Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Friday, April 26, 2013

Body Language…a Cloak of Many Colors


Women talk. Men don’t listen. Or won’t. Or can’t. There’s a gender disconnect. Why? Because men can’t read between the lines and are unschooled in discerning the subtlety of a message.

I’m sitting in the cardiologist’s waiting room, pondering this disconnect. It’s a somber place. It’s like a cemetery, the kind of place that puts reality into perspective. I don’t have to read between the lines to get the message. Like someone once said, “You won’t have to ask the hangman why he’s there.”

A TV brutalizes us by blasting out senseless blather. The anxious chatter from nervous patients reminds me of a symphony of cellos…a low roar beneath high-pitched violins and blaring horns. Such banal babbling. Everybody’s talking everywhere. Who’s listening?

Today my heart’s ok. On the way out I stop by the nurse’s station to have a chat with Helen. It pays to be nice to the staff, all women. They run the show. She’s hunkered down over a computer, typing away. She’s oblivious to the noise.

G’ morning, Helen,” my cheery voice says. “You’re looking especially sharp today. New haircut?” She looks up. A slight sneer slides across her lower lip. Her eyes narrow into slits. She says nothing. Her arms cross on her chest. I hear the silent words she’s thinking…”Whatever!” or “Buzz off, creep.” The message sinks in and I slink off.

Why such a dismissive demeanor? Ingratitude for the haircut comment, or disdain for my intrusion into her concentration? Motives are difficult to interpret. In a few seconds Helen has perfected a virtuoso performance in the subtle use of body language…an inaudible message.

Subtlety. Ah, yes. It’s a stealthy tramp dressed in a cloak of many colors. A chameleon. It changes with the situation. It’s a covert language where gestures replace words. It’s a didactic Esperanto, incomprehensible to the uninitiated. Instinctive in women. Hopelessly lost on men.

Subtlety speaks without sound. The eyes and hands never lie. The old ‘cross your arms’ construct erects an impenetrable fortress. Only fools attempt to assault that compound. Same with the ‘hands on the hips’ posture. Men are less afraid of rattlesnakes than this gesture.

Men, imagine you’re having an amorous evening in a dark bistro with a beautiful woman. Your wife, perhaps. You feel romantic. You’re quoting Keats, or something out of The Rubaiyat, strange words, meanings beyond your comprehension. Across the table she’s fixating on her red nail polish. You don’t get it. You’re confused. But, like the buffoon you are, the drivel continues to drip profusely from your lips. She swallows a Zantac and asks for the check. The message? Do you really have to ask?

Research hints that men’s auditory nerve may not actually be connected to the ear. It’s coupled elsewhere and responds to other stimuli, things like the mention of food, or sports, or other more primordial urges. Women are forced to resort to more dramatic means of communication.

Men tend to rant on their exploits and ego. Women have perfected the ‘zip-of-the-lip’ response. The meaning? Shut up! Or leave. Or die.

Oh, the ‘look-away’ eyes. You know, those eyes that constantly glance at something or someone beyond you. They search in the distance for relief. Or a mirror. The message? She wishes to be elsewhere, anywhere, except with you.

The ‘doodling-with-the-pen’ sends a less-than-subtle dismissal. The obsessive clicking of the ballpoint is a dead giveaway. Same is true with the constant glance at her watch. She’s totally written you off, buddy. Meeting over.

Men, now pay attention. Observe closely when she begins to compare the fate lines in her palms. She’s wondering what garbage scow you showed up on. Leave quickly before becoming the twerp she thinks you are. She smiles, envisioning a future without you.

Then there’s the ‘sideways hug.’ It says, “Beat it, buster.” If you’re getting this, please preserve the last scintilla of your shattered pride and slip out the nearest exit. She’s moved on…without you. And O, the ‘silent treatment.’ It reduces one to a giant shrinking slug, sliding through the cracks in the floor.

Alas, a man’s worst nightmare might be the message sent by the ‘wedding ring removal.’ You won’t have to read between the lines on this one!

I ask my wife’s opinion on this article. Instantly she becomes a deaf mute, consumed with the crossword puzzle. Could this also be a message?

