Defining Moments

“One can resist the invasion of an army but not the invasion of ideas.” Victor Hugo

This year, 2011, is long in the tooth. It’s on life support. The ring-in-the-new-year crowd is queuing up its cortege. Fireworks and debauchery will accompany its demise. The wizened Father Time will deliver the eulogy. Inebriated chorales will sing incoherently the traditional requiem of Auld Lang Syne.

How will 2011 be boxed-up and laid to rest in the Elysian Fields of History?

The Sunday NY Times did a credible job of embalming with a variety of photographs. Everywhere disaster and discontent seem to rule…wildfires, floods, blizzards, bombs, earthquakes, tsunamis, Ponzi schemes, revolutions, unrest, foreclosures and general malaise worldwide. Muslim prayer rugs are hot sales items. Religious nutcases predict The End. We wring our hands and gnash our teeth in anguish. And worst, there have been no sightings of Elvis!

What causes dreadful events? Answers are elusive, except to those living on the Georgia coast. Change happens. Every day the tide of change washes worthless flotsam ashore. Winds blow, dunes appear, soon vanish. Sandbars accrete, then attrite. Nature marches relentlessly forward, flying its flag of change.

Some blame the recurring chaos on a reclusive crackpot, a self-anointed Prophet of Global Warming and Inventor of the Internet. The algorithms of the Apostles of Gore have attraction, but hey, the repeal of Prohibition and the implosion of the Republican Party could as easily contribute.

Today I’m tired of playing with my Christmas toys and have already worn the pair of socks Santa stuffed in my stocking. In a chocolate-induced stupor, my mind forms a plan on how to identify a personal ‘defining moment.’ I find it best represented by a picture of my red walking cane leaning against the white Chevy pickup. It speaks volumes.

In the ‘old days’ country boys leaned on pickups, chewed Redman tobacco and swapped lies about fishin’, football, women and male bravado. Today only my cane leans there. Social gatherings with finger food and sips of wine are the new pickup trucks where emasculated men now swap boring minutiae about joint replacements, age, aches and angst. No one listens, or cares!

Last week a friend made front page news. I think it was her defining moment. The subtitle was “Hovering as a Tradition.” It read, “Every year she hovers in self-denial over a hot stove and oven in a grease-spattered red apron, sweating profusely, while preparing a feast for her family.” It even included the squash casserole recipe. A martyr among us! Defining moments often lurk between the lines of newsprint and in casseroles.

When I walk the dogs on the beach I sometimes take the cane. Only for effect, mind you. The doctors say it makes me look “dapper.” I rebel, thinking of Fred Astaire. But it does seem to have appeal. Unfortunately, the impression the cane casts is not macho. Time changes everything!

A couple of summers ago an insidious shrub invaded the beaches. It dies each fall and sheds its hideous barbs. Millions of sandspurs lie scattered like tiny landmines. We wring our hands and lament. Some say, “An Enemy hath sown these tares.”

Finally, The Author of all change hears our pleas and sends two tiny tsunamis to rid the menace. The shrubs succumb to the salt and die. But look..…in their place yellow flowers blossom in profusion. The tides of change sweep away the Malevolent and replace it with Beauty. Isn’t that marvelous?

We fear change. It causes angst. The ‘what-if’s’ crawl out of their holes and creep in to our psyche. We’re baffled. We throw up our hands, overwhelmed. We forget that change is inherent in Nature. New fruit always grows on new branches.

Look closely at the pictures of the desiccated thorn bush and its replacement, the flowering shrub. See the shadow? It’s the outline of the dread Omniscience that hovers over all events.

Maybe these pictures present another perspective in summarizing the events of 2011, even as we look forward with hope to 2012.

Happy New Year.

Bud Hearn
December 29, 2011

Trusting in Stars

“…and, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young child was.” Matthew 2:9


Over 2000 years ago some wise men from the east came to Jerusalem. They inquired, “Where is he that is born King of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.” So reads the second chapter of St. Matthew.

Herod was King then. He summoned these wise men to his palace to interrogate them about the star. A summons by him was not necessarily for a banquet. Word is he had gallows installed next to his throne for entertainment value. The story ends after these wise men follow the star to Jesus and depart to their homeland by the back door.

I walked into Ronne’s, a village gift shop, looking for a Christmas present. On a rack by the door small towels with epigrams and witticisms hung limply. One in particular caught my eye. It read, “Three wise men? Really?” Obviously someone of the gentler gender conjured up this wisecrack.

The Greek word for “wise men” is magoi. It’s derived from a Persian word for “men expert in the study of the stars.” (Ladies, I’m sorry, but there’s no mention of wise-women star experts.) The word is transliterated into the English word ‘magi, which means ‘a sorcerer.’ Its proximity to the word magic or magician is too close for comfort.

