A new year arrives. It hobbles in on last year’s crutches, admonishing us to make new ‘resolutions.’ Oh, please, spare us from this self-flagellation.
Resolutions are a relentless pursuer. Like an itinerate evangelist passing out salvation tracts, it knocks on my door. It interrupts my fried egg and country sausage sandwich, lathered with mayhaw jelly from the swamps of South Georgia. (‘South Georgia’ is always capitalized!) I’m savoring the last dregs of coffee when the knock comes. I figure it’s the paper carrier. I open the door. I regret the act.
There it stands, New Year’s Resolutions. With stale, morning-after champagne breath, it reminds me of last year’s failed attempts to become perfect. I’m like, whatever! It ignores my preoccupation and pulls from its rumpled tux a list of ‘designer resolutions,’ guaranteed to produce instant redemption. I reject its plan of salvation. I have my own…throwing out my life’s clutter. I slam the door in its face. It staggers down my driveway and disappears.
I’m anxious to begin my plan of redemption. I wash up my morning mess and eye the cornbread lying next to the pot of freshly-cooked collard greens. I pick up a piece and dip it into the warm ‘pot likker’ (no, not ‘liquor.’ Where you from, anyway?). I take a bite and have an out-of-body experience. A man can go in the strength of that food forty days and forty nights. I’m now prepped for my redemption.
I begin in my closet. It’s a scientific fact that last-year’s clothing can actually shrink while hanging in the closet. I’m living proof of its veracity. I follow my wife’s advice. I give away everything not worn that year. Somebody will look really cool in that Tommy Bahamas lime-green shirt, I’m sure. My closet is now empty.
I move to the ‘trophy room’ where I have assembled all my awards. They’re like leeches. It takes real guts to get rid of ‘em. Their aroma of past achievements mingles with autographed pictures of washed-up politicians. They emit the stale smell of success. I don’t linger long in that fetid atmosphere. Things like high school diplomas and Sunday school attendance records have to be burned to disappear. I’m on a roll, unsparing. My wife explodes with joy and covers the nail holes with fine art.
I move on to the removal of millions of ancient pictures. They rest in comfortable confinement inside plastic containers hiding underneath beds. I hesitate for a moment before I begin the weaning process. I wonder how much money Kodak has made from my obsessive shutter habit. I shudder to think! I plunge into the process, ignoring the mournful pleading of the discarded pictures. I become ruthless. The dogs celebrate. It creates more space for them to hide when ‘accidents’ are discovered. I warn them they may be next. They become scarce.
I’m feeling almost redeemed, so I move on to the garage. I open the door, regretting this choice. I look at it with contempt, embarrassed at the hideous accumulation of stuff. It will take a tractor trailer to haul off the useless paraphernalia that mocks me. Disgusted, I decide to leave well enough alone. I close the door and move on.
I roll up my sleeves. With unsparing remorse, I cast out boxes of old tax returns. I alternately curse the IRS while praising my valor. Next I seize my Blackberry, that torturous appendage that connects me with a social and business world. I scroll down the list of names, deciding who’s relevant, who’s not. I become a madman, delirious in deleting the irrelevant. I feel good now, like a new man. Redemption is close.
I become a tornado, moving through the house, flinging out this, then that. The house now feels empty. My wife inspects the work. She approves and resumes cooking the ham that’s soon to accompany the collards. I approve of that.
I sit down in self-adulation, totally redeemed. She calls from the kitchen, “You forgot one thing.” I say smugly, “What?” She answers, “That bulge hanging over your belt ---when are you going to get rid of that?”
I have no answer for her. Today, I am a redeemed man!
Bud Hearn
December 30, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Pixie Dust
“For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government shall be upon his shoulder; and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The Mighty God, The Everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.” Isaiah 9:6
Pixie Dust
I talked to my daughter yesterday on the cell while driving down I-95, using my knees to steer. That’s because I had a cell phone in one hand and a milkshake in the other. One day I’m going to write Lexus and suggest that they equip steering wheels with knee cups to accommodate this method of driving.
I surprised her by saying I’d just sold some land that I’d purchased for her and her brother. This is my Christmas present to y’all, I told her. She endures my calls sometimes. They often intrude into her artistic creations. But she’s always effusive in appreciation of the advent of unexpected gifts. In the typical voice of an artist, she said, “Well, dad, it sounds like the ‘pixie dust’ is falling all over you today.”
