Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Leaving Some Bags Behind

She took one look at the headlines of the WSJ, pitched it on the table and announced, “Well, it’s all coming down.” She left the room, my wife, leaving me with her first proclamation of the day.

What,” I shouted, “the world?” Oftentimes the day would progress in direct proportion to her declarations. Maybe I’d married a clairvoyant. Women have that talent, you know. Their decrees usually find fulfillment…I’d learned slowly (and at times painfully) the truth behind this. I hastily picked up the paper to see if I could detect a clue for today’s prediction.

Then, her voice echoed from the other room, “No, the Christmas decorations. Get in here!” Whew, I thought, relieved that there was no imminent collision with a speeding meteorite, threat of a tsunami or crotch bomber aloft.

But a graph in the WSJ arrested my attention. Maybe it was the red line that looked as if it had free-fallen from the sky, body-slammed, bounced a couple of times and fibrillated. I remembered Hulk Hogan’s similar slam of the 700 pound Andre the Giant in years past. I read more.

The graph was entitled, “Vital Signs,” which brought to mind the sliver of tape from an EKG machine that showed my heart had stopped, but instantly recovered to its normal rhythmic pace. I keep it on my office desk, along with other useless but instructive paraphernalia and some art, to remind me that I’m only one heartbeat away from “the other side.” The diaphanous nude made from screen wire by an artist in the South Georgia swamps is continuously educational.

I studied the Consumer Confidence Index graph intently. There’s a Board for all government meddling, this one called The Confidence Board (its members women, I presume). It depicted national consumer attitudes. Pre-2007, it had fibrillated in a range slightly above 100, whatever that means, but had dropped precipitously to register a 25.3 on the scale in early 2009. It’s shown some life recently by rebounding into the 52 index level, clearly a long way from announcing that the patient is healthy enough to leave the ICU…so the toe tag remains. At least the patient is living, if you believe graphs or EKG’s.

Everything seems to be measured by consumer spending, or bank lending, as if these are the only measures of a nation’s health. The graph shows what any sane person knew (even without a wife!): that 2009 was a sorry excuse for 365 pretty good days. I doubt if many will hang out at the gravesite of 2009 and mourn its passing. I will be the first to kick a clod on the casket, seeing as my career in real estate has also died. I will find it poetic justice to have the last word: “Kiss Off!”

Truthfully, we’ve survived a pretty nasty year. I’m certain we’ll aspire for a more “normal” 2010…hey, to hell with the “New Normal” we hear! Slowly we seem to be emerging from the gloom of the cavern we’ve been holed up in. And what better time to come out than New Year’s Eve, now just hours away?

Which brings me to a thought about the bags I took into my cave in 2007. As I haul ‘em out into the sunlight, I can’t believe I toted such crap around for so long. These bags are far too heavy to tote into 2010, and I intend to lighten them. It can be done, you know…we all have accumulated too much surplus of The American Dream.

Photographs show many Ellis Island immigrants arriving with only the clothes on their backs…they left the old behind. It reminded me when we used to pack the jeep for a weekend in the mountains with every known comfort of home. Later, we found it possible to stuff enough essentials in a 40 pound backpack to survive for weeks.

Along with Forest Gump, we got cracked out on running. We discovered it was possible to run a 20 mile trail segment all but naked, in shorts and a tee, hauling only a small water bottle. Soon 20 miles got easy, so we moved it to 35, then to 50. It’s amazing how little we needed…or how obsessive we became!

All this to suggest that as we emerge from our gloom of 2009, it’s a good time to lighten the load…old memories, grudges, disappointments, failures and other such clutter, and get on with renewing The American Dream. William Least Heat-Moon had it right…to be energized, “live the real jeopardy of circumstance.”

Yes, “it’s all coming down,” the curtain on 2009. As we leap into the future of 2010, let’s leave the useless behind. Buy the ticket, take the ride! And be proud to be an American!

Get in here!” she screamed. “Yes, dear.” Some things never change!

Happy New Year


Bud Hearn
December 30, 2009

Monday, December 28, 2009

The Incident on Norwich Street

The day was sunless, raw and cold, uncommon for January. A late afternoon fog, dull-gray, crept slowly in from the East River, shrouding in mist the ramshackled row houses and small shops on this derelict section of Norwich Street. A man stopped in front of the storefront, hesitated nervously, shuffled, turned to withdraw, turned again and entered Seymour’s Pawn Shop.

