add shrieks from 2 other kids and barking dogs, there’s no way I could peacefully watch the ending of Top Gun. The cherry on the frustrating sundae came about when I get out of my chair to inquire about the nudity, and stepped on a Barbie doll.  It felt like my bare foot had been stabbed with a Bowie Knife.  This is what happens when three of my grandkids - who are all girls- spend the night with us. When Rilynne, who’s 11, Eva, who’s 8, and Addy, who’s 3, get together, it’s like an all-girl version of Lord of the Flies.  I asked for this. I raised 3 boys and I desperately wanted a little girl. So I guess the Good Lord
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Stray No More - Plus Four!

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  I can’t believe that it’s been 4 years since my two dogs, Reese and Roscoe became part of my life. And as I think back on the events that brought us together, it’s hard to believe our paths even crossed. Ironically, I wasn’t there for the first meeting. My wife, son, and granddaughter were headed home from a quick spring break trip to the lake. Instead of driving back on the normal route, they decided to take a longer, scenic way. After a few miles, they spotted them on the side of a two lane highway.  A black and white pup with his brindle colored running mate. They were dirty, stinky, skittish dogs. Not a collar between them. It was obvious they had missed a few meals. One of them had a dime sized tick below her eye. Normally, curs like this elicit a collective sigh, and are forgotten by the next mile marker.  Not today.  Not when the black and white one could have been the brother of my beloved, departed bird dog, Precious. Rilynne, being the brash, insightful, granddaughter that
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