Pixie dust? I’d not heard that term since our children were exposed to Tinkerbelle in the Disney Peter Pan series. That was what, maybe 30-plus years ago? But after I ended the call I thought about it. Pixie dust, if you recall, is some sort of magic dust that’s shaken from a pixie or fairy, enabling humans to fly. And, of course, that’s exactly what I was doing on I-95. This magic dust is supposed to bring great success, love and luck. Which it was obviously doing for me and dusting my children as well.
In a few days, if not already, the Christmas pixie dust will be falling on all of us. Presents are piling up underneath Christmas trees and children are arriving. Moods are joyful. Cookies bake, Christmas carols sing from speakers. Everyone laughs and eats a lot. Is pixie dust falling already? I think so.
The magic of Christmas is God’s love. This love is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Spirit. And the Holy Spirit, this Holy Pixie Dust if you will, is given by our Savior, who always surprises us, coming each year as a child to spread It around.
Adults are becoming children again, which may be a good thing. Perhaps this is the only way Christmas can be understood. For God loved humanity so much that He intruded into its busy affairs by sending a child as a reminder of His love. And it’s the Christ child who sheds the real pixie dust of Christmas.
May the Prince of Peace spread His love and His Spiritual pixie dust on you, your family and friends in this holy season. And may His Spirit be shed abroad by our acts of kindness with great love to a hurting and needy world. Merry Christmas.
Bud Hearn
December 22, 2010
Pixie Dust
I talked to my daughter yesterday on the cell while driving down I-95, using my knees to steer. That’s because I had a cell phone in one hand and a milkshake in the other. One day I’m going to write Lexus and suggest that they equip steering wheels with knee cups to accommodate this method of driving.
I surprised her by saying I’d just sold some land that I’d purchased for her and her brother. This is my Christmas present to y’all, I told her. She endures my calls sometimes. They often intrude into her artistic creations. But she’s always effusive in appreciation of the advent of unexpected gifts. In the typical voice of an artist, she said, “Well, dad, it sounds like the ‘pixie dust’ is falling all over you today.”
Pixie dust? I’d not heard that term since our children were exposed to Tinkerbelle in the Disney Peter Pan series. That was what, maybe 30-plus years ago? But after I ended the call I thought about it. Pixie dust, if you recall, is some sort of magic dust that’s shaken from a pixie or fairy, enabling humans to fly. And, of course, that’s exactly what I was doing on I-95. This magic dust is supposed to bring great success, love and luck. Which it was obviously doing for me and dusting my children as well.
In a few days, if not already, the Christmas pixie dust will be falling on all of us. Presents are piling up underneath Christmas trees and children are arriving. Moods are joyful. Cookies bake, Christmas carols sing from speakers. Everyone laughs and eats a lot. Is pixie dust falling already? I think so.
The magic of Christmas is God’s love. This love is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Spirit. And the Holy Spirit, this Holy Pixie Dust if you will, is given by our Savior, who always surprises us, coming each year as a child to spread It around.
Adults are becoming children again, which may be a good thing. Perhaps this is the only way Christmas can be understood. For God loved humanity so much that He intruded into its busy affairs by sending a child as a reminder of His love. And it’s the Christ child who sheds the real pixie dust of Christmas.
May the Prince of Peace spread His love and His Spiritual pixie dust on you, your family and friends in this holy season. And may His Spirit be shed abroad by our acts of kindness with great love to a hurting and needy world. Merry Christmas.
Bud Hearn
December 22, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Living Myths
Oh, the myths of childhood. What great places in which to live.
Last night I sat in our house lit only by tiny lights on our Christmas tree. It doesn’t seem to mind its size. Being small is not necessarily a bad thing. It occupies a prominent place atop a table by the window. From the street it appears much larger than it is, making it illusory. It prefers this.
There are advantages to small trees. I speak from experience. Aside from not being the subject of constant expletives, they receive ample love and constant accolades. “Oh, how beautiful. This is our prettiest tree ever!” It smiles.
