On the Habits of Mules

We sat in oak rockers on his back porch and watched the August sun descend into the haze. A South Georgia sunset, along with a cold, long-neck beer, helps one’s perspective. So does the smell of fried chicken.

His name is Billy Parks, but folks call him B.P. He’s a South Georgia cowboy who looked like he had walked out of a Ralph Lauren catalog…lean, square jawed, faded Levi’s, a sweaty Stetson, silver belt buckle, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows and dusty lizard skin cowboy boots. He’s amiable, slow to anger unless you cross him. He lifts 50 pound grain sacks in each hand and can rope a cow blindfolded. He’s a good friend.

We sat and sipped, whining about the economy and cursing all evil bankers. It’s good to have someone else to blame. We soon moved on to religion and reached no consensus with this topic. The conversation drifted to politics and politicians. We opened another beer and beat this political mule lifeless, ending up where we started ~~ frustrated.

“You wanna see my mules?” he said. “Do I have to?” I answered. “Aw, c’mon,” he said. I relented, remembering my great-grandfather had once farmed 11,000 acres with mules a century ago. “I always wondered about the habits of mules,” I said. “Good critters, if you train ‘em right and beat ‘em a little,” he said. “Aren’t we all?” I responded.

He continued, “Mules are a cross between a male donkey and a female horse, ya know. Male donkeys are called jacks, in case you’re wondering where the term ‘jackass’ comes from.” I admitted to wondering about this in moments of extreme boredom. He smiled and said, “Ok, Ok, I know whatcha thinking…who knows why the attraction, but these things happen.” I asked, “What if you crossed a banker with a preacher, would you get a teller-vangelist? Or maybe a politician and a nun ---a preying menace?” He looked me in the eye and said, “Man, you just ain’t right.” We laughed.

“First, all male mules are infertile. This is a good thing, because they don’t have wandering eyes.” I knew what he meant…wandering eyes are trouble. “Plus, they’re less obstinate and more intelligent than their donkey fathers,” he said. “They have a family trait of ending their conversations with a hee-haw,” he added. “Good thing they’re infertile…no female would put up with such snorts,” I said.

We leaned on the corral fence and spit, just like in the movies. Two disinterested mules stared back at us. “Biggest problem ya have is poor training when they’re young,” he said. “Molly there, she was bad to kick when I got her,” he said. “Thing about it is she can kick in any direction, even sideways.” Yeah, I thought…I’ve heard of females with this bad habit! “Mules are more intelligent than their parent species,” he said. “Why Betsy there, she understands what I’m thinking” he boasted. “That’s nothing,” I said. “My wife always knows what I’m thinking. Men are easy to read, they’re only interested in two or three things.”

“This might be a dumb question,” I said, “but why are blinders used to shade a mule’s eyes?” He shook his head, saying, “Son, didya fall off the turnip truck? You’ve been off the farm too long. Look, do you know what mischief a 1,000 pound stubborn mule can get into if he ain’t focused? You gotta keep his eyes on his business. Good lesson for us all, huh?” Hey, who could deny that?

We walked back to the house in the twilight for some fried chicken and another round. Apparently, looking at mules makes one hungry and thirsty. He said, “Ya know, you got me to thinkin’. Why would any political party choose a jackass as a mascot?” A sly grin formed on his lips as he spit the last of his Skoal into the dust. “Well, I get your drift. It might explain a lot of things, huh?” I said.

I left after dinner, but not before leaving this cowboy with something to ponder. From my car I shouted,”Hey, B.P., speaking of mascots, what if you mated a donkey with an elephant? What political party would you get?” I heard him laughing for a mile down the road!

Nothing like mules and a quiet afternoon on the farm to get one to thinking. Gee, Haw!

Bud Hearn
August 26, 2010

Smiles

“He’s a man out there in the blue, riding on a smile and a shoeshine. And when they start not smiling back—that’s an earthquake…and you’re finished.”
Arthur Miller, Death of a Salesman

SoHo, in lower Manhattan, is home to some strange places. The Ear is a favorite of ours. Its official name is The Bar, but part of the blue neon sign has flamed out, rendering it The Ear. A small thing, but everyone knows it this way.

In Atlanta recently I walked into the One Star BBQ, a dark, squatty dive. Once known as the Lone Star BBQ, but a burned-out neon “L” converted it to One Star BBQ. Also a small thing, but everyone knows it this way.

Amber opened the door, flashing a radiant smile. She’d been around the block and knew how to ride on a “from-the-heart” smile. You’ll know it when you see it. “Welcome, glad to see you, come in,” she said. Her smile practically oozed sincerity.

The diner got busy and Helen picked up the slack. Poor Helen. Either she had bad teeth or had not learned the tip value of a big, honest grin. She did her best “obligatory” smile that said, “I’ll tolerate you.” The tip was small.