It’s all too much for me to comprehend. Good luck on your interpretation.

Bud Hearn
April 26, 2013

Thursday, April 18, 2013

Confessions of a Fried Chicken Addict


Sunday is fried chicken day in the South. Ask anybody.

Two Sundays before Easter my wife and I are in church. I’m suffering the DT’s from my Lenten vow of no fried chicken.

We’re sitting in row three, front left. It’s not our regular ‘place.’ Pew two is. Interlopers, apparently Northern refugees, have evicted us. I’m annoyed. In the Methodist tradition pew positions are sacrosanct---only death opens up a new space. You just don’t sit in someone else’s seat!

Our pews fill from the back forward. It’s easier to sleep or exit early without detection in case of tummy tantrums or visiting preachers. Plus, one can beat the Baptists to the buffet—no easy feat. But I prefer action, so we sit down front.

Sitting up close has perks. Weird facial grimaces, head fakes and tongue wags tend to liven up dull sermons. Such silliness spooks the preacher. He stammers, struggling to locate his spot on the iPad. Snickers are heard. “You’ll get yours,” his eyes say. They cast a vengeful glance.

First Sundays are always Communion Sunday. But they compete with fried chicken day everywhere else. Church crowds thin out early on this day. Contrition and absolution can’t compete with fried chicken. Nothing can. The church tried it once. Big mistake. The youth group cooked. Bad idea. The ER was packed later that day.

Today’s sermon is, “Man Cannot Live by Bread Alone.” For emphasis, our preacher digs deep and discovers the word, “efficacious.” He likes the sound and gesticulates wildly when using it…twelve times in the prologue alone. It portends disaster for me.

Why? “Efficacious” was my grandmother’s favorite word. She used it while cooking Crisco-greased fried chicken in her iron skillet. “Child, fried chicken is efficacious for whatever ails you,” she’d say. So, by simple word association, the preacher sets off an intense burning lust in me for fried chicken.

There’s plenty of space on a Methodist pew. Sitting elbow to elbow is not the Methodist way. We’re not like Presbyterians…we need space. It’s a ‘touch’ thing. Like, who sits on an airplane and enjoys rubbing skin with a total stranger? It’s not what Methodists do. Nasty rumors and lurid gossip might arise. Today, there’s plenty of room on our pew.

My troubles begin when the preacher gets warmed up. He punishes the congregation with lashes of the “efficacious” whip, 49 times at least. Suddenly, from the pit of my stomach, a gurgle emerges. It grows, growls, and rumbles like a ravenous dog longing for a drumstick. It’s impossible to suppress.


I fumble through my jacket for crackers. Crumbs. Gum. Anything. Nothing’s there. I suck my thumb, try to ignore it. Useless. It gets louder. People fidget, become unsettled. They slide sideways, close ranks. Elbows touch, proximity shrinks. My hunger pangs rage. My stomach roars in the final throes of starvation.

Before the pew totally empties, Communion is served. Just in time. We kneel at the altar. I savor a morsel of stale bread. Chase it with a sip of grape juice. I confess everything. My stomach is assuaged. The noise subsides. I contemplate remaining there for a second helping, just in case. But my wife gives me ‘the look.’ We return to our pew. It’s now empty.

Time crawls. I check my watch. Ten minutes to go. The church empties faster. Anxiety assails me as we sing one last song…a dirge. It has ten verses. My stomach screams. I picture a long queue for the Sunday buffet. I fear only the dregs will remain.

Finally, the benediction. With heads bowed, eyes closed, the preacher prays, reminding us that man cannot live by bread alone. “Amen!” I shout. I can smell the chicken cooking.

The church empties before the preacher can again utter that cursed word, “efficacious.” The exits are jammed. Pushing and shoving ensues. Canes and walkers lay strewn in the aisles like an abandoned battlefield. The lame walk, the blind see. Such is the salvation power of fried chicken on Sunday.

We slip out the side door and sprint to the car. I vow never again to give up fried chicken for Lent.