Our home has 24 foot ceilings. Small trees appear dwarfish in it. We used to erect only 14 foot trees. These are trees that lumberjacks harvest from Santa’s private forest and are hauled in on flatbed trucks. They require about fifty people and three months to set up. I exaggerate only slightly. Guess who puts the lights and ornaments atop these giant redwoods? Right. Me. Age and tall ladders are bad combinations for frail and aged men. We now opt for smaller trees. They’re cheaper and we avoid visits to the emergency room.
Tall trees make Christmas a very large event for children. Picture one of your own. On Christmas Eve, shopping and wrapping are complete. Gifts lie in prodigious quantities beneath the mammoth redwood. Children circle it, crawl underneath, rattle boxes and often fall asleep. Dogs ravage all packages smelling of sausages.
Our son never seemed enamored by the tree and its treasures. At least not empirically. But we knew his dirty tricks, so we waited in the dark to observe his midnight capers. He rummaged under the tree, unwrapping gifts, and then re-wrapping them like nothing ever happened. We allowed him this intrusion into Santa’s gift bag. Even to this day he has the same curiosity and the same dirty tricks.
I sat absorbing whatever thoughts the tree suggested. I reflected on the myths we propagate. Remember the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? Did you ever find it? And Santa Claus? What a tragedy to find out he’s just a tired, old imposter who outsources his work to tired, old parents. I discovered this early on because our house didn’t have a chimney. Plus, my father was quite noisy doing Santa-work, possibly due to swilling eggnog before setting the loot out. Of course, I never publicly admitted to this knowledge, lest the booty cease.
I walked to the window, looked at the stars, remembering, “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight; wish I may, wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight.” Another childhood nursery rhyme detonated to bits and pieces? I hope not. Without stars, why dream?
In the western horizon the new moon slips down its circuit for other eyes to see and wonder. On July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong exploded the moon myths when he declared unequivocally that it’s not cheese and there’s no man in the moon. Since that time the moon is responsible for lower birth rates in America. Coupled with the demise of drive-in theaters, it fails to produce the same magical effects it once did in the back seat of cars in the days of my youth. Some myths die hard!
I returned for a last glance at the small tree. “Lights out,” I said. It smiled.
I know talking to trees is a primal sign of having ‘lost it.’ But then again, as I see it, all legends have their myths…and thank God, small children keep them alive.
Bud Hearn
December 9, 2010
Last night I sat in our house lit only by tiny lights on our Christmas tree. It doesn’t seem to mind its size. Being small is not necessarily a bad thing. It occupies a prominent place atop a table by the window. From the street it appears much larger than it is, making it illusory. It prefers this.
There are advantages to small trees. I speak from experience. Aside from not being the subject of constant expletives, they receive ample love and constant accolades. “Oh, how beautiful. This is our prettiest tree ever!” It smiles.
Our home has 24 foot ceilings. Small trees appear dwarfish in it. We used to erect only 14 foot trees. These are trees that lumberjacks harvest from Santa’s private forest and are hauled in on flatbed trucks. They require about fifty people and three months to set up. I exaggerate only slightly. Guess who puts the lights and ornaments atop these giant redwoods? Right. Me. Age and tall ladders are bad combinations for frail and aged men. We now opt for smaller trees. They’re cheaper and we avoid visits to the emergency room.
Tall trees make Christmas a very large event for children. Picture one of your own. On Christmas Eve, shopping and wrapping are complete. Gifts lie in prodigious quantities beneath the mammoth redwood. Children circle it, crawl underneath, rattle boxes and often fall asleep. Dogs ravage all packages smelling of sausages.
Our son never seemed enamored by the tree and its treasures. At least not empirically. But we knew his dirty tricks, so we waited in the dark to observe his midnight capers. He rummaged under the tree, unwrapping gifts, and then re-wrapping them like nothing ever happened. We allowed him this intrusion into Santa’s gift bag. Even to this day he has the same curiosity and the same dirty tricks.
I sat absorbing whatever thoughts the tree suggested. I reflected on the myths we propagate. Remember the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? Did you ever find it? And Santa Claus? What a tragedy to find out he’s just a tired, old imposter who outsources his work to tired, old parents. I discovered this early on because our house didn’t have a chimney. Plus, my father was quite noisy doing Santa-work, possibly due to swilling eggnog before setting the loot out. Of course, I never publicly admitted to this knowledge, lest the booty cease.
I walked to the window, looked at the stars, remembering, “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight; wish I may, wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight.” Another childhood nursery rhyme detonated to bits and pieces? I hope not. Without stars, why dream?