A single light hanging from the ceiling burned dimly. An antique ceiling fan stirred the musty air, adding to the man’s gloom. Removing his damp wool cap, he strolled slowly to the glass counter containing a myriad array of pistols, knives, brass knuckles and other malicious weapons for human mayhem, items that had been pawned for quick, Saturday-night money. They had not been redeemed and remained as a witness to the harsh and usurious lending policies of the shop’s proprietor. They were now for sale.

“Do you have the money today?” Seymour’s voice was shrill, harsh like the outside wind chill, and he shuddered. “You know the deal we made, right?” The man knew. It had been a deal with the devil, but he’d had no choice. He faced foreclosure, and his options were limited. Seymour had been his last one. While he still occupied the house, Seymour held the mortgage deed…and worse, his hasty pledge of something far more precious.

The winter shrimp harvest had been abysmal. Money was in short supply for all fishermen. But then one man’s pain is another’s gain, and Seymour profited on the backs of misfortune with pay-day loans. “No sir, not all of it, and I was wondering if…” Seymour cut him off in mid sentence, “No excuses, today’s the day, that was our deal, and a deal is a deal. I’ve kept my end, now you keep yours.”

I know,” the man said, his eyes glazing while looking at the raw planked floor. “But…”

“No buts. I told you last week, pay up or else.”

Hearing the “or else” sent a cold shiver down the man’s spine. What could he do? He didn’t have the money, and he had no immediate hope for it. His choices were stark: either lose the house or honor the promise of having pledged his 18-year old daughter to be Seymour’s wife. Was the house worth that? He recoiled in horror at the thought.

He had never intended for this pledge to be called. But when a man’s blood boils, the soul lends his tongue prodigal vows. With foreclosure imminent, the consequences were grim. He pleaded, “Shrimping has never let me down, please give me a little…”, but he never finished the sentence. From Seymour’s thin lips came a cold sneer and a scornful interjection, “No sir, no more time…it’s the money or the girl if you want the mortgage back. No more excuses. Your choice.” The man’s heart plunged while the dark night descended upon the two men who stood, eyeball to eyeball, negotiating the Faustian bargain in the dimly-lit den of men’s misery. The man lost. Dejected, he sadly retreated into the deserted streets, Seymour’s last words ringing in his ears, “No delays, ya hear?”

She was 18, just turned, tall with long hair, golden like the vast marshes that lined the Southern coast. She was set to graduate in May and pursue horticulture. Her special love was roses, and Seymour had seen her often after school and on most Saturdays. With greedy eyes he would watch her as she strolled carefree along the cracked sidewalk in her floral print dresses, carrying with her the dreams of her future. Little did she know then how her future would unfold.

Next to Seymour’s Pawn Shop, nestled in a manicured rose garden, stood a tiny pastel-colored cottage that was both the home and the business of its owner. The sign read, Roses by Edward. The girl worked there, carefully tending the arbors and trellises and delivering colorful arrangements. What a wife she’d be, Seymour thought, manufacturing fantasies and licentious scenarios as he gazed lustily at her. Now in his late fifties, he knew that was unlikely. Yet as things sometimes work out, possibility overcame probability the day the man walked into the pawn shop. Seymour’s life changed forever that day. So did the life of the girl.

Later that evening the man called the family together, explaining the sorrowful outcome of the day’s bargain. There was a stunned silence as the consequence sunk in. “What in the world were you thinking, you fool, to make such an awful arrangement with that sleazy Seymour. What gave you the right to trade our daughter’s future for this house?” his wife lamented. “Never, dad, never,” his daughter screamed as she fled the room in tears.

“But I signed a pledge, gave my word,” he said. His distress showed in the craggy face of a seaman in the glow of the reflected light. “We still have a little time, maybe something…,” he said, trailing off more as a question than a statement. “I’ll try again tomorrow to persuade Seymour to back off,” he promised. He did, but Seymour’s retort was as terse as before, “We made a deal. Now I only want the girl, you can keep the house. Y’all set the date. She’s going to marry me.”