Overall the day ends well. The collection plates overflow, I get my fix of fried chicken and the club cook leaves early. Only a couple of drum sticks remained and no banana pudding.

And so it goes in the South……Sunday is fried chicken day. Get in line!

Bud Hearn
April 18, 2013

Thursday, April 11, 2013

Blowing Bubbles

Bubbles and Illusions are beautiful, even if they’re empty inside.” Alfred E. Newman

Once upon a time, before age edged out our innocence, we blew bubbles and chased them. Harmless fun—life was good. That was then, this is now.

Last week I stopped by Tommy’s drug store for pills. I’m a regular. He eats out more and his golf game has improved, thanks to addicts like me who’re chemically dependent for survival.

Tommy’s store has a retro feel, a 1950’s throwback. It’s like the old days of town square drug stores. You could buy good stuff then…comic books, magazines, Old Spice, Hadicol, Lydia E. Pinkham, butch wax, mustard plasters and a little hardware. Female hygiene items and contraceptives you had to ask for. The added bonuses of gossip, home-remedies and fishing tales were free.

In my town, Colquitt, GA, population 1,939 souls, we had Cook’s-U-Save-It. The outside sign read Sundries and More. The ‘more’ were pretty decent vanilla and cherry cokes, milk shakes and ice cream sundaes topped with cherries. For a quarter you could get a good after-school fix. You could survive ‘til mama put the country fried steak on the table.

It had a soda fountain counter. Solid black, ringed with chrome. Stools were bolted to the thin-slat heart pine floors. The floors creaked when you walked on them. The wood was waxed to a glossy sheen. Relics of these drug stores still survive the invasion of CVS. They eke out an existence in the tired, dying towns of the South.

Anyway, on a shelf sits a bottle of Super Imperial Miracle Bubbles. The name seems a bit ostentatious for a cheap concoction of soap and water. It cost $2.98. My dogs are bored. I figure a few bubbles will liven things up. So I buy it.

I pull out the plastic dipper and blow super imperial miracle bubbles. Mac and Sophie are 9 and 11, that’s 63 and 77 in dog years. Some of you can relate. It’s like a T-shot elixir. Arthritis and lethargy, poof, gone. They’re born-again pups. They go ballistic, chasing and attacking the bubbles, baffled when they burst. They want more. Such are all who chase bubbles. America is a bubble-breeding machine, and Americans are amusement junkies.

I remember the cooped-up, rainy-day boredom of youth. Seconds before my bare fists pound my brother into pulp, mama would pull out the bubble blend. It replaced the sniveling and whining of siblings and saved my brother’s life more than once. It kept us busy ‘til supper. Excitement soon evaporates. Boredom is the bane of life. Thank God for mama’s meatloaf.

Age moves on. We left soap and water bubbles and moved into Bazooka and baseball card bubble gum. Bazooka came wrapped in comic strips and looked like pink chews from Tootsie Rolls. You had to chew the sugar out of it first. If chewed too long you’d get lock jaw. But then, oh, the bubbles. Big lungs were beneficial, and bulbous lips didn’t hurt. Two girls in my class had both in abundance. For some reason they were quite popular.

One of my cousins lived behind me. In Colquitt, everybody’s kin. At family reunions, the entire town showed up. His name was Hieronymus. We called him Junior. Who’d stick a kid with such a name? He’d be a natural-born loser from birth. But not Junior.

Junior had credentials. He blew the trumpet in our band. He had Louis Armstrong lips. He could blow bubbles that covered his face. We encouraged it, just so we could pop them. It took hours to comb the gum out of his scruffy eyebrows. Some people crave attention at any cost. Bubbles do funny things to people.

But Junior got rich. Some say he was the inspired genius with the bright idea of using Botox injections to bubble up the lips of babes. Some say a lot of things. Truth is hard to find these days. But not big lips!

As we got older, bubbles popped up everywhere. Bubble baths boosted population. Financial bubbles bloated bottom lines. Derivative bubbles disappeared into thin air. And more. Sadly, some people even live in bubbles. I’m wondering what the fallout will be when mine bursts.