In the western horizon the new moon slips down its circuit for other eyes to see and wonder. On July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong exploded the moon myths when he declared unequivocally that it’s not cheese and there’s no man in the moon. Since that time the moon is responsible for lower birth rates in America. Coupled with the demise of drive-in theaters, it fails to produce the same magical effects it once did in the back seat of cars in the days of my youth. Some myths die hard!
I returned for a last glance at the small tree. “Lights out,” I said. It smiled.
I know talking to trees is a primal sign of having ‘lost it.’ But then again, as I see it, all legends have their myths…and thank God, small children keep them alive.
Bud Hearn
December 9, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Living on Love
They arrive on a motorcycle, approach her father and ask permission to be married. Say they’re in love. Love? How quaint, he thinks.
He knows about love. He’s a divorce attorney. He contemplates their naiveté. It’s a miracle…finally! He questions the man’s sanity, but dismisses the thought when they promise never to move back home.
He asks if the man has a job and money. The answer is No. He’s not surprised. He asks how and where they’ll live. In love, on the road, they reply. He inquires about the source of money, and learns the nuances of food stamps and unemployment benefits. He consents quickly before the man changes his mind.
The bride’s mother arranges the details, spending all their savings, borrows more. The groom’s mother is shunned, thought to live in an inferior zip code. The fathers know they’re irrelevant. The bride’s father mentions the gown’s cost. He’s rebuked and told to sit down, shut up and shell out. God loves cheerful givers, he recalls. That afternoon he explores filing for Chapter 11.
The groom is nervous because her father’s a divorce attorney. He chooses a lawyer as his best man. He remembers the harsh treatment at the hands of his ex-wife’s lawyer. He hopes to avoid it this time. With both camps now armed, they call a conference, hash out details of the marriage vows. The lawyers get hung up in minutiae on, “I Do.”
The groom insists that no man can love, honor, comfort and cherish any woman until death. His experience with women is too vast. He prefers, “I Might” to “I Do.” He cites the bride’s mother as an example of what can go wrong. The bride’s father agrees. He prices Harleys later that day.
The father zeroes in on “this man for richer or poorer.” From what he could see, the groom couldn’t get any poorer. He suggests, “for richer not poorer.” They discuss a prenup.
The meeting grinds on. Decorum devolves into chaos. They call for martinis. Someone suggests a judge conduct the wedding. Another laughs, says a jury is needed. The minister intercedes, prays and offers his opinions. They reject them, adjourn and retreat to the bar. The minister shows up, slinking in from the alley. Preachers are sneaky about such things.
The wedding day arrives. With it come the inflow of flowers and the outflow of cash. The supporting actors ~ bridesmaids, groomsmen and guests ~ complete the scene. Hypocrisy smiles politely while denigrating attire and character. Guests speculate on the spectacle’s price tag.
The Harley waits outside, uncomfortable with white bows and pink roses that demean its masculinity. Its train is a colorful assortment of beer cans. It hopes the Angel Gang doesn’t see it.
The bride glides down the aisle. She grins at the groom. He grasps the altar for support. Lawyers wink. Her father wears the obligatory smile, his mind on barren bank accounts. He whispers, “Honey, it’s not too late to back out.” But he reconsiders and recites his five words, “Her mother and I do.” He wants to add, “With pleasure,” but dismisses the thought. He sits down again.
The minister charges the couple with ancient covenants. Their ears listen, their lips yearn to kiss. He pauses at the “I Do” finale. The church becomes silent. Guests are tense. No one breathes. Nothing moves.
After the tortuous silence, they acquiesce, “I Do.” But she adds, “If love fails, he gets the Harley, I move back in with daddy.” The bride’s father faints. On the way down he’s heard to say, “If that happens, I’m leaving on my Harley.”
Love triumphs again.
Bud Hearn
December 8, 2010
He knows about love. He’s a divorce attorney. He contemplates their naiveté. It’s a miracle…finally! He questions the man’s sanity, but dismisses the thought when they promise never to move back home.
He asks if the man has a job and money. The answer is No. He’s not surprised. He asks how and where they’ll live. In love, on the road, they reply. He inquires about the source of money, and learns the nuances of food stamps and unemployment benefits. He consents quickly before the man changes his mind.