That week I began characterizing the smiles I met. You’d be amazed at their variety. Smiles are small things but speak volumes. Here are some results of my observations.

There’s the “predatory” smile, more of a sneer than a smile. The top lip scrunches up under the nose and the corner of one side of the mouth turns up. Think Elvis here. It’s one of those “I’ve-got-something-up-my-sleeve” smiles. Beware.

My friend Justine has an “engaging” smile. It makes one feel welcome, saying, “Sit down, kick back, what’s happening?” She’ll have all your secrets and your money before you leave.

I’ll call this one the “indifferent” smile. I fought it off at the 7-11 store when purchasing a paper. Smiley-man’s lips barely parted. I knew right away he’s not only having a bad day but also a bad life. Horrors. I fled.

There’s the “crocodile” smile, most often found at parties. People with a big smile and lots of teeth say in proper decorum, “Oh, and how are you?” Then they proceed to chew you up. Vicious people.

What about the “dismissive” smile? It’s often discovered in the brief chance meetings of life, like in crammed elevators. OK, so you did squeeze in and violate his/her precious space. With pursed lips they give you a roll of the eyes and a tilt of the head. It says, “Take the freight elevator next time, buster.” The gift of flatulence upon departure is an appropriate antidote for such people.

There are “furtive” smiles, those met in hallways and on sidewalks. They want to say “Hello” but fear the consequences. They glance your way, quickly flash a toothless grin and hurriedly pass by. You wonder why they go to the trouble. You walk on, smiling to yourself.

There’s the “insolent or smarmy” smile. It’s found upon the lips of people who actually hate you. It’s a smile apparently taught in government training programs and used by many politicians and arrogant waiters in faux French bistros. It says, “I’m paid to help, but if I had a gun, I’d shoot you.” It’s best to wash your hands immediately. And later also your clothes!

I list others hoping not to overlook yours…innocent, beguiling, disarming, tentative, predatory, reluctant, manipulative, interrogatory and plenty of plain ole goofy smiles. Add your own.

Edith Wharton once said a smile was an “image without substance.” Perhaps some are. My son has a huge smile. I told him that it’d open a lot of doors, but if he had no substance they’d slam in his face. Insincerity is hard to hide!

Observing smiles is fun. Try it. I think you’ll agree…we get back what we give. Smiles are free and contagious.

Like The Ear and the One Star BBQ, everyone knows us in a way. The smile, albeit small, is a dead give-away. Willy Loman, the Salesman, rode on a smile but later flamed out. How far will our smiles take us? I wonder.

It’s something to think about.

Bud Hearn
August 19, 2010

The Stories

“In the end all we have are the stories.” Burt Reynolds in “Burn Notice”

He is a legendary CIA spy, a black ops bad-ass. He tells spell-binding stories… gripping tales of subversion, political assassinations, banana republic coup d’etats, infiltrations of drug cartels, sultry women of intrigue and double-crossing friends. But that was then, this is now. Today he's just some washed-up flotsam lying on a vast and unfamiliar shore.

Blame the Witness Protection Agency. It erases the past, makes all things new ~ names, jobs, residences. But new lives have no old stories. So he sits, bored and irrelevant, in a tiny, dark apartment in a non-descript city of nowhere, yearning for the excitement of the "old days." Ah, yes, he thinks, those quixotic days when guns spoke first, no questions asked. He’s no longer important, things have changed. Of course this is only a chimera, a fictional Hollywood character portrayed by Burt Reynolds in the series "Burn Notice." Yet it conveys a less-than-subtle message to a declining generation of over- achievers.

One day last week my cell phone vibrated, displaying the name of a long-forgotten old friend, literally and figuratively. He called to inquire of my health and whereabouts. His voice was changed, a quiver in it. What did life do to him? I wondered. I soon found out.

You know how these conversations go. First are the entry-level questions, "How are you?" You respond, and also ask. Then comes, "And the family? The kids?" You answer and try to remember enough details to ask likewise. Health Issues invariably come up next. Hips, knees and spines dominate the dialogue. Now it’s time for The People Reunion. “Did you hear about…?” and, “Whatever happened to…?” and, “How’d he die?” The “people part” provokes laughter, shock and compassion as we cuss, discuss and lay to rest those we once knew.

It always gets around to, “Are you still working or retired?” We bemoan the economic conditions and beat that dead mule till the old comfort level returns. We laugh. The call gets easier and more comfortable. We drop our guard.

Then the inevitable happens ~ the Remember-When stories begin. It's important to recall that with age and distance exploits take on a life and hyperbole of their own. We fill in the forgotten details like we want to remember them. Who’s to question this? We dredge up things like, "Remember that New Orleans’ deal when...?" and, "How about that night in the airport when ….?" or, "Remember tricking Phil with the ice pick caper…?" By now we’re on a roll, really laughing, totally losing ourselves in reliving these old stories.