Yet we read that they followed a star to find Jesus. Can your imagination reach into the heavens? Then imagine an American President summoning some star-gazers to the White House to inquire where jobs can be found, or where all the money went? Oops, I recall that Nancy Reagan was a star-gazer. She found direction in astrological signs. Which might tend to support the idea of ‘wise men.’ Just saying…..

Stars cruise the heavens, shining like gold clusters. They create recognizable patterns called constellations. They’re named after their apparent forms or identified with mythological figures. In the black sky they change location but have provided guidance systems for centuries. Even Columbus used celestial navigation.

I have a friend in Atlanta who once lived in a high rise condo. He had a telescope and an intense interest in stars. Unfortunately, bright city lights blocked out most of the stars. Undeterred, he took to studying other heavenly bodies in the windows of neighboring condo towers. His study of celestial shapes came to an abrupt conclusion one evening by a knock on his door. It remains a low point in his study of stars.

We no longer need to circumnavigate the globe by dead reckoning or by celestial navigation. Airline pilots and mariners have faith in its accuracy. We’ve made our own stars, called satellites. They’re easily seen as the brightest lights in the nighttime sky. GPS is the star that now leads us to destinations.

Stars are ubiquitous. Hollywood, Nashville, New York, Washington, South Beach. Movie stars, music stars, rock stars, rising political stars, financial stars…you-name-it. We follow these stars to their places and worship them. We often follow them to their funerals. They shine briefly like beacons, then dim and finally fade into the blackness of night like burned-out supernovas.

Today’s WSJ had a picture of Kim Jong Il resting comfortably in a glass-entombed crypt. Behind him an armed guard stood beside the North Korean flag. The flag’s symbol? Why, a star, of course.

Former Chairman Mao Zedong lies in state in a similar glass crypt in Beijing. His lifeless corpse is transported to Moscow annually for re-cosmeticization. He never ages, but gets younger. In the room with him is also a flag. Its symbol? Why, a star, of course. He won’t rise. China may.

Today it would be lunacy to admit to anyone that we anticipate following a moving star to some undisclosed destination. Although many believe that their star leads them to the proverbial pot of gold promised by the Lottery. Some of these people are Dawg fans.

But let’s return to the Sages of Scripture. They had faith. They trusted a star. It led them to Jesus. Upon what or who is our faith centered in this period of history? Which stars are we following?

At night I sit looking at the lights and stars on our Christmas tree. An angel is perched on top. I join with the magi, as Scripture says: “When they saw the star they rejoiced with exceedingly great joy.”

Do stars still guide us to places where significant happenings are being born? I ponder this question, yet I already know….Jesus is just not that hard to find!


Merry Christmas

Bud Hearn
December 23, 2011

The Shopper

It’s 3:00 on Christmas Eve. He sits alone at his desk. The empty office echoes.
The holiday cheer evaporates. The scent of wine lingers longer.
Everyone’s gone. The hum of his computer is the only sound he hears.
He looks at his shopping list, a white sheet filled with names.
So many names, no gifts. He taps it with his pen, chews his nails.

His watch reads 3:05. No more procrastination. Time to shop.
He gets up, grabs his coat, keys and walks briskly to the parking garage.
He remembers Christmases past. Always the same, last-minute shopping.
He heads to the mall, confident in his quest. The roads are clogged.
He sees the mall. It mocks him. It closes at 6:00. Traffic is a Gordian knot.

No vehicle moves. Damn it, he utters, blows his horn. The clock ticks 3:18.
He fidgets, curses. He pounds the steering wheel, sweat wets his collar.
One lane moves, not his. Cars cruise by. Drivers yack on cells, celebrating.
He inches into the flow. A grandmother pays the price. She wrecks.
He arrives at the mall to an empty lot. He wonders what’s going on. It’s 3:27.

He jogs in, no time to spare. Men roam clueless in the mall.
He checks his list, plans his route. Bare shelves greet him in Brookstone.
He searches Macy’s. Not much. Moves to Brooks Bros. Nothing.
Neimans…over-priced and picked over. He stops at Starbucks.
A coffee. The clerk moves like molasses. He paces, tick, tick, tick.

Saks is his savior, he smiles smugly. He saunters in, thinks of his wife.
Clerks lounge, yawn, lethargic. They shun him. He despises them.
He inspects the shoes, Jimmy Choo, then Monolo. He’s shocked.
The prices stab him, surpass his comprehension. He moves to cosmetics.
He dawdles with perfume testers. The air smells sweet. He makes no choice.

He moves to the handbag section. Three men linger there.
Choices are few. One Bottega Veneta. All want it.
Words erupt. Someone is shoved. Elbows fly, two men grapple on the floor.
He reaches for the bag. Too slow. A fist finds his face. The bag vanishes.
He shakes it off, looks at his list. Half complete. Tick, tick, tick. 4:29.

Time’s tick taunts him. He rushes into the corridor. Shops close early.
He checks out DeBeers. Their door slams shut. He gets lucky at J. Crew.
He leaves, passes Victoