The Naked Truth

What is truth, you ask? Where is it to be found? One place knoweth your secret sins: The bathroom scales.

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They lie there, silent as death, watching you approach, trembling with trepidation. You know the verdict: Guilty.

You want to avoid them, to sluff off the error of your ways. You hate its brutal frankness. Criticism comes hard for you. The scales are pitiless. It is what it is, they say in digital numbers. You recoil at the revelation.

I know your terror, your reluctance to know the truth. Just yesterday I pulled out my alligator belts, the favorites, the vanity ones, the ones with my initials engraved on the gold buckles. They had all shrunk, shriveled up. Shrinkage happens with favorite things as you have experienced.

Why? Someone’s to blame. Someone’s always to blame. The alligator? I seek the scales for advice, knowing the result before I climb aboard.

Ours is digital, the latest technology. It’s connected to the computer. It monitors to the scruple of all miniscule changes in weight. Once it got inadvertently hooked to YouTube. It went viral. The phone started ringing.

Scales are like Baptist preachers. They bludgeon us with the truth and remembrance of all carnal sins. Perhaps scales were invented by a preacher, one who advocated abstinence of all things pleasurable as the absolute anchor of salvation.

I tiptoe in, look before I leap. It looks so innocent, like teenagers and dogs. It waits patiently for me to lay myself bare upon its throne of judgment. A still, small voice whispers in my head, “My son, sacrifice your pride on my altar, break up your hypocrisy and be rescued from your reprobate ways.”

Put yourself in this position. Do you want to say goodbye to pretense, to illusion and say hello to the harsh truth of reality? Do you want to face the cold, hard facts of the consequences of living an indolent lifestyle of ease? No. We want to cover up our self-indulgent gratifications, our excesses of an easy life.

But now it’s too late to turn back. I think of all the money invested in alligator belts and gold buckles. What, with diabetes running rampart, Medicare running out and my life running ragged, I’m convinced of the error of my ways. Charles Wesley sings in the distance, “…Calling, O sinner, come home….”

I take a deep breath and exhale. Someone, probably a Rotarian, once said that exhaling would eliminate at least two pounds. So I grit my teeth, hop on and close my eyes. Like skydiving, the fear is only overcome by making the jump.

In my mind images appear, images of Hostess Twinkies and Moon Pies, tasty treats with less gravity than lettuce. I envision plates of fried pork chops, surrounded by mounds of mashed potatoes and biscuits, biscuits dripping butter and cane syrup. Seraphim and cherubim with flaming swords stand guard, daring me to return.

Behind them is an apparition with horns and dressed in a red suit. It tempts me to taste my last supper. I’m tortured beyond comprehension.

The future passes before me in slow motion. I’m standing on the precipice of an abyss, a vast chasm that separates illusion from reality. I see a gaunt man with hollow eyes and a vacuous stare, a starving street survivor redeemed to a Vegan Paradise. I see a buffet table, hear euphoric spirits feasting to bacchanalian excess. Exiled outside, my growling stomach snacks on sugar-free Snickers.

Last year we modified our scales so as to pre-program our desired weight. If we came in under that weight, bells ring, whistles blow and John Phillip Sousa plays Stars and Stripes Forever while we join the throng Marching to Zion.

But if we went over, God forbid. Art Linkletter announced it with giant tubas blowing a flatulent dirge on our forced march through the hellish gates of the medical system. I wondered what I’d hear today.

I finally get the nerve to open my eyes. I stare into the Cyclops eye of the scales, the Final Arbiter of truth. It’s a sobering call to repentance. Its road is rocky, its way hard. I think of the camel squeezing through the eye of a needle, sort of like trying to squeeze into my jeans.

In the background I hear a still, small voice whispering, “My son, go and sin no more.” Ah redemption is sweet!

And so the drama continues, day after day, as millions tiptoe around their scales as if they were beds of hot coals, afraid of the truth.

The price of weight salvation is eternal vigilance. Remember, you backsliders, fat cells have long memories.

So hang in there, all ye who labor and are heavy laden. Truth is only an enemy to delusion. Oh, mercy!


Bud Hearn
January 25, 2019

On a Road to Santa Fe

Occasionally something magical can happen to us, something so unexpected it might be called an epiphany, and we are changed forever.

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January 6th is Epiphany Sunday. It finds me sitting in a padded pew in the village Methodist Church, celebrating the wind-up of the twelfth day pf Christmas.

Christians remember Epiphany Sunday as the day when three wise men of the East conclude their arduous 900 mile camelback journey using celestial navigation. They find Jesus, God Incarnate. Following stars around the heavens is difficult enough, but according to some Progressives, finding three ‘wise men’ anywhere is an impossible epiphany.

As I remember the story, my mind drifts to an epiphany of my own. It’s easy to ‘drift off’ in a dark sanctuary. Strange things are remembered during the swoons. They range from the mundane to the mystical and can even include visitations by Lucifer, the sinister minister of all mischief.

But today I remember meeting a man named Charles. He said he was a carpenter. Let me tell you about it.

It’s late May, 1989. The day is hot and dry. I’m driving on Route 24 somewhere between Los Alamos and Santa Fe. The road winds erratically through the peaks and canyons of the Bandelier Mountains of New Mexico. I pass a sign that reads: ‘Danger: Soft Shoulders and Dangerous Curves.’ Signs can be metaphorically interpreted.

It was easy to get lost on some back-road to nowhere in the decades before Google, GPS and Verizon became essential for survival. Getting lost WAS the adventure. I’ve never been lost, though I admit having sometimes been confused. But not today. This road ends somewhere. I’ll find out when I arrive. I drive on.

