On Monday in Neptune Park the masses huddled with one accord in the declining light of another day.
Under a brilliant blue sky the sun’s last dazzling rays of the day refracted from the dappled gun-metal grey waters of the Atlantic. With this backdrop, and like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, four Marines from King’s Bay stood ramrod straight, holding side-by-side two enduring symbols of America: The Stars and Stripes Flag and the blood-red Marine banner.
The occasion was “Taps at Twilight,” an island tradition held every Memorial Day in remembrance and in recognition of all Veterans of military service, living and dead. Each branch of the military was recognized by the playing of its marching music and the standing recognition of the Veterans. The soul was stirred.
Spectators sat orderly in rows, the very old and the very young. All had come to celebrate a time of remembrance for the occasion. Soon the Marines marched forth, Posting the Colors under the fading shadow of the flagpole. A wreath of colorful flowers, not unlike the faces, heads and clothing of the spectators, preceded a bagpiper, followed by the precise marching of Marines down a yellow-marked corridor. The crowd was silent, absorbing the essence of the procession.
Our group of about 16 had arrived a couple hours earlier, setting up our picnic tables under the shade and shadow of a sprawling oak tree. An old-fashioned picnic was unfolding, itself a remembrance of days gone by when towns were smaller, life slower, and time available for such frivolity.
There was fried chicken, covered by a red and white checkered cloth ~~ casseroles and sandwiches, snacks and sweets. Honorable mention went to the pineapple, tomato, chicken salad and pimento cheese sandwiches…all, get this, with mayonnaise on “light bread!” It returned many, if not most, of us to school lunch buckets, memories of simpler, and perhaps more tasty times.
In a land teeming with the crosscurrents of individual freedoms, such an occasion is one of the few “connecting points” in our culture that unites each of us, irrespective of everything divisive. We were Americans today, celebrating together something that was bigger than our individual selves. For a few hours we laid aside our self-interest and enjoyed the collective spirit that connected us.
Meanwhile, the band played on, and with hands over hearts, or salutes, the National Anthem was sung. After a lengthy prayer, appropriate for a nation 233 years old, Brig. General Thomas S. Vandal from Ft. Stewart offered up his stirring remarks.
The sun set in the twilight’s last gleaming as the Marines Retired the Colors. The evening turned more somber. The student JROTC from Brunswick High School proceeded slowly down the corridor to the flagpole. The flag was lowered, folded and stored for the night. The tall flagpole stood naked as its golden dome pierced the graying sky. A mournful trumpet began to sound out the four simple notes of “Taps,” Lights Out, or Gone the Sun…the call that ends the soldier’s day. In the distance its fading echo descended gently upon the day’s declining moments.
As we had arrived, so we departed. Chairs folded, picnic tables closed, food (very little was left!) repackaged, good-byes said. Individuality had returned, yes, but not without a renewed sense of our collective Greater Purpose and our individual roles in it.
Four simple notes closed the day… four simple notes renew the morrow. Like death and resurrection, tomorrow’s bugle call is Reveille, also played with four simple notes to the accompaniment of a cannon’s retort. It is a rousing “get ‘em up” tune as the flag is again raised atop the naked flagpole … a resurrected America on the go.
So, on four simple notes a new day began, even as our old day ended. They both remind us of our unity in spite of our differences and the redolence of our national pledge… “…one nation, under God, with liberty and justice for all.”
If you were there, you know. If not, remember … “E Pluribus Unum,” y’all.
Bud Hearn
May 28, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Mac Works the Yappy Hour Bar Scene
My name is Mac, and I’m a dog.
It was a Friday, time to let off a little steam. “Hey, Mac, let’s go check out the yappy hour crowd the Sunset Grille? Let the girls fend for themselves. We might get lucky tonight,” shouted P.L., my Pack Leader. I barked, “I’m in.” Westies are party animals, you know.
I remembered the last disaster at the Beach Sniff when I left in shame and dejection. My pick-up lines were getting stale, and I needed another opportunity to work the crowd. Besides that, I was ready for a rematch with Emil, that arrogant Afghan Hound who had destroyed my evening’s chances with Shari, the petite Shar-Pei from China.
Let me tell you all about that fiasco.
Last month the P.L and I had eased into the crowded bar and eyeballed our opportunities. Possibilities pulsated with the music of Three Dog Night, “…just an old fashioned love song, one I’m sure they wrote for you and me…” Once unleashed, I foraged, hanging around the dog snacks and carrot treats, sipping a cold Perrier while assessing my options. Looking cool.
I had seen this crowd in action before...the perennial beach slackers, air heads and bar junkies. They sulked, preened and pontificated ad nauseam over past exploits, spewing dull, empty platitudes of over-embellished lies. They never scored. As far as I could see, their only virtue was in supplying the snack-tender with a job. Cheap, small-tip types are everywhere.
The Yappy Hour crowd preferred to hang with its kin. The stodgy, entitled English breeds---Spaniels, Sheepdogs, Setters and Fox Hounds—had bellied up to the food bar. A heated argument ensued between them and an American Pit Bull. Cornwallis’ name came up and the discussion ended. Some things never change…Brits are still sore losers.
The “big shots,” the dog-jocks and the condescending high-finance slicks had commandeered the food table, pushing and shoving their weight around. The Bull Mastiff was the big dog tonight, but he was having a tough time “one-upping” the Doberman’s Wall Street exploits. The German Shepherd was sullen, boasting of its Aryan heritage. Winners were few in this group…too much testosterone for the gentler sex.