The bride’s mother arranges the details, spending all their savings, borrows more. The groom’s mother is shunned, thought to live in an inferior zip code. The fathers know they’re irrelevant. The bride’s father mentions the gown’s cost. He’s rebuked and told to sit down, shut up and shell out. God loves cheerful givers, he recalls. That afternoon he explores filing for Chapter 11.
The groom is nervous because her father’s a divorce attorney. He chooses a lawyer as his best man. He remembers the harsh treatment at the hands of his ex-wife’s lawyer. He hopes to avoid it this time. With both camps now armed, they call a conference, hash out details of the marriage vows. The lawyers get hung up in minutiae on, “I Do.”
The groom insists that no man can love, honor, comfort and cherish any woman until death. His experience with women is too vast. He prefers, “I Might” to “I Do.” He cites the bride’s mother as an example of what can go wrong. The bride’s father agrees. He prices Harleys later that day.
The father zeroes in on “this man for richer or poorer.” From what he could see, the groom couldn’t get any poorer. He suggests, “for richer not poorer.” They discuss a prenup.
The meeting grinds on. Decorum devolves into chaos. They call for martinis. Someone suggests a judge conduct the wedding. Another laughs, says a jury is needed. The minister intercedes, prays and offers his opinions. They reject them, adjourn and retreat to the bar. The minister shows up, slinking in from the alley. Preachers are sneaky about such things.
The wedding day arrives. With it come the inflow of flowers and the outflow of cash. The supporting actors ~ bridesmaids, groomsmen and guests ~ complete the scene. Hypocrisy smiles politely while denigrating attire and character. Guests speculate on the spectacle’s price tag.
The Harley waits outside, uncomfortable with white bows and pink roses that demean its masculinity. Its train is a colorful assortment of beer cans. It hopes the Angel Gang doesn’t see it.
The bride glides down the aisle. She grins at the groom. He grasps the altar for support. Lawyers wink. Her father wears the obligatory smile, his mind on barren bank accounts. He whispers, “Honey, it’s not too late to back out.” But he reconsiders and recites his five words, “Her mother and I do.” He wants to add, “With pleasure,” but dismisses the thought. He sits down again.
The minister charges the couple with ancient covenants. Their ears listen, their lips yearn to kiss. He pauses at the “I Do” finale. The church becomes silent. Guests are tense. No one breathes. Nothing moves.
After the tortuous silence, they acquiesce, “I Do.” But she adds, “If love fails, he gets the Harley, I move back in with daddy.” The bride’s father faints. On the way down he’s heard to say, “If that happens, I’m leaving on my Harley.”
Love triumphs again.
Bud Hearn
December 8, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
The Christmas Dilemma
The Christmas season is here. Men are in a sweat. Panic grips them. It’s the same every year...what to give a woman who has everything. We’ve had 364 days to come up with an idea. We’re still clueless.
Men have always had this problem. It’s because they have a wild and aberrant gene when it comes to Christmas shopping. They may run huge corporations, but they freeze when faced with the prospect of buying a woman a gift. Every man suffers this torment.
Men wait until the last minute, hoping by some miracle the Idea Muse will pop out of nowhere. They scan catalogues and stroll through malls. They’re confused; too much to choose from. So they can’t pull the trigger when it comes to making a decision.
It’s easy to buy gifts for men. Anything goes. Now my brother is a dentist. He loves gold. I once gave him a ‘gold’ Rolex with a ‘diamond’ bezel for Christmas. It cost $50. I bought this treasure from a homeless man who guaranteed its authenticity. It worked long enough for me to pull off the hoax. My apparent generosity left my brother speechless. You know, brotherly love and all that.
He wore it proudly. But soon the ‘gold’ preferred his arm to the watch. Distraught, he rushed to his jeweler, his watch melting by the minute. The truth ruined his day. Regrettably, my brother didn’t appreciate the humor. We’re beginning to speak again, but I’m still afraid to use him as my dentist. So much for brotherly love.
Humorous deceits can sometimes be lethal. Branham’s friend surprised his wife with a huge ‘diamond’ ring for Christmas. He bought it from a Cuban pawnshop in Miami. It blinded her eyes and later triggered an IRS audit. When she took it to be appraised the jeweler said, “Honey, this is cubic zirconia. It’s worthless. But hey, it’s Miami, show it off.” His friend died under suspicious circumstances a few weeks later. She buried him along with the ring.