The man and his wife procrastinated, promising a date that never came. Day after day the girl continued to pass the pawn shop, working in the rose garden next door. Weeks went by and spring came, while Seymour stewed in his lechery for the girl. Her very walk past his shop taunted him, inflamed his ardor, and he vowed to marry her or else. In his carnal cravings for the girl, the mortgage laid forgotten, gathering dust and accrued interest among the others in his safe. He’d lost all interest in anything but having the girl as his wife.

But obsessions often flame out of control. Seymour’s did.

It had been a sultry day in late May. She and Edward worked late that evening in the cottage next door. Seymour also stayed late, but for another reason. His ledgers could wait. Bitter in his desire for the girl, he slipped out of the rear door of his shop into the darkness. He lit a large sliver of lighter knot, a portion of a pine stump ripe with turpentine and flung it beneath the cottage. In a matter of minutes the wooden cottage was engulfed in flames. The shadows made no sound as Seymour slinked silently into the obscurity of the night, avenged in the unrequited payment of the man’s pledge.

The fire was intense, turning the evening sky into orange. Little could be done to contain the blaze. The cottage burned into hot ashes, the embers mixing with the sandy loess below. The rose shrubs in the garden lost their blooms in the intensity of the heat and remained leafless. In the morning the heat had abated. An inspection was made as to the cause of the fire. The ashes were sorted and sifted, but there was no sign of human remains, nor could the cause of the incident be determined.

“Well, Sheriff,” the Coroner said, “looks like we have an inconclusive case here. No detectible body, or bodies, no way to determine the cause. Accident, you think?”

“Hard to say, Gene. Tell the boys to get Seymour down here, maybe he saw or heard something. He’s a sneaky sort anyway
.” Soon Seymour arrived. “Say, Seymour, what can you tell me about this here fire?” the Sheriff said. “Not much,” Seymour said. “All I saw was Edward and the girl in there when I closed shop and went home. You knew we were to be married, right?”

Yeah, I heard that. What did you have on her daddy, Seymour? No way would she have married you on her own”

Me and her daddy had a deal, Sheriff, that’s all, but it didn’t work out. That’s all I can say.” The Sheriff shook his head, turned and left. Seymour stood alone, staring into the ashen ruins of the place.

Weeks turned into months. Often Seymour could be seen standing in front of the charred ruins in the late afternoons, gazing at the rose bushes, the blackened trellises. At his feet the wind swirled the ashes into small, gray piles. Pity, he thought, such a waste. All the while no blooms ever came upon the arbors, and the lot became overgrown with weeds and strewn with garbage. The Sheriff had archived the incident to the “cold cases” department. Life returned to normal on Norwich Street. But not for Seymour.

Spurned in his desire for marriage, life became more intolerable for Seymour day by day. The man had come in one day and redeemed the mortgage, paying the exorbitant interest and retaining his home. The man seemed happy for some reason Seymour could not understand. Did the man have no remorse for his missing daughter? Did he know something he was not saying? The questions tormented Seymour night after night. Sleep eluded him as mental images of the girl, strolling in front of his shop, tortured him. All the while the scorched arbors remained without blooms, a mocking reminder of the crime he’d committed.

In the early morning hours of a late summer night, Seymour could no longer suffer the persecution by his dreams. With an axe in hand, he determined to destroy the remaining reminders of Roses by Edward…the bloomless plants. Enraged by passion, he entered the darkened and vacant lot of what was once Edward’s rose garden and cottage. The rank smell of charred ashes reeked in the humid air as Seymour carried out his catharsis.

The telephone rang early in the Sheriff’s office. “Sheriff, you better get over here to the burnt cottage on Norwich Street. Something strange is going on,” the voice said. With steam rising from their coffee mugs, the Sheriff and Coroner stood looking in mystified amazement at the lifeless, mangled body of Seymour. Still clutching the axe, his lacerated body lay upon the scorched ashes, entangled interminably among the vines and thorns of a Blaze of Glory climbing rose. Upon the blackened trellises brilliant red blooms exploded in a profuse display of beauty, their fallen petals mingling with the dried blood of the mutilated pawn broker.

“Sheriff, look at all those rose bushes…why, they haven’t bloomed in months. I walk this patrol every day.” the deputy said. “Strange, don’t you think, that they would all bloom overnight? Just look at them climbing roses. Have you ever seen so many flowers?” The Sheriff shook his head, shrugged, puzzled. Was this a crime scene? He wondered.