The overhead fans whirled, circulating the scent of romance carried by soft ocean breezes that blew through open windows. Outside the moon shone brightly. I am a romantic…females like that in a Renaissance Westie, I was sure. I bet on it tonight!
The crowd, male and female, was friendly, consisting of all types and breeds. They sniffed endlessly, hoping to establish some rapport. Scottish Terriers and Hounds yapped noisily with the American clan of Bull Dogs and Retrievers. A Russian Black Terrier argued vociferously with a Siberian Husky, something about the Russian mafia’s recent manipulation of the Westminster Kennel Club. They were brainwashed in the art of “doublespeak.”
The Irish, true to nature, swilled heavily and yapped with bravado, especially the Setters and Wolf Hounds. They couldn’t seem to reconcile the separation of Ireland and England. The merits of the divorce were in hot debate with an Australian Tasmanian Terrier of the debtors-prison gang that settled The Outback. A fearless, croc-hunting specimen.
My ears perked up as the Beatles beat out, “…Gotta pay your dues if you wanna play the blues, and you know it don’t come easy.” Right on, dudes, I thought. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw what Luck looked like. There, in the darkest corner of the bar, was this immaculately-coiffured, elegant, black-haired Toy French Poodle. She sat alone in ribbons, sipping a San Pellegrino. Is this heaven, or what? Yes…luck is smiling on me tonight!
Strutting by, I thought, “Faint heart never won fair lady.” I yapped seductively, “Darlin’, do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?” Her eyes answered, “Try again, runt.” Undeterred, I yapped more forcefully, “A dog told me you were looking for Mr. Right.” A small smile broke her silent stare. “Oh, silly Americanized Scot, curl up on the blanket. You’re kinda cute for a short fellow anyway.” My world lit up in ecstasy. How lucky could I get?
But luck is a fickle female. She never gives, only lends. And my loan came due the minute the slick Afghan Hound strolled in. Effortlessly he moved. Arrogant, aloof, detached, his silky hair glowed with an envied sheen…he had no rivals tonight. Bones dropped, yapping ceased. A silence fell over the crowd. Shari swooned, and I knew I was toast. The hound moved in, I was moved out. Dejection described my mood.
Snickers and stares followed my bruised ego over to the P.L. “Ready to go, Mac,” he asked? A backward glance was my answer. We drove home in total silence. I guess his loan came due tonight, too. As we entered the house, Sophie, my platonic live-in mate, sniffed me, as if to say, “How did you do tonight, Studley? Never mind…I can see by your look it was about the same as usual. When will you learn, Rambling Man? Here, take this toy, and let’s go to bed.”
But that was then. Tonight at the Sunset Grille, I intended to repair my damaged ego. As I worked the crowd, a friend, Nilla, a yellow Lab, barked, “Hey Mac, come meet Collette—she just arrived from the Cote d’Azur.” Wow…luck is offering me another chance. It knows I’m fond of the French. “Move over, I’m in!”
Hope springs eternal for can-do canines. I should know…my name is Mac, and I’m a dog.
Bud Hearn
Copyrighted May 22, 2009
It was a Friday, time to let off a little steam. “Hey, Mac, let’s go check out the yappy hour crowd the Sunset Grille? Let the girls fend for themselves. We might get lucky tonight,” shouted P.L., my Pack Leader. I barked, “I’m in.” Westies are party animals, you know.
I remembered the last disaster at the Beach Sniff when I left in shame and dejection. My pick-up lines were getting stale, and I needed another opportunity to work the crowd. Besides that, I was ready for a rematch with Emil, that arrogant Afghan Hound who had destroyed my evening’s chances with Shari, the petite Shar-Pei from China.
Let me tell you all about that fiasco.
Last month the P.L and I had eased into the crowded bar and eyeballed our opportunities. Possibilities pulsated with the music of Three Dog Night, “…just an old fashioned love song, one I’m sure they wrote for you and me…” Once unleashed, I foraged, hanging around the dog snacks and carrot treats, sipping a cold Perrier while assessing my options. Looking cool.
I had seen this crowd in action before...the perennial beach slackers, air heads and bar junkies. They sulked, preened and pontificated ad nauseam over past exploits, spewing dull, empty platitudes of over-embellished lies. They never scored. As far as I could see, their only virtue was in supplying the snack-tender with a job. Cheap, small-tip types are everywhere.
The Yappy Hour crowd preferred to hang with its kin. The stodgy, entitled English breeds---Spaniels, Sheepdogs, Setters and Fox Hounds—had bellied up to the food bar. A heated argument ensued between them and an American Pit Bull. Cornwallis’ name came up and the discussion ended. Some things never change…Brits are still sore losers.
The “big shots,” the dog-jocks and the condescending high-finance slicks had commandeered the food table, pushing and shoving their weight around. The Bull Mastiff was the big dog tonight, but he was having a tough time “one-upping” the Doberman’s Wall Street exploits. The German Shepherd was sullen, boasting of its Aryan heritage. Winners were few in this group…too much testosterone for the gentler sex.
The overhead fans whirled, circulating the scent of romance carried by soft ocean breezes that blew through open windows. Outside the moon shone brightly. I am a romantic…females like that in a Renaissance Westie, I was sure. I bet on it tonight!