One Christmas my wife asked for a fur coat. We were young, money was tight. I argued that it’s not cold enough. This logic can get you killed. Smart men react and bite the bullet. It avoids divorce. With my last pennies, I finally bought her a coat. Our marriage improved. Fur coats are not for keeping warm, but for other reasons I’m yet to discover.
Last year in the men’s grill we cooked up a fail-safe plan for our wives’ Christmas. It was brilliant in its simplicity. Alcohol, hidden in the eggnog, helped make our plan perfect. Clive came up with the idea, and we bought in. Each of us agreed to take some infrequently-worn gold jewelry from our wives’ stash. No stones. Something they wouldn’t miss. Little did we know.
We exchanged the gold trinkets among ourselves. Our wives would never know that their Christmas gifts were once owned by friends. They would appear to be new gold baubles, wrapped in used Tiffany boxes, suitable to please any goddess on Christmas morning. We sealed the secret plan with another round of nog.
But the scheme slid sideways. My wife opened her gift and gave it a long look. The room became silent. The dogs crept out. Lights flickered on the tree. Santa knew something was wrong. She said, “Explain why my best friend’s initials are engraved on these earrings.” I mumbled something indecipherable. She gave me ‘the look.’ I dissolved into the chair. Christmas day went downhill from there. Things only improved when I booked a trip to Paris.
My co-conspirators endured similar tragedies. After the fiasco, we spent several weeks in the men’s grill, consoling one another. Only Clive avoided detection and his wife’s wrath. He had melted down Dwight’s wife’s gold Pompeii earrings into something resembling a motorcycle. Dwight escaped banishment by the gift of a new Jaguar and several shopping sprees to London. We put Clive on probation for two years.
The plan had been flawless except for one miscalculation…. Women never forget anything. They know every piece of jewelry they own. In a matter of hours they had unraveled the botched ruse, made necessary exchanges and plotted their own revenge. Happily ever after? What do you think?
Men, this Christmas I wish you luck with your wild and aberrant gene. But remember, nothing good can possibly come from drinking eggnog with your pals in the men’s grill. Merry Christmas!
Bud Hearn
Copyright December 3, 2010
Men have always had this problem. It’s because they have a wild and aberrant gene when it comes to Christmas shopping. They may run huge corporations, but they freeze when faced with the prospect of buying a woman a gift. Every man suffers this torment.
Men wait until the last minute, hoping by some miracle the Idea Muse will pop out of nowhere. They scan catalogues and stroll through malls. They’re confused; too much to choose from. So they can’t pull the trigger when it comes to making a decision.
It’s easy to buy gifts for men. Anything goes. Now my brother is a dentist. He loves gold. I once gave him a ‘gold’ Rolex with a ‘diamond’ bezel for Christmas. It cost $50. I bought this treasure from a homeless man who guaranteed its authenticity. It worked long enough for me to pull off the hoax. My apparent generosity left my brother speechless. You know, brotherly love and all that.
He wore it proudly. But soon the ‘gold’ preferred his arm to the watch. Distraught, he rushed to his jeweler, his watch melting by the minute. The truth ruined his day. Regrettably, my brother didn’t appreciate the humor. We’re beginning to speak again, but I’m still afraid to use him as my dentist. So much for brotherly love.
Humorous deceits can sometimes be lethal. Branham’s friend surprised his wife with a huge ‘diamond’ ring for Christmas. He bought it from a Cuban pawnshop in Miami. It blinded her eyes and later triggered an IRS audit. When she took it to be appraised the jeweler said, “Honey, this is cubic zirconia. It’s worthless. But hey, it’s Miami, show it off.” His friend died under suspicious circumstances a few weeks later. She buried him along with the ring.
One Christmas my wife asked for a fur coat. We were young, money was tight. I argued that it’s not cold enough. This logic can get you killed. Smart men react and bite the bullet. It avoids divorce. With my last pennies, I finally bought her a coat. Our marriage improved. Fur coats are not for keeping warm, but for other reasons I’m yet to discover.
Last year in the men’s grill we cooked up a fail-safe plan for our wives’ Christmas. It was brilliant in its simplicity. Alcohol, hidden in the eggnog, helped make our plan perfect. Clive came up with the idea, and we bought in. Each of us agreed to take some infrequently-worn gold jewelry from our wives’ stash. No stones. Something they wouldn’t miss. Little did we know.