Yeah, Lester, real strange for sure. What do you make of it, Gene?” he asked the Coroner. “Hard to figure, Sheriff, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say it looks like the roses claimed a victim and got revenge. We may never know,” he said.”

“Maybe. Lester, dust off that cold case file and see if we can make something out of it. The newspaper will want a comment.”

San Francisco is beautiful beyond belief in late summer. Early morning mists and fogs waft slowly through the city, and it glistens like diamonds in the morning sunrises. Perched high above the Presidio, Pacific Heights is home to quant shops, artists, coffee houses and boutiques.

Today a young woman in a floral print dress unhurriedly strolls through an arbor and up the steps of a small, pastel-blue cottage, itself surrounded by High Society climber roses in full bloom. The sign on the door reads, Roses by Edward…


Bud Hearn
December 28, 2009

The Incident On Norwich Street (Flash Fiction)

(Flash Fiction Version)

The day was sunless, raw and cold. A late afternoon fog, dull-gray, crept slowly in from the East River, shrouding the ramshackled row houses and small shops on this derelict section of Norwich Street. A man stopped in front of a storefront, hesitated, then entered Seymour’s Pawn Shop.

A single light hung from a mildewed ceiling. It cast a dim reflection on a glass counter containing myriad numbers of items pawned for quick, Saturday-night money. They remained unredeemed. Nothing moved.

The man strolled slowly to the dusty desk in the rear. “Do you have the money?” Seymour’s voice was shrill, harsh. The man shuddered. “You know the deal, right?” He knew. It had been a deal with the devil, and Seymour was his last option. He was tight for cash, faced foreclosure, so he pawned the house…and worse, made another hasty pledge of something far more precious.

Shrimping had not paid the bills. But then one man’s pain is another’s gain. “No, sir, not all of it, I wondered if…,” Seymour cut him off. “No excuses.” Stunned, the man said, “I know, but…” Steely eyes stared back, “No buts. Pay up or else.”

The man shivered at the sound of “or else.” He was caught between two grim choices: lose the house or persuade his only daughter to be Seymour’s wife. In silence he looked at the raw plank floor, wondering. Was the house worth that? “Please give me until…” From Seymour’s thin lips came a cold sneer, “No sir…the money or the girl. Your choice.”

The dark night descended as two men negotiated a Faustian bargain in this dimly-lit den of misery. The man lost. Sadly he retreated into the deserted streets, Seymour’s last words ringing in his ears, “No more delays.”

She was 18, soon to graduate and pursue horticulture. She loved roses. With greedy eyes Seymour watched her often as she strolled carefree with her dreams along the cracked sidewalk in her floral print dresses. Nestled in a manicured rose garden next door was a tiny pastel-blue cottage. It was the home and business of its owner. The sign read, Roses by Edward. She worked there, and she loved Edward.

Seymour, now in his fifties, would think, “What a wife she’d be.” But he knew it to be unlikely. Yet possibility overcame probability when the man walked into his shop, needing money. Like a knife Seymour held the man’s pledge to his throat. So obsessive was his desire now for the girl he’d lost all interest in the mortgage deed.

But the man and his wife procrastinated, promising but not delivering the pledged girl. Dates came, went, and now Spring. The girl continued to pass the pawn shop, working next door. Her very walk taunted Seymour, inflaming his ardor as he stewed in his obsessive lechery for her.

But obsessions often flame out of control. Seymour’s did.

On a sultry evening in late May the girl and Edward worked late in the cottage. Seymour also worked late, but for another reason. Bitter in his desire for the girl, and in a rage of jealousy, he slipped out of his shop into the darkness. He flung a lighted torch beneath the cottage. In minutes the wooden cottage was engulfed in flames. Seymour slinked silently into the shadows, avenged for the unrequited payment of the man’s pledge.

The cottage burned into hot ashes, scorching the garden roses and trellises. An inspection was made later as to the cause, but there was no sign of human remains, nor could the cause be determined. It was placed in the cold-case files.

Weeks turned into months. Seymour often stood gazing into the charred ruins of his passion. The girl and Edward had vanished. What a waste, he thought, as life returned to normal on Norwich Street. But not for Seymour.

Spurned in his desire for the girl, life had become intolerable for Seymour. The man had come in, redeemed the mortgage and seemed happy for some reason Seymour could not understand. Unresolved questions tormented Seymour nightly. Sleep eluded him as mental images of the girl tortured him in dreams. All the while, next door, the rose shrubs remained without blooms, a mocking reminder of his crime.