The crowd, male and female, was friendly, consisting of all types and breeds. They sniffed endlessly, hoping to establish some rapport. Scottish Terriers and Hounds yapped noisily with the American clan of Bull Dogs and Retrievers. A Russian Black Terrier argued vociferously with a Siberian Husky, something about the Russian mafia’s recent manipulation of the Westminster Kennel Club. They were brainwashed in the art of “doublespeak.”
The Irish, true to nature, swilled heavily and yapped with bravado, especially the Setters and Wolf Hounds. They couldn’t seem to reconcile the separation of Ireland and England. The merits of the divorce were in hot debate with an Australian Tasmanian Terrier of the debtors-prison gang that settled The Outback. A fearless, croc-hunting specimen.
My ears perked up as the Beatles beat out, “…Gotta pay your dues if you wanna play the blues, and you know it don’t come easy.” Right on, dudes, I thought. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw what Luck looked like. There, in the darkest corner of the bar, was this immaculately-coiffured, elegant, black-haired Toy French Poodle. She sat alone in ribbons, sipping a San Pellegrino. Is this heaven, or what? Yes…luck is smiling on me tonight!
Strutting by, I thought, “Faint heart never won fair lady.” I yapped seductively, “Darlin’, do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?” Her eyes answered, “Try again, runt.” Undeterred, I yapped more forcefully, “A dog told me you were looking for Mr. Right.” A small smile broke her silent stare. “Oh, silly Americanized Scot, curl up on the blanket. You’re kinda cute for a short fellow anyway.” My world lit up in ecstasy. How lucky could I get?
But luck is a fickle female. She never gives, only lends. And my loan came due the minute the slick Afghan Hound strolled in. Effortlessly he moved. Arrogant, aloof, detached, his silky hair glowed with an envied sheen…he had no rivals tonight. Bones dropped, yapping ceased. A silence fell over the crowd. Shari swooned, and I knew I was toast. The hound moved in, I was moved out. Dejection described my mood.
Snickers and stares followed my bruised ego over to the P.L. “Ready to go, Mac,” he asked? A backward glance was my answer. We drove home in total silence. I guess his loan came due tonight, too. As we entered the house, Sophie, my platonic live-in mate, sniffed me, as if to say, “How did you do tonight, Studley? Never mind…I can see by your look it was about the same as usual. When will you learn, Rambling Man? Here, take this toy, and let’s go to bed.”
But that was then. Tonight at the Sunset Grille, I intended to repair my damaged ego. As I worked the crowd, a friend, Nilla, a yellow Lab, barked, “Hey Mac, come meet Collette—she just arrived from the Cote d’Azur.” Wow…luck is offering me another chance. It knows I’m fond of the French. “Move over, I’m in!”
Hope springs eternal for can-do canines. I should know…my name is Mac, and I’m a dog.
Bud Hearn
Copyrighted May 22, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
A Guilty Conscience Eats Breakfast
A man’s belly must sometimes talk back to its conscience. This morning was one of those days.
The ghost of hunger stalked me for two days. The internal rumblings, those tale-tale signals of a body in the pangs of imminent starvation, could not be dispelled by dialogue. Money for food was not an issue…taking time to eat was. The pursuit of mammon will do this to a man.
In this condition a man reverts to the laws of nature…eat or be eaten, the law of the jungle. Conscience be damned, the body must have red meat, no matter what suffering it may inflict. But there was an edge of conscience still pleading, “At least be merciful, be gentle, and be quick.” I promised it I would…I did my best.
The selection process of the “victim” was somewhat painful. “This one? That one? Another?” They all seemed to shirk when approached, lying quietly or hiding behind one another, surely praying to be overlooked. It took some time to choose, the conscience rudely intruding. Finally the healthiest prospect was chosen. To my surprise there were no shrill cries from it of displeasure, or pleadings for mercy. No, it seemed to know that it was bred for such a time as this.
Since it was small, housing it in the apartment was not a problem. It was confined to a pleasant place out of deference to the complaints of my conscience. It had accepted its fate graciously and was not in any mental turmoil. It slept peacefully alone during the night, meditating on whatever final thoughts the “condemned” have. I hoped there would be no remorse, for the sake of my tender conscience. There appeared to be none.
I am not an inhumane butcher, having had much training in the art of “field dressing,” knowledge common among big game hunters. In the back woods of the south I have aided nature in the natural process of selection, “survival of the fittest.” My weapons ranged from .22 caliber rifles, 12 gauge shot guns and on up to a 300 Winchester Magnum, a virtual cannon. The NRA field manual insists that the shot be accurate, the kill clean. It has always been my creed.
Many squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, birds, deer, bear, antelope, fish and some rattlesnakes have encountered my surgical skill and ended up in the hot grease of a campfire frying pan. This morning was to be no exception, except the grease. No, I intended to eat this meat blood red and raw. No fire was necessary.
As I prepared for the sacrifice, I remembered a hot August evening. My wife was away, but called me later on. “What did you do for dinner,” she asked? “Why, what every red-blooded male has done from the beginning of time…I built a fire of coals, slapped a slab of red meat on the grill and opened a Budweiser,” I replied. “What, no green salad? How crude.” She seemed insulted that her years of training had been ignored.