Life is strange. We transition from diapers to diapers, but the simple things are still the most fun. Even now, bubbles have a magical power…we still chase them, only to have them vanish in our grip. Such is the nature of bubbles…they all burst.

Once upon a time we blew bubbles…the memories are all that remain.

Bud Hearn
April 11, 2013


Thursday, April 4, 2013

The Magic of Wisteria

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.” Robert Herrick 1591-1674



In our front yard are three tall pines. Springtime enshrouds them in vast array of purple wisteria.

Like flowering nooses, the gnarled wisteria vines climb to the top of the trees. Twisted and contorted, they grip the hapless trees with a lover’s unyielding embrace. Lavender bouquets droop pendulously from these ancient vines. Tiny morning dewdrops drip from the delicate petals. No artist canvas could contain a scene more serene.

The sun bathes the blossoms in a brilliant light. It caresses them softly with a Mother’s loving touch. They appear poised to burst out in song in nature’s silent symphony.

Sidewalk strollers stare at the dangling display of color. They sniff air infused with the fragrant attar of wisteria, nectar of the gods. Its indescribable sweetness floats freely, wafting its way among shrubs and trees. Tender breezes tease the bouquets into movements ever so slight…nature’s foreplay in motion. Side to side they sway, swooning in a sensuous dance.

Every morning I walk out to retrieve the paper. Today, the wisteria’s aromatic presence is arresting. I stop, enticed by its essence. The wisteria garlands dangle, like locks of lavender braids adorning the hair of angels and small girls at a May Day picnic. A stranger approaches and stops. She’s captivated by the beauty. We smile and nod hello.

The stranger says wisteria is reminiscent of love. She says that wisteria, like love, defies description; that words are blunt instruments, inadequate to convey the quintessential quality of its fragrance, much less describe that of love. To understand either, one must remove the veils through experience. She asks my opinion. I reply, “It’s early, and I never discuss love without first having a cup of coffee.” We laugh. The stranger then leaves.

I linger, enjoying the moment. Even before coffee, I know it’s impossible to seize the scent of wisteria. It’s a spirit, and like all spirits, it floats freely upon the breezes. We can only receive it, not restrain it, nor retain it. Whoever has experienced love knows that when it’s selfishly possessed, it withers. Love, like wisteria, must be free to scale its own heights.

I stand beneath the vines, pondering the stranger’s symbolism of wisteria and love. Neither asks, “Who’s worthy to receive?” They’re ‘free’ to all. Wisteria and love are magical wherever they blossom. Both are beautiful beyond comprehension. I know there are infinitely more similarities, but the coffee, the coffee!

Yet I stand there, transfixed, unable to leave the mystical scene. Suddenly, the lavender nursery appears to be alive. Bumble bees swarm in oblivious delight, flitting from one petal to the next in a paean of excited frenzy. I think, maybe bees have a better clue about wisteria and love than we know. I watch the spectacle, mesmerized, wishing I were a bee. The coffee can wait.

We once cut some wisteria for a flower arrangement. Our daughter, The Gardener of Eden, advised against it. She warned, “It’ll wilt and turn putrid.” We ignored her admonition. But she was right. The next morning it lay limp, hanging over the lip of the vase. Its fragrance and its beauty had faded. The vine is its source of life. Separated, it becomes a memory, useless, a dried flower to press between the pages of a book.

Sadly, the wisteria is ephemeral. Its life cycle is relatively short…a couple of weeks at best. It gives all it has, while it has it. Then as quickly as it blooms, it wilts. Its blossoms wither, let go and are scattered by the wind. They lie silently upon the lawn like a bluish-lilac carpet…as beautiful in death as in life.

I stagger inside for coffee and remember a philosopher’s poem: “Love gives, and while it gives it lives; and while it lives it gives.” I think about the stranger, about the spirit of wisteria, about the spirit of love. Deep stuff so early in the morning.

By the second cup I conclude that we have a short window of time to enjoy the magic of wisteria, and maybe love, too. We’d best do it now, before the opportunity passes. Wisteria and love wait for no one!

Bud Hearn
April 4, 2013