In the early morning hours of a late summer night, Seymour, with axe in hand, entered the ash-strewn ruins of the cottage. He was determined to destroy the reminders of Roses by Edward…the blossomless plants. The rotten smell of charred ashes reeked in the humid air as he carried out his catharsis.

The telephone rang early in the Sheriff’s office. The voice said, “Sheriff, better get over here to the burnt cottage on Norwich Street.” Soon he and the Coroner stood looking in shocked amazement at the lifeless, mangled body of Seymour. Still clutching his axe, his lacerated body laid entangled among the vines of a Blaze of Glory climber rose. Brilliant red blooms exploded in a profuse display, mingling with the dried blood of the mutilated pawn broker.

What do you make of it,” the Coroner asked. The Sheriff replied, “Well, if I didn’t know better, I’d say the roses got revenge,” shaking his head, puzzled. Was this a crime? He wondered.

San Francisco is beautiful in late summer. Early morning mists waft slowly through the city, and it glistens like diamonds in the morning sunrises. Perched high above the Presidio, Pacific Heights is home to quaint shops, coffee houses and boutiques.

Today a young woman in a floral print dress unhurriedly strolls through an arbor into a pastel-blue cottage, surrounded by roses in full bloom. The sign on the door reads, Roses by Edward….


Bud Hearn
December 28, 2009

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

"Good Tidings of Comfort and Joy"

A Christmas Trilogy, Part III

The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light; they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.” Isaiah 9:2


It was mostly quiet around the house Tuesday. The hectic activity was winding down. The onslaught of catalogues had ceased. Print had morphed into digital solicitations. The phone was silent. Christmas was nigh.

The Blackberry on the table vibrated. The Smithfield Ham Co. announced, “Last Chance to get your smoked pig.” Following closely, offering free delivery for print cartridges, was the Hewlett-Packard supplication, “Act Today!” The delete button responded.

Through the window sunbeams cast a sunset refraction on a bloated stack of bills that occupied a disproportionate portion of the desk. I wondered about the good tidings they proclaimed. I already knew. I imagined them spontaneously bursting into flames. I thought, “Now, that’d be real comfort and joy.” Sadly they reappeared, evidences of a shopper out of control.

I tried to flesh out this concept of “good tidings of comfort and joy,” how it might appear in reality. I wondered. Star-gazing shepherds once wondered, too. But I got nowhere. The subconscious resurrected a T. S. Eliot poem, “The Hollow Men.” He mused, “Between the Idea and the Reality falls the Shadow.” I thought of the Twilight Zone. Weird.

With three days until the Idea becomes this year’s Reality, many have fallen into the shadow of manic last-minute shoppers, that frantic genre who have succumbed to the eleventh-hour urgency to spend themselves into more poverty. Is this the essence of Christmas?

At lunch I overheard a husband tell his wife, “OK, here’s my last $30…see how far it’ll take us.” Grabbing the money from his hands, she leapt from the table, exclaiming, “I’ll be at Wal-Mart.” He looked nauseous and stared at his uneaten chicken. Was he thinking “good tidings of comfort and joy?” I don’t think so.

In our haste, the essence of Christmas has become vague. Bound by tradition, consumed by commercialism, we rush about in the shadow of preparation. We ignore the nobler aspects of the Christmas season which “good tidings of comfort and joy” proclaim. Do we even believe this concept?

I tried, but the secret of this Biblical concept of comfort and joy eluded me, falling into multiple shadows within the Shadow. It was a ghost I couldn’t grasp. I thought long and hard. Finally I let go, thinking, “It’ll just have to find me!”

This year we decided to show a little constraint and purchased a 5 foot Christmas tree. We sat it atop a long, tall table. It appeared to be very tall, but in reality it was small. It was much easier to handle than the 14 foot trees we had in the past, and a pleasure to decorate…ah, comfort and joy. Being small, lighting it was easy, no spousal disagreements…more comfort and joy. It appeared as one single lighted evergreen, glowing resplendently in the darkness. Our best tree yet, we agreed…comfort and joy.

Today I crawled out of bed at 5:00 AM. There are few distractions in the strong, silent hours of the early morning. Even the dogs remained asleep. With a cup of coffee, I sat surrounded by total darkness, except for the lighted Christmas tree. Thoughts of thanksgiving kept circulating in my mind, remembrances of friends, of family Christmases, blessings of life, of comfort and joy. Wait…wasn’t that what I had been searching for? It had found me!