But this morning my training was not ignored. Prayerfully with compassion I lifted The Sacrifice from its comfortable confinement and placed it on the wooden altar. Firmly, but tenderly, I held it, remembering the promise made to my conscience. The knife was large and sharp and gleamed ominously in the bright lights. I positioned it upon the hapless creature, and with one swift motion penetrated the thick skin, severing its heart and body into two equal parts. Without pain its life ended, its life juices oozing profusely onto the platter while my conscience screamed, “Murderer, killer, inhuman brute.”
Suddenly it was all over. It had been a swift and humane slaughter. Only one thing remained to be done. Without further discussion with my conscience, I proceeded to dine scrumptiously on the luscious, ambrosial, sweet red meat, squeezing its remaining life’s juices into my mouth without remorse.
Later my conscious and belly reconciled, but not without a long discussion on morals. Both were winners…hunger was placated, and conscience garnered a promise that further slaughter was unnecessary anytime soon…or else!
But in spite of my conscience, I do have to say it was one helluva giant, delicious Texas Ruby red grapefruit!
Bud Hearn
May 21, 2009
The ghost of hunger stalked me for two days. The internal rumblings, those tale-tale signals of a body in the pangs of imminent starvation, could not be dispelled by dialogue. Money for food was not an issue…taking time to eat was. The pursuit of mammon will do this to a man.
In this condition a man reverts to the laws of nature…eat or be eaten, the law of the jungle. Conscience be damned, the body must have red meat, no matter what suffering it may inflict. But there was an edge of conscience still pleading, “At least be merciful, be gentle, and be quick.” I promised it I would…I did my best.
The selection process of the “victim” was somewhat painful. “This one? That one? Another?” They all seemed to shirk when approached, lying quietly or hiding behind one another, surely praying to be overlooked. It took some time to choose, the conscience rudely intruding. Finally the healthiest prospect was chosen. To my surprise there were no shrill cries from it of displeasure, or pleadings for mercy. No, it seemed to know that it was bred for such a time as this.
Since it was small, housing it in the apartment was not a problem. It was confined to a pleasant place out of deference to the complaints of my conscience. It had accepted its fate graciously and was not in any mental turmoil. It slept peacefully alone during the night, meditating on whatever final thoughts the “condemned” have. I hoped there would be no remorse, for the sake of my tender conscience. There appeared to be none.
I am not an inhumane butcher, having had much training in the art of “field dressing,” knowledge common among big game hunters. In the back woods of the south I have aided nature in the natural process of selection, “survival of the fittest.” My weapons ranged from .22 caliber rifles, 12 gauge shot guns and on up to a 300 Winchester Magnum, a virtual cannon. The NRA field manual insists that the shot be accurate, the kill clean. It has always been my creed.
Many squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, birds, deer, bear, antelope, fish and some rattlesnakes have encountered my surgical skill and ended up in the hot grease of a campfire frying pan. This morning was to be no exception, except the grease. No, I intended to eat this meat blood red and raw. No fire was necessary.
As I prepared for the sacrifice, I remembered a hot August evening. My wife was away, but called me later on. “What did you do for dinner,” she asked? “Why, what every red-blooded male has done from the beginning of time…I built a fire of coals, slapped a slab of red meat on the grill and opened a Budweiser,” I replied. “What, no green salad? How crude.” She seemed insulted that her years of training had been ignored.
But this morning my training was not ignored. Prayerfully with compassion I lifted The Sacrifice from its comfortable confinement and placed it on the wooden altar. Firmly, but tenderly, I held it, remembering the promise made to my conscience. The knife was large and sharp and gleamed ominously in the bright lights. I positioned it upon the hapless creature, and with one swift motion penetrated the thick skin, severing its heart and body into two equal parts. Without pain its life ended, its life juices oozing profusely onto the platter while my conscience screamed, “Murderer, killer, inhuman brute.”
Suddenly it was all over. It had been a swift and humane slaughter. Only one thing remained to be done. Without further discussion with my conscience, I proceeded to dine scrumptiously on the luscious, ambrosial, sweet red meat, squeezing its remaining life’s juices into my mouth without remorse.
Later my conscious and belly reconciled, but not without a long discussion on morals. Both were winners…hunger was placated, and conscience garnered a promise that further slaughter was unnecessary anytime soon…or else!
But in spite of my conscience, I do have to say it was one helluva giant, delicious Texas Ruby red grapefruit!
Bud Hearn
May 21, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
I've Got a Bone to Pick With You....
“… I’m digging up bones, exhuming things that’s better left alone. I’m resurrecting memories of love that’s dead and gone, Yeah tonight I’m sitting alone diggin’ up bones. “ Randy Travis
Tempers flared, fists flew. Two boys beat the air and occasionally one another in the hot, swirling dust of the sandlot behind the gym.
Tooth and nail they fought, oblivious to chants, “Hit him, hit him harder.”’ Two 8th graders were settling a festering feud. Hatfield and McCoy legends begin in this way. The issue? Why, a girl, of course…a classic love triangle!
The battle soon subsided. The combatants, nursing scratches and lumps, regrouped with their own set of pals, leaving the crowd to decide the winner or loser. There is always a winner and a loser. Today the girl lost.
Last night an old yearbook yielded this memory of 53 years ago. I laughed recalling it. Dick and I were the pugilists. Her name was Dee. Dick had circulated the message that I had “messed” with his girl, and he was going to “get even.” Pride was armed. But what’s new?
Pride needs an enemy to fight. Today its adversary was The Defense of Manhood, a powerful opponent in any engagement. It was a classic standoff between arch enemies: Pride and Manhood.
Dick was the Quarterback of our football team. I was a lowly tight end. We did the work, the QB got the glory. Animosity existed between us for weeks, but I dismissed it as pride. QB’s overflow with that gene. He’d call the plays…somehow I always got the short pass patterns across the middle, the territory of the biggest, meanest and most brutal players, the line backers. I was always crushed, mocked by his grinning glee.
Dee was not a cheerleader or band majorette, those high school status symbols of rank. No, she was just an average “farm girl,” and smart. But she had caused a minor division in the football team by spurning Dick’s advances. He had been rejected in front of his friends and fans. QB’s are known for thin-skin self-esteem. For some reason she “liked” me, but my unrequited response further inflamed the tense drama.
This no-win situation had become extreme. A resolution was necessary. Hell, the football team was in danger of losing, and being a loser threatened the team’s pride. It literally screamed, “You boys handle this problem, now!”
The situation started at a “prom” party in the country. Those “prom parties” were socials where adults allowed youth of opposite gender to “experiment” with being alone with one another for a short walk down a dark, dirt road. I had been alone with Dee for 15 minutes, but when we returned to the house, she suddenly “liked” me. My recollection is dim, but it’s possible I confused her with thoughts which were later attributed to President Carter. But naiveté and time prohibited acting on them.
Now “liking” someone meant you were “going” with them, the precursor to “going steady,” which generally occurred when a car or pickup was available. Its translation? “Back off, boys, she’s mine!” It was sort of like a dog marking the boundaries of its territory, so to speak. Which is interesting, seeing that the derivation of the term, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” originated from a standoff between two dogs and one bone…this, a “bone of contention.”
Now innocent school girls are only bones metaphorically, but it’s for sure that boys are like dogs actually…”what’s mine is mine” is the mantra and code of manhood and pride. As long as it’s this way, there will be bones of contention, many of which are resolved by conflict. Logic simply does not prevail in matters of pride or manhood. Not yet, anyway.
In this tale’s epilogue, Dick later “won” the girl, who had returned to her first love. I guess I was the loser there, but not in the sandlot. Not that either of us would have made the first-round cuts of Golden Gloves competition, but we had both defended our passions. In some way we were both winners.
Dee won the final round…women usually do. She got Dick, I got good passes. Hatfield and McCoy were friends again. However, one score still needed settling. On the night of the final football game, somehow I missed all of my blocking assignments, and the quarterback’s ego suffered a crushing defeat. Vengeance is mine, saith the lowly tight end!
“Diggin’ up bones” is a good way to spend a rainy evening.
Bud Hearn
May 13, 2009
Tempers flared, fists flew. Two boys beat the air and occasionally one another in the hot, swirling dust of the sandlot behind the gym.
Tooth and nail they fought, oblivious to chants, “Hit him, hit him harder.”’ Two 8th graders were settling a festering feud. Hatfield and McCoy legends begin in this way. The issue? Why, a girl, of course…a classic love triangle!
The battle soon subsided. The combatants, nursing scratches and lumps, regrouped with their own set of pals, leaving the crowd to decide the winner or loser. There is always a winner and a loser. Today the girl lost.
Last night an old yearbook yielded this memory of 53 years ago. I laughed recalling it. Dick and I were the pugilists. Her name was Dee. Dick had circulated the message that I had “messed” with his girl, and he was going to “get even.” Pride was armed. But what’s new?
Pride needs an enemy to fight. Today its adversary was The Defense of Manhood, a powerful opponent in any engagement. It was a classic standoff between arch enemies: Pride and Manhood.
Dick was the Quarterback of our football team. I was a lowly tight end. We did the work, the QB got the glory. Animosity existed between us for weeks, but I dismissed it as pride. QB’s overflow with that gene. He’d call the plays…somehow I always got the short pass patterns across the middle, the territory of the biggest, meanest and most brutal players, the line backers. I was always crushed, mocked by his grinning glee.
Dee was not a cheerleader or band majorette, those high school status symbols of rank. No, she was just an average “farm girl,” and smart. But she had caused a minor division in the football team by spurning Dick’s advances. He had been rejected in front of his friends and fans. QB’s are known for thin-skin self-esteem. For some reason she “liked” me, but my unrequited response further inflamed the tense drama.
This no-win situation had become extreme. A resolution was necessary. Hell, the football team was in danger of losing, and being a loser threatened the team’s pride. It literally screamed, “You boys handle this problem, now!”
The situation started at a “prom” party in the country. Those “prom parties” were socials where adults allowed youth of opposite gender to “experiment” with being alone with one another for a short walk down a dark, dirt road. I had been alone with Dee for 15 minutes, but when we returned to the house, she suddenly “liked” me. My recollection is dim, but it’s possible I confused her with thoughts which were later attributed to President Carter. But naiveté and time prohibited acting on them.
Now “liking” someone meant you were “going” with them, the precursor to “going steady,” which generally occurred when a car or pickup was available. Its translation? “Back off, boys, she’s mine!” It was sort of like a dog marking the boundaries of its territory, so to speak. Which is interesting, seeing that the derivation of the term, “I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” originated from a standoff between two dogs and one bone…this, a “bone of contention.”