We exchanged the gold trinkets among ourselves. Our wives would never know that their Christmas gifts were once owned by friends. They would appear to be new gold baubles, wrapped in used Tiffany boxes, suitable to please any goddess on Christmas morning. We sealed the secret plan with another round of nog.
But the scheme slid sideways. My wife opened her gift and gave it a long look. The room became silent. The dogs crept out. Lights flickered on the tree. Santa knew something was wrong. She said, “Explain why my best friend’s initials are engraved on these earrings.” I mumbled something indecipherable. She gave me ‘the look.’ I dissolved into the chair. Christmas day went downhill from there. Things only improved when I booked a trip to Paris.
My co-conspirators endured similar tragedies. After the fiasco, we spent several weeks in the men’s grill, consoling one another. Only Clive avoided detection and his wife’s wrath. He had melted down Dwight’s wife’s gold Pompeii earrings into something resembling a motorcycle. Dwight escaped banishment by the gift of a new Jaguar and several shopping sprees to London. We put Clive on probation for two years.
The plan had been flawless except for one miscalculation…. Women never forget anything. They know every piece of jewelry they own. In a matter of hours they had unraveled the botched ruse, made necessary exchanges and plotted their own revenge. Happily ever after? What do you think?
Men, this Christmas I wish you luck with your wild and aberrant gene. But remember, nothing good can possibly come from drinking eggnog with your pals in the men’s grill. Merry Christmas!
Bud Hearn
Copyright December 3, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The Back Door
On Tuesday Renn, Tom and I had lunch in the men’s locker room at the Lodge. It’s not your normal place for lunch since, well, you know what to expect in men’s locker rooms, right? But it is a place we can go dressed inappropriately, jeans and such.
They have a special entrance for people like us…the back door. We dodge golf carts and walk on a well-worn mildewed walkway into the rear of the locker room. Its ambience does little to increase one’s appetite. In most fine dining places, the well-dressed, important diners enter through front doors. Only cigar smoke welcomes us. At least there’s no doorman giving us a sneer and ‘that look.’ You know what I’m saying?
This big event of our day got me to thinking about back doors. If you had one growing up, you’ll understand. If not, a short primer on southern life helps. You may learn something, so stay with me as I reminisce.
In the dark ages of our youth, back doors were as common as gnats. One knew who the visitor was by the door they chose to enter. The only ones who ever came to our front door were those who were selling, soliciting or taking up matters of a child’s indiscretion. I digress here to make a point.
My friend, Robert, and I once stumbled across a large rattlesnake lying in the street. It appeared deader than a door mat. We had compassion for it. Having motor scooters, and vivid imaginations, we decided the proper course of action was to honor the deceased reptile with a proper funeral. So, we tied a rope around its crushed head and conducted a cortege around town, kinda like a movable wake, you might say. Yes, we and the deceased received much attention, which gives excellent insight to the conduct of grown men.
Young boys are easily bored. We searched for a final resting place for this deceased menace. Somehow along the way the rope broke, and the unfortunate creature slid to a stop on one of our teacher’s driveway. You may discern from this the depth of our love for this teacher. Of course, no one in our small town saw this happen, right? Wrong.
My father answered a knock at the front door about 5:00. The teacher’s husband entered. They talked. I hid, sweating. I was called in to answer the charges. My life flashed before me. I pleaded amnesia. The plea wasn’t accepted. I was found guilty. A little later in the back yard I found out my father was religious. He quoted “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” I remained unconscious several hours. I have not been spoiled since that day. So, you see my aversion to front doors?
In South Georgia we lived with the idea that whoever came to the back door usually posed no threat and could be trusted. But soon the door-to-door crowd figured out that the ‘back-door approach’ produced more revenue than the front door one. Being fast-talking slicks, they got a foot in the door, then a body in the hall and finally their butt in a chair at the table. There they sat, a new family member, sucking down sweet iced tea. All the while emptying mama’s pocket of her grocery money. I hate Reader’s Digest to this day!