The essence of Christmas has many points of light. When frenetic activity ceases, then we can focus on the points of light that best represent the essence of Christmas to us personally. Sitting in the comfort of home the Essence became less the Shadow and more the Reality. The “bones” of the concept of comfort and joy took on flesh and came to life.

On Friday, as Christmas morning dawns upon us, the Idea will again become Reality, and the Shadow will fade into the Light of a new day. But the Christmas Reality is just the birth of another Idea, awaiting its own Reality. The miracle of Scripture, “…and the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us,” will again live.

Today, as the sunrise drove back the darkness, the house became alive again. I remembered the verse, “Let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven.”

Comfort and joy? Ours for the receiving! Perhaps it’s fitting that today we join with the “merry gentlemen of yore” as they sang, “…O, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy, O, tidings of comfort and joy.”

Merry Christmas to you all.

Bud Hearn
December 23, 2009

Thursday, December 17, 2009

A Letter To Santa

A Christmas Trilogy, Part II

Some say, ‘Seeing is Believing’…but I say, ‘Believing is Seeing.’”
Dewitt Jones, Photographer, National Geographic Magazine


Santa Claus
North Pole


Dear Santa

I hardly know where to start, much less what to say. It’s been a long time since you’ve had a letter from me. Do you remember when? I do. It was 1950. I was 8, going on 9, and I’d accused you of being a fraud, a trickster of children, running a con scheme up there, or at least working illegal immigrant elves without green cards. Remember? I was dumb then, but I’ve wised up.

My apology will seem hollow…what could I plead? Not enough time, too busy? You’ve heard all that, so I won’t bother. Besides, I know you’re busier than ever, so many requests, so little time. But I am concerned that global warming is melting your headquarters. A fellow named Gore said so. Between you and me, I hope you ignore his letters…association with him would damage your reputation, believe me.

I get teary when remembering the many letters I sent to you years ago. In those days my brother and I, and our friends, would try to figure out just how you could make all those toys and deliver them all on one night. Since our house had no chimney, we wondered how you’d get in. Somehow you managed, because the milk and cookies were missing in the morning. How did you do that? We never figured it out.

I remember the letter I sent asking for a red bike. I can’t imagine how you got it into the house, but there it stood…I believed then, ‘cause seeing is believing to a kid. I admit I can’t recall everything I ever asked for, especially things like clothes. Somehow you knew my exact size, because they always fit.

Do you remember the set of tiny trucks, tractors and cars you left once? Why, we became engineers and road builders in the grit of our back yard, constructing small freeways, building small, stick cities to visit. We believed we were travelers, visiting places of excitement far beyond our small hick town. Guess what? It came to pass. But you knew it would, didn’t you?

Remember the Daisy lever-action BB rifles you gave us? And all the toy soldiers? We became warriors, real and imagined (well, I shot a few sparrows, anyway…I mourn for those fallen creatures to this day!). Once we played “real” army, drew sides, fought battles. Our parents took us to the woodshed for it. Remember those “harmless” pea shooters? Why, small boys can fashion everything into some kind a weapon. We amused ourselves for weeks in the movie theater before the proprietor body-searched us and confiscated our artillery.

What about the chemistry sets? The house reeked of sulfur for weeks. Don’t forget the erector kits, the parts of which were sucked up by the vacuum, causing great consternation with Mom. Or the Monopoly game…we were all entrepreneurs, and some of us pretend to be today. Space limits my recalling the model airplanes, which never lasted long. Yet I became a pilot some years later.

We really believed when you trusted us with large boxes of fireworks…no directions, no warnings, no rules. We were left to our own devices for entertainment. Everything was fair game with cherry bombs. Empty cans sailed high into the air, mailboxes blew apart, fence posts were shattered and roadside TNT bombs rocked passing cars. We once set the sedge field behind our house on fire with roman candles. Worse than the whipping we got, our bamboo fort was burned to the ground.

But back to the purpose of this letter. Age has enlightened me about the mystique of Christmas, of a jolly man in a red outfit, 8 reindeer and a tiny sleigh filled with toys for “good boys and girls.” It’s a time of great expectation, of anticipation, of surprises…and endless discussions of just Who you are and How you always knew what we wanted and needed. “Believing is receiving” we were told. Somehow, in spite of our doubt, it all came to pass. Santa, we need a renewal of that spirit!