Now innocent school girls are only bones metaphorically, but it’s for sure that boys are like dogs actually…”what’s mine is mine” is the mantra and code of manhood and pride. As long as it’s this way, there will be bones of contention, many of which are resolved by conflict. Logic simply does not prevail in matters of pride or manhood. Not yet, anyway.
In this tale’s epilogue, Dick later “won” the girl, who had returned to her first love. I guess I was the loser there, but not in the sandlot. Not that either of us would have made the first-round cuts of Golden Gloves competition, but we had both defended our passions. In some way we were both winners.
Dee won the final round…women usually do. She got Dick, I got good passes. Hatfield and McCoy were friends again. However, one score still needed settling. On the night of the final football game, somehow I missed all of my blocking assignments, and the quarterback’s ego suffered a crushing defeat. Vengeance is mine, saith the lowly tight end!
“Diggin’ up bones” is a good way to spend a rainy evening.
Bud Hearn
May 13, 2009
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Talkin' to Strangers...a Brief Encounter
“Son, never talk to strangers,” my mother would say. “Why,” I replied. “Because I said so…stop asking stupid questions.” Today my mother’s advice was a distant whisper in my ears.
The mundane lunch of chicken, carrots and Waldorf salad occupied my attention as I sat inconspicuously in a local Village diner. It was just another “average” day on the island. It could have been anywhere.
Average, that is, until they walked into the restaurant. No, they sauntered in, elegant, confident, intriguing. The place suddenly went silent. Forks dropped audibly in response to their arrival. Wow, I thought. They were strangers for sure, possibly French.
The couple was seated in the small table next to me. Some days you just get lucky, I thought. He was a sharp dresser, expensive threads…possibly an artist or actor. No one here would wear a double-breasted blue blazer with a yellow ascot and a matching blue beret. He was cool, stylish, but a little over-the-top.
However, it was his “companion” that drew all the attention. She was tall, maybe 5’ 10” or so, tanned, with long, coal-black, shoulder-length hair. Its sheen reflected the midday sunlight and sparkled like the diamonds she wore. She was stunningly dressed in black, pencil-thin Dior jeans, high-spiked Prada’s and a blazing red Versace T-shirt. Disarming. Surely an actress.
Her T-shirt glittered in gold-emblazoned letters, obliterating Mama’s warning:
Women Who Behave
Rarely Make History
Abandoning the chicken and carrots, I eased my chair over, inquiring, “Hello, may I join you?” Before "No" could be uttered, I introduced myself, welcoming them to the island. Things went smoothly at first. Fluent in English but with an aristocratic, French flair, they revealed an amazing story. Unfortunately, the details are too steamy for a family-oriented magazine.
We laughed through lunch, swapping stories, oblivious to the other patrons. Diners came and went in a steady parade of curiosity. Women bristled with envy as men eyeballed the statement on the red T-shirt. I couldn’t help thinking that this couple helped out some marriages that night and destroyed some others. But everybody went home changed!
I pushed my luck with inquisitiveness. Their rejoinders seemed genuine, spoken with measured, but furtive, glances across the table. I said, “Why are you here?” He said, “Exciting plans.” I said, “Explain them.” She said, “They involve a yacht, the beach and movies.” I said, “Where?” He said, “Cumberland Island.” I said, “When?” She said, “Today. Why do you ask these questions?” I said, “Because I am an American with curiosity.” She said, “Are all Americans this way?” I said, “No. Most are shy.” I lied.
Maybe it was the comment about being American, and them being French, but the ambient air at the table began to chill. Pressing on. I said, “What’s the movie’s theme?” He said, “It’s really none of your business.” I said, “Why so secretive?” She said, “You Americans are all alike, pushy.” I said, “What makes you say that?” He said, “In Paris, we are not so intrusive with total strangers.” I said, “Look, in the South we’re friendly.” She said, “I’m beginning to think too friendly. “ I said, “Did your mothers also tell you not to talk to strangers?” He said, “Of course, why do you ask such silly questions?”
Undeterred, I said, “Perhaps I could be your tour guide.” She said, “Why you?” I said, “Well, for one reason, I know the folks around here, and Georgia was where the movie Deliverance was filmed.” He said, “I saw that movie…shocking. Are there really people like that in the South?” I said, “You bet. Are there really people like Humbert Humbert in Paris?” She said, “Yes, they are mostly of Italian or Aryan descent.” I said, “Ours are from Alabama.” We all laughed at this. I said, “Can I tag along with you today?” He said, “You must be kidding?” I reluctantly relented.
The dialogue finally ran out. They had indeed been interesting strangers. They accepted my offer to pay their bill. I guess they thought they had made my day and were entitled. The French think this way. The brief encounter had ended…life moved on.
My glistening eyes apparently caught her attention as we walked out. The humid sunlight of the early afternoon dispelled the chill between us. We exchanged cheek kisses and au revoir. They sauntered off as they had strolled in.
In a backward glance, she turned, smiled and winked, again showing the message on the T-shirt. She said,”Dinner tonight?” I said,”I’d love to.” She said, “Delightful. About eight, then? The Lodge?” I said, “I’ll be there!” He said, “Then I will tell you the rest of the story. Until then.” I said, “Until then.”