Ahead another sign reads, ‘Bandelier Monument Trailhead.’ It’s a scenic pull-off, the kind that often offers vistas of grandeur. All this one offers is a dusty gravel parking lot occupied by a few parked cars. I pull in, desperate for a trail run to break the monotony of driving.

A couple of distraught pilgrims from Kansas stand by their car. It has been ransacked by some mountain ne’er-do-wells. About all I can offer are my condolences. Just then a faded blue and beat-up pickup parks next to me. A man gets out, pulls off his shirt and laces on his running shoes. I do likewise.

Strangers often hold clues to life. So I introduce myself. He says his name is Charles. I ask if he knows the trail. He does, says he runs it daily. I ask if I can join him. So off we go, two total, shirtless strangers in blue jeans and Nike’s, wild with a feeling of freedom.

We run, dodging roots and rocks. When we talk it’s mostly about insignificant trivia and running experiences. The body needs oxygen, and breath comes hard in thin-air altitudes. So conversation tends to lag. The body and mind struggle to stay in sync.

Around the five-mile mark I ask Charles, “What is your astrological sign?”

He’s quick to reply: “Yield right of way.”

“Say what?”

“Yield right of way. It’s my mantra for life. I’m a Zen Buddhist.” I’m speechless. We keep running.

But his philosophy was like a brilliant flash of light, an ‘ah ha’ moment,’ you might say. It strikes me with the subtlety of a bolt of lightning. His statement pierces the stasis of my routine and for 30 years has changed everything.

Trail running was my passion for 53 years until the replacement of two hips ended it. But I keep the memories. And memories of that Bandelier Mountain trail run are as fresh now as the sweat on my back was on that day in May, 1989.

All runs end. Ours does, too. We stand in the parking lot, shake hands and wish each other the best. I last see Charles helping the hapless tourists repair their broken window.

I think of him sometimes, about the randomness of our encounter, and I smile when I see ‘yield right of way’ signs. It was the most profound run of my career.

Jerry Garcia said: “Once in a while you can get shown the light in the strangest places if you look at it right.” I saw that light on a trail in the Bandelier Mountains.

**********

Epiphanies can happen anywhere, anytime, even on a road to Santa Fe. His name was Charles. He was a carpenter.


Bud Hearn
January 11, 2019

The Grits are Gone

And so is 2018. At least much of it. The dangling details of yesteryear are like the uneaten leftovers that linger in our refrigerator. They loiter like holiday hangovers and attest to our experimentation with epicurean indulgence.

Inside is an array of what appears to be small, dish-like spaceships and other galactic debris, all wrapped in shiny aluminum foil. They resemble giant petri dishes wherein billions of alien microbes might be breeding. It happens.

These scraps from yesterday's delicacies have outlived their vitality. Like many of last year's unfinished details, they're now just scrapings for disposal or kept around for unpleasant discussions of who’s responsible for the cleanup.

I begin the process, not quite knowing what to expect when the foil is removed but expecting the worst. I’m not disappointed. Too bad we can’t dispose of 2018’s wreckage as easily. But some leftovers are more resilient than others.

My father was a frugal fellow. He preferred LOV's...left over vittles. It's a South Georgia tradition. When I uncover remaining fragments of the cheese grits, his voice speaks: "Son, it takes true grit to throw out the grits." But since grits are mainly white and yellow, not green, out they go.

There's more than just grits to discard, some of it bordering on bootleg contraband. I'm speaking of the Evan Williams Egg Nog. No sugar, but 80 proof. Finally, a Christmas gift worthy of a stocking. I take the last, long swig, lick my lips and smile. I keep the bottle.

The purging process continues. There's not much left of the ten-pound ham. It's looking pretty shabby, like having been in a Juarez knife fight or surgery by a blind orthopedic surgeon using a chain saw. Little remains but the bone. I carve off scrapings sufficient for the bean soup and toss the bone to the dog. He needs no instructions.

I peel back the foil from what vaguely resembles a chicken. Resurrection is out of the question. About the only possible utilization for this carved-up carcass is anatomical bone study or soup stock. Reminds me how Lincoln described Douglas's thesis, "It's as weak as soup made by boiling the shadow of a pigeon that had starved to death." The boiling water welcomes its victim.

Something seems to be alive and moving beneath one square of foil. I open it to find several yeast rolls, apparently still fermenting. The sight of fermenting yeast rolls troubles me, remembering Jesus's warning to beware of the leaven of the Pharisees. I issue a stern rebuke and without remorse cast them out.

The tenderloin, so rich and rare, hides behind some twice-baked spaghetti. It pains me to pitch something that cost a full month's Social Security check to acquire. I vacillate between decisions. To unceremoniously shed such a succulent delicacy without a due-process hearing would make me a one-man vigilante. I give it a reprieve.

Not so the spaghetti. Noodles are cheap. They served a purpose, but that was then, this is now. It reminds me of the cheap platitudes found on tasteless greeting cards. Good riddance.

There's more. There's always more. Casting out is a recurring life-long process. Nothing lasts forever. It's time for new vittles, fresh vittles, vittles with vitality. We lose our appetite for the old ones.

After tonight's New Year’s Day dinner the LOV’s stage a comeback that my daddy would be proud of…collard greens, black-eyed peas, sweet onions, yams and smoked quail. Out with the old, in with the new. The cycle begins again.

But one thing remains from the day's purging. It languishes like royalty in the sterling silver server. Like keeping our good friends, some things are worth saving. Such is the chocolate cake.

**********

The grits are gone, and so is 2018. But out of what remains let's keep the best, toss the rest and sing with zest a toast to the past:

"Should auld Acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld Acquaintance be forgot,
and Auld Lang Syne."

Onward, friends and stay in touch.

Bud Hearn
January 3, 2019