Hoards of these charlatans descended on a regular basis. They peddled everything from Avon, Fuller brushes, religious tracts, debit insurance and vacuum cleaners. Like anything, the back-door approach got over-used. When these strangers entered the carport, we locked the door. Are you listening? I know whereof I speak…I kept mama’s set of blue World Book Encyclopedias, never used, for remembrance of the old days. What did your mamma buy?
This back-door approach is responsible for my purchasing an awful lot of real estate. I sat at many tables, ate many meals with farmers. The last meal I accepted at a farmer’s table was dinner. It was served very simply…a mason jar of buttermilk with a large piece of cornbread floating inside. It’s amazing what a fast-talking slick will do to make a deal!
The internet has changed things. No more need for back doors. But recently a country-boy partner called with a bank-owned deal. We made several offers, got nowhere. He said, “Let’s back-door ’em.” Some things never die!
I have many memories of the back door of my youth. The last one is the night my father’s lifeless body passed through it. Maybe this is a metaphor for the demise of the old days that lives only in memory. Or, maybe not.
Bud Hearn
December 2, 2010
They have a special entrance for people like us…the back door. We dodge golf carts and walk on a well-worn mildewed walkway into the rear of the locker room. Its ambience does little to increase one’s appetite. In most fine dining places, the well-dressed, important diners enter through front doors. Only cigar smoke welcomes us. At least there’s no doorman giving us a sneer and ‘that look.’ You know what I’m saying?
This big event of our day got me to thinking about back doors. If you had one growing up, you’ll understand. If not, a short primer on southern life helps. You may learn something, so stay with me as I reminisce.
In the dark ages of our youth, back doors were as common as gnats. One knew who the visitor was by the door they chose to enter. The only ones who ever came to our front door were those who were selling, soliciting or taking up matters of a child’s indiscretion. I digress here to make a point.
My friend, Robert, and I once stumbled across a large rattlesnake lying in the street. It appeared deader than a door mat. We had compassion for it. Having motor scooters, and vivid imaginations, we decided the proper course of action was to honor the deceased reptile with a proper funeral. So, we tied a rope around its crushed head and conducted a cortege around town, kinda like a movable wake, you might say. Yes, we and the deceased received much attention, which gives excellent insight to the conduct of grown men.
Young boys are easily bored. We searched for a final resting place for this deceased menace. Somehow along the way the rope broke, and the unfortunate creature slid to a stop on one of our teacher’s driveway. You may discern from this the depth of our love for this teacher. Of course, no one in our small town saw this happen, right? Wrong.
My father answered a knock at the front door about 5:00. The teacher’s husband entered. They talked. I hid, sweating. I was called in to answer the charges. My life flashed before me. I pleaded amnesia. The plea wasn’t accepted. I was found guilty. A little later in the back yard I found out my father was religious. He quoted “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” I remained unconscious several hours. I have not been spoiled since that day. So, you see my aversion to front doors?
In South Georgia we lived with the idea that whoever came to the back door usually posed no threat and could be trusted. But soon the door-to-door crowd figured out that the ‘back-door approach’ produced more revenue than the front door one. Being fast-talking slicks, they got a foot in the door, then a body in the hall and finally their butt in a chair at the table. There they sat, a new family member, sucking down sweet iced tea. All the while emptying mama’s pocket of her grocery money. I hate Reader’s Digest to this day!
Hoards of these charlatans descended on a regular basis. They peddled everything from Avon, Fuller brushes, religious tracts, debit insurance and vacuum cleaners. Like anything, the back-door approach got over-used. When these strangers entered the carport, we locked the door. Are you listening? I know whereof I speak…I kept mama’s set of blue World Book Encyclopedias, never used, for remembrance of the old days. What did your mamma buy?
This back-door approach is responsible for my purchasing an awful lot of real estate. I sat at many tables, ate many meals with farmers. The last meal I accepted at a farmer’s table was dinner. It was served very simply…a mason jar of buttermilk with a large piece of cornbread floating inside. It’s amazing what a fast-talking slick will do to make a deal!
The internet has changed things. No more need for back doors. But recently a country-boy partner called with a bank-owned deal. We made several offers, got nowhere. He said, “Let’s back-door ’em.” Some things never die!
I have many memories of the back door of my youth. The last one is the night my father’s lifeless body passed through it. Maybe this is a metaphor for the demise of the old days that lives only in memory. Or, maybe not.
Bud Hearn
December 2, 2010
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