I went home, dialed heaven, and had a long chat with my mother, reminding her that “Women Who Behave Rarely Make History.” Try Talkin’ to Strangers…make some history of your own!
Bud Hearn
May 9, 2009
The mundane lunch of chicken, carrots and Waldorf salad occupied my attention as I sat inconspicuously in a local Village diner. It was just another “average” day on the island. It could have been anywhere.
Average, that is, until they walked into the restaurant. No, they sauntered in, elegant, confident, intriguing. The place suddenly went silent. Forks dropped audibly in response to their arrival. Wow, I thought. They were strangers for sure, possibly French.
The couple was seated in the small table next to me. Some days you just get lucky, I thought. He was a sharp dresser, expensive threads…possibly an artist or actor. No one here would wear a double-breasted blue blazer with a yellow ascot and a matching blue beret. He was cool, stylish, but a little over-the-top.
However, it was his “companion” that drew all the attention. She was tall, maybe 5’ 10” or so, tanned, with long, coal-black, shoulder-length hair. Its sheen reflected the midday sunlight and sparkled like the diamonds she wore. She was stunningly dressed in black, pencil-thin Dior jeans, high-spiked Prada’s and a blazing red Versace T-shirt. Disarming. Surely an actress.
Her T-shirt glittered in gold-emblazoned letters, obliterating Mama’s warning:
Women Who Behave
Rarely Make History
Abandoning the chicken and carrots, I eased my chair over, inquiring, “Hello, may I join you?” Before "No" could be uttered, I introduced myself, welcoming them to the island. Things went smoothly at first. Fluent in English but with an aristocratic, French flair, they revealed an amazing story. Unfortunately, the details are too steamy for a family-oriented magazine.
We laughed through lunch, swapping stories, oblivious to the other patrons. Diners came and went in a steady parade of curiosity. Women bristled with envy as men eyeballed the statement on the red T-shirt. I couldn’t help thinking that this couple helped out some marriages that night and destroyed some others. But everybody went home changed!
I pushed my luck with inquisitiveness. Their rejoinders seemed genuine, spoken with measured, but furtive, glances across the table. I said, “Why are you here?” He said, “Exciting plans.” I said, “Explain them.” She said, “They involve a yacht, the beach and movies.” I said, “Where?” He said, “Cumberland Island.” I said, “When?” She said, “Today. Why do you ask these questions?” I said, “Because I am an American with curiosity.” She said, “Are all Americans this way?” I said, “No. Most are shy.” I lied.
Maybe it was the comment about being American, and them being French, but the ambient air at the table began to chill. Pressing on. I said, “What’s the movie’s theme?” He said, “It’s really none of your business.” I said, “Why so secretive?” She said, “You Americans are all alike, pushy.” I said, “What makes you say that?” He said, “In Paris, we are not so intrusive with total strangers.” I said, “Look, in the South we’re friendly.” She said, “I’m beginning to think too friendly. “ I said, “Did your mothers also tell you not to talk to strangers?” He said, “Of course, why do you ask such silly questions?”
Undeterred, I said, “Perhaps I could be your tour guide.” She said, “Why you?” I said, “Well, for one reason, I know the folks around here, and Georgia was where the movie Deliverance was filmed.” He said, “I saw that movie…shocking. Are there really people like that in the South?” I said, “You bet. Are there really people like Humbert Humbert in Paris?” She said, “Yes, they are mostly of Italian or Aryan descent.” I said, “Ours are from Alabama.” We all laughed at this. I said, “Can I tag along with you today?” He said, “You must be kidding?” I reluctantly relented.
The dialogue finally ran out. They had indeed been interesting strangers. They accepted my offer to pay their bill. I guess they thought they had made my day and were entitled. The French think this way. The brief encounter had ended…life moved on.
My glistening eyes apparently caught her attention as we walked out. The humid sunlight of the early afternoon dispelled the chill between us. We exchanged cheek kisses and au revoir. They sauntered off as they had strolled in.
In a backward glance, she turned, smiled and winked, again showing the message on the T-shirt. She said,”Dinner tonight?” I said,”I’d love to.” She said, “Delightful. About eight, then? The Lodge?” I said, “I’ll be there!” He said, “Then I will tell you the rest of the story. Until then.” I said, “Until then.”
I went home, dialed heaven, and had a long chat with my mother, reminding her that “Women Who Behave Rarely Make History.” Try Talkin’ to Strangers…make some history of your own!
Bud Hearn
May 9, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
The Morning Cup of Coffee
“Few things in life rival the joy of the First Taste.” Anonymous
This morning I had coffee with Elvis.
The bedside alarm rudely jolts the beginning of a new day. Cursing the intrusion, we stumble in a sleep-induced stupor to the savior of another day: The morning cup of coffee…at least that’s how my day usually begins.
Before Mr. Coffee completes its cycle, I’m pouring that dark elixir into the cup of new beginnings. I lace it with honey made by bees in the dark Tupelo swamps of Florida and mingle it with decadent English cream…The King’s brew. Ah, the first sip, and the day’s possibilities come to life!
You’re reading this with a sort of mild contempt because you despise coffee. No, you’re one of those who prefers an Earl Grey tea, or perhaps the tasteless Green Tea from Asia. But is not your first sip just as meaningful?