Our best episodes come from shared memories, not those made in the vacuum of our singularity. Our paths converge, often merge, soon morph and then move apart. It's life, and from this rich compost pile of memories we mine the details and fodder for our narratives. No wonder they get better with age! They give character to our lives, meaning to the past and affirm a life lived large.

We knew when the call was over. Spaces of silence, forced laughter and make-talk confirmed it. It ends like they all do with, "Hey, let's have lunch or a beer. Call when you're in town." With an indeterminate date, though well-intended, it’ll never happen. Life works this way...the past is just a bucket of ashes. We can exhume our adventures, but they’re only a lifeless heap of dry and dusty bones. It's best to leave them buried. Perhaps it’s not a lot to show for years of friendship, but maybe it's enough.

The segment of "Burn Notice" ended with Reynold's character attempting to resurrect his past. Impossible, for it had been obliterated. His litany of "… all that's left are the stories," is all that remains for him. He needed the convergence of a new path with new friendships.

The phone call to me remains a subtle reminder of the past. It was still a good call, even if all that remains from it are the stories.


Bud Hearn
August 12, 2010

Behind the Scenes

“Dirty little secrets, dirty little lies...we love to cut you down to size, we love dirty laundry.” The Eagles

Who’s satisfied with just the news? We want more…to know the inside scoop, to voyeur into the world of dirty laundry, to visit ground zero after the bomb has exploded. Let’s look behind the scene, starring into the arcane world of the Crime Report, published daily in the local paper.

A man reported the theft of his lawnmower. What low-rent, no-good scalawag type would do this? I was curious and inquired in the neighborhood. It was a strange place where doors were closed, shades drawn and where an occasional eyeball appeared in a dark window. Strangers weren’t welcome here. I spotted a fellow who reeked of bad liquor and asked if he knew anything about the missing lawnmower. “Shore do, man, we all know,” he said, slurring his words. “See that there house?” He pointed to a ramshackle dump on the edge of a drainage ditch, a red rocking chair sitting on the front porch. “Leroy took the engine off that mower and made hisself a motorized rocker. He’ll be rockin’ and drinkin’ pretty soon now.” Case solved.

An extremely odd report stated that someone had stolen the tailgate from a man’s pickup. What low-down scum would do that, I wondered. I needed an answer. It took some doing, but the truth finally came to light. You see, in the country there are few secrets but lots of dirty laundry. Everybody loves to talk, but the trick is to separate fact from fiction. Here’s what I discovered.

It seems Clyde was taking his family down to the Sonic Burger for supper. His mother-in-law was too big to fit in the cab with the rest of ‘em, so he put her in the back in a plastic lawn-chair from Wal-Mart. Along the way he dodged some raccoons crossing the road. The truck careened wildly out of control. Having no tailgate, his mother-in-law was catapulted out onto the asphalt. It was an ugly scene. He couldn’t risk that again, so later that night he swiped the tailgate from Joe Tom’s pickup while he was playing cards down at the AMVETS Lodge.

Check out this bizarre headline, “Man Pulls Hose on Ex-Girlfriend.” The report stated that the man yelled for the woman to come outside her home. She refused. So the man disconnected the battery cables and stole a water hose from the engine. A few days later I found this man and interviewed him. It’s a sad tale of an unrequited love affair.

“Why’d you do this?” I asked. “Well, ’caus she done tricked my ass for the last time,” he said.

“How did she do that?” I asked. “Ya know,” he said, “she kept coming ‘round the body shop and crying that she didn’t have no money and her car was broke. So I fixed it for her for free. She promised to be my girlfriend, and if I’d come over to her house she’d pay me. I said, but you told me you was broke.” He flashed a toothless grin, saying, “She told me there was other ways to pay for things. You know what I mean?” I got the picture.

He justified the act by saying, “So, all I done was to take that hose that was mine anyhow. Shoot, it cost twenty-five dollars and that’s a night’s worth of beer and smokes. You wanna see the hose?” I said, “No. I’ll take your word for it.” What a life I thought, a parallel universe. I left him holding his hose. Right then I concluded that vengeance is a poor substitute for love gone bad. I vowed to never make that mistake!

Then there was a restaurant owner who reported seeing a man take a red rocking chair from his front porch and drive away. So far neither the man nor the rocking chair has been found. However, some of the neighbors at the Tall Pines Subdivision reported that a fellow had just invented a red self-rocker using a lawnmower motor.

It all clicked with me. As I headed there to make a citizen’s arrest, I wondered if there was a reward for both the rocker and the motor. Heck, I might just be off on another career path!

Is there anything going on behind the scenes at your place? We’d all like to know.


Bud Hearn
August 5, 2010