The years passed…we played while the toys got larger; we grew up and moved on, made our own money. We forgot about you, but thankfully you did not forget about us. So, this letter is to thank you for your faithfulness. While we still don’t totally understand it, yet we believe it… faith may be the miracle of Christmas.

Next week children young and old will again attempt to resolve the enigma of which is the better truth of Christmas ---”Seeing is Believing, or Believing is Seeing?” Convince us all again, Santa…and keep eating the cookies!

Repentantly yours,

Bud Hearn
December 17, 2009


PS: No wish list is attached. Just a simple “Thanks” for continuing to infuse us with the joy of giving and the renewal of the Spirit of Christmas, and for always showing up. FYI, you remind me of Someone I know whose name is Jesus…are you related?

Thursday, December 10, 2009

The Robbery at Neiman's

A Christmas Trilogy, Part I

I stood outside of Neiman’s at Atlanta’s Lenox Square Mall, looking at The Blue Corset Co., a dark, den-looking boutique. White marble manikins clothed in seductive hot pink and black lace dominated the plate glass windows. Outside a gathering of men stood and stared, gawking, wishing…..With vacuous eyes the lifeless manikin sirens gazed with disinterest at the impotent dreamers.

I moved on. Neiman’s was offering “bonus points” for purchases, and I figured I’d have better luck in the Gucci shoe department than The Corset Co. Unfortunately, Santa was on back-order for the shoes of my choice. Not to disappoint my wife for something from Neiman Markup, I moved on towards the Jewelry department.

Then things got interesting. Passing the St. John collection, I noticed a shadow following me. Being insecure shoppers, men linger, casually touching the merchandise, pretending. The clerks know this ruse and usually ignore them. But not tonight. The shadow spoke, “Sir, may I have a word with you? I’m the floor manager. We have a store policy that affects older men like you.” I asked, “What policy? I have money, what other policy is there?” He was stern, and said, “Esthetics, sir... Please follow me.”

I was ushered to the cosmetic counter. Gocha, the blonde Polish Esthetician, was instructed to perform magic with a facial makeover, to conform my antiquity to the store’s policy. “Is this normal?,” I asked her. “Of course,” she answered, “and I can make you acceptable for all departments. Then they’ll gladly take your money, if you have any left when I finish.” I noticed no facial difference, although my wallet no longer bulged. Now acceptable, I was free to shop. I walked on towards the jewelry department.

Enroute to the jewels, one passes through Men’s Wear. I filtered through the cheap shirt rack, then the expensive one. “Sir, please refrain from touching the shirts with unwashed hands,” the voice shouted. A small Jewish man, perhaps schooled in the Torah, rushed over to me and jerked the shirt from my unwashed hands. “We have a policy, ‘Look, Don’t Touch.’” Who was I to argue with policy? I moved on.

It’s helpful to know store protocol. As one moves around, it’s easy to notice the “boundary” lines separating each department. Plush, colorful carpet and floral rugs demarcate the departments, and clerks are apparently confined to their particular boundaries. But as soon as one crosses from the marble walkways onto their turf, they’re fair game for a vicious sales experience. Moving from the carpet, it ends. It helps to know these things for self-protection.

I moved on, once stopping and spraying myself with Prada L’Eau de Toilette at $165 per oz. “Stop that waste,” a shrill voice screamed. I fled into the Fab-Finds department, where my hands found an Heirloom Bible, the “family treasure” it said, with a crass brass cross and Czech crystals, a mere $250. No wonder Gideon at $5.95 has the motel franchises.

In the handbag department Gucci and Prada competed for attention in the shadow of Chanel. No one was winning. If the Chanel “street-tote” bag at $1,995 was an example of the costs, I knew why there were no customers. Neither was I. But the Judith Leber “evening-out art” handbags of Austrian crystals and colorful designs of Camels and Elephants were exquisite. Cost, $5,995. What shmuck would buy that for his wife? I moved on.

The basement held many treasures, one particularly interesting…a crystal Buddha, sitting, smiling. At $600, he was laughing at the dumb Schmoe looking at him. Wait, that’s me! I retreated.