Maybe you’re a 7-11 Big Gulp junkie, where everything goes better with Coke. Tell me, is your first sip not special? Or perhaps your favorite day-starter is OJ from the sandy hills of South Florida, or any of the many varieties of juices, each complete with their own carcinogenic compounds. What is your first taste like? I thought so.
Like many things in life, if not most, the “first taste” provides the true but ephemeral essence of the moment. Soon our chosen morning gratification becomes less pleasurable, often wretched, by over-indulgence. No, sucking up the last dregs of “whatever” is not nearly as satisfying as the first taste…Amen?
The day moves on and more “first tastes” occur: like food, friends, business associates and the multitude of other encounters life offers up daily. Sundown signals that perhaps a more appropriate libation might be necessary for the moment. A particular favorite of mine was always a Miller Lite—nothing quite compares with its frothy first taste, but it’s downhill from there. Hey, you have your own first-taste preferences, but you know what I mean.
As to food, especially desserts, I must confess my youthful lust for chocolate pudding my mother made for after-school snacks. I would beat my brother to it and eat his portion before he got home. Big brothers have license do these things. But my daddy finally broke me from this heinous crime by once forcing me to eat every single dish. To this day chocolate pudding holds no appeal for me…first or last tastes!
Life offers up a lot of “first tastes.” Remember your first kiss—Wow! Or the first cigarette, or prohibited beer, you sneaked from your parents? How about your first car, or your first….you know, that back-seat encounter you kept secret? You’re smiling now! And the list goes on forever.
Yet the point of it all is that no matter how repetitive our lives are, nothing quite replaces the memory of the first taste. And it is an undeniable fact that the most pleasant of first tastes soon cease to satiate. But not everything…some things are new every morning.
Which brings me back to Elvis. His picture stares from the coffee cup. The cup is an investment made by my wife from the dwindling stock of the last known Stuckeys before it finally vanished from earth. It was purchased out of a guilty conscience for having used the facilities. I like this cup because it never ceases to remind me of the first time I heard Heartbreak Hotel, my first taste of genuine rock n’ roll. I was 13 years old. The King inspired my two bands, “The Saints” in high school, and “The Shades” in college. Those first tastes still linger, and for me, so does Elvis.
The morning cup of coffee…what a way to start the day, and a way to end this Vignette of Absurdity! Bottoms up!
Bud Hearn
May 5, 2009
This morning I had coffee with Elvis.
The bedside alarm rudely jolts the beginning of a new day. Cursing the intrusion, we stumble in a sleep-induced stupor to the savior of another day: The morning cup of coffee…at least that’s how my day usually begins.
Before Mr. Coffee completes its cycle, I’m pouring that dark elixir into the cup of new beginnings. I lace it with honey made by bees in the dark Tupelo swamps of Florida and mingle it with decadent English cream…The King’s brew. Ah, the first sip, and the day’s possibilities come to life!
You’re reading this with a sort of mild contempt because you despise coffee. No, you’re one of those who prefers an Earl Grey tea, or perhaps the tasteless Green Tea from Asia. But is not your first sip just as meaningful?
Maybe you’re a 7-11 Big Gulp junkie, where everything goes better with Coke. Tell me, is your first sip not special? Or perhaps your favorite day-starter is OJ from the sandy hills of South Florida, or any of the many varieties of juices, each complete with their own carcinogenic compounds. What is your first taste like? I thought so.
Like many things in life, if not most, the “first taste” provides the true but ephemeral essence of the moment. Soon our chosen morning gratification becomes less pleasurable, often wretched, by over-indulgence. No, sucking up the last dregs of “whatever” is not nearly as satisfying as the first taste…Amen?
The day moves on and more “first tastes” occur: like food, friends, business associates and the multitude of other encounters life offers up daily. Sundown signals that perhaps a more appropriate libation might be necessary for the moment. A particular favorite of mine was always a Miller Lite—nothing quite compares with its frothy first taste, but it’s downhill from there. Hey, you have your own first-taste preferences, but you know what I mean.
As to food, especially desserts, I must confess my youthful lust for chocolate pudding my mother made for after-school snacks. I would beat my brother to it and eat his portion before he got home. Big brothers have license do these things. But my daddy finally broke me from this heinous crime by once forcing me to eat every single dish. To this day chocolate pudding holds no appeal for me…first or last tastes!
Life offers up a lot of “first tastes.” Remember your first kiss—Wow! Or the first cigarette, or prohibited beer, you sneaked from your parents? How about your first car, or your first….you know, that back-seat encounter you kept secret? You’re smiling now! And the list goes on forever.
Yet the point of it all is that no matter how repetitive our lives are, nothing quite replaces the memory of the first taste. And it is an undeniable fact that the most pleasant of first tastes soon cease to satiate. But not everything…some things are new every morning.
Which brings me back to Elvis. His picture stares from the coffee cup. The cup is an investment made by my wife from the dwindling stock of the last known Stuckeys before it finally vanished from earth. It was purchased out of a guilty conscience for having used the facilities. I like this cup because it never ceases to remind me of the first time I heard Heartbreak Hotel, my first taste of genuine rock n’ roll. I was 13 years old. The King inspired my two bands, “The Saints” in high school, and “The Shades” in college. Those first tastes still linger, and for me, so does Elvis.
The morning cup of coffee…what a way to start the day, and a way to end this Vignette of Absurdity! Bottoms up!
Bud Hearn
May 5, 2009
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