It went on and on, this madness of merchandise and contagion of costs. It made one wonder just what percentage of the take Santa had made with these merchants. Had the world gone mad? Was there no recession?

With only three shadows now following me, I finally made it to the jewelry department, which was guarded by a squad of Uzi-toting goons. I refused to cross onto their turf, thinking maybe I’d stroll on down to the cheap knockoff shop in the mall.

As I passed The Blue Corset Company, a crowd of men in serious need of facial makeovers drooled at the changing of the manikins. I could only imagine what these men wished for in their letters to Santa. I knew what mine said!

Bud Hearn
December 10, 2009

Thursday, December 3, 2009

Standing By Your Man

Stand by your man, give him two arms to cling to and something warm to come to when nights are cold and lonely…” Tammy Wynette

Lying among the glass shards on the floor of the Cadillac Escalade was a book entitled, “Get a Grip On Physics.” Apparently the two arms that once held her man had a pretty firm grip on what appeared to be a # 8 iron. And physics, being what it is, took over from there, as the car careened through a neighbor’s yard, violating the neighbor’s bushes and hedges, destroying a fire hydrant and coming to its final rest against a tree.

She sprinted through the rough, finding her man sprawled in the bushes, bleeding, moaning and complaining of the “double-cross” shot. Whereupon, as yet unreported by the media, the woman got proper “alignment” and teed off anew, apparently mistaking the man’s head for the women’s tee. Of course, it was 2:00 AM, and the woman, a blonde, had a very high handicap and was inexperienced in the “bare lie” shot, her husband’s favorite. Therefore, she took several mulligans as she made her way through the “hazards” to the green.

What green could she have possibly been heading to at this hour? Why, the green of the $90 million annual endorsements being received by her man from corporate sponsors of golfer gods. And the man was such a god.

Skilled in foursome play, the golfer god specialized in the knock-down shot, using an open face driver for proper alignment to keep the ball in play and from out of bounds. Some complained he had been offered too many “gimmes” that accounted for so many Aces on (and off) the course. Pure speculation.

But what is not now speculation is the aftermath of settling these late-night golf scores. Of course, the only right and proper course is to take a man’s age-old excuse of denial, denial, denial of all Cupidity (oops, culpability)…except for the cell texts that made air shots out of the stroke. What’s left? Why, confessing to the overused excuse of “transgressions.” (A new golf term?) With that he joins a long list of other gods of sports, politics and celebrity status captured in similar situations.

The drama continues to unfold, distracting our attention from Congress…some blame Obama for the distraction…follow the money!

At our dinner table last night, the short fellow from Georgia Tech blurted out that it was the woman’s fault….claimed the wife was not “meeting his needs.” The table fell silent. Before the subject could be changed, his wife, a demure lady, grabbed him by the neck and shouted, “If I’d heard such a comment from your lips earlier in life, you’d have been childless forever!” The entire restaurant fell silent at that outburst. Dinner went downhill from there. The Tech man shrank into his chair, sorta like the whole Tech campus did after last Saturday’s game.

But who is to blame for this “transgression,’” this tainting of a public icon? Not the god himself, for he came out swinging his club, claiming “private sins need no public confession.” While it has been reported only in hushed whispers, Nike has disavowed the backspin liability by claiming its logo, “Just Do It, ” was misinterpreted.

PepsiCo, another sponsor, may have contributed with corporate slogans, like: “Why You Doggin’ Me?, Drink Pepsi, Get Stuff” and “Gotta Have More.” Or take the Gatorade Tiger, which boasts “Sport is what you make it.” No one recalls which the golfer god was muttering when he was found, although one witness said he did hear something about a “bump and run shot.” He refused further commentary.

The whole sorry mess will probably never be solved, and voyeuristic golfing idolaters will debate the issue ad nauseam. I would only offer up a simple definition of one of a golfer’s bag of tricks (excuse me, “sticks”), the venerable wood driver: “A type of club where the head is generally bulbous in shape—so named because the head was usually made of wood.”

Maybe Tammy was married to a golfer once, and sums it up best in these words: “Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman, giving all your love to just one man. You’ll have bad times, he’ll have good times, doing things that you don’t understand…stand by your man.”

May I leave you with this thought? Be careful of the god you stand by and be sure HE does not have feet of clay. But what do I know? I don’t even play golf!

Bud Hearn
December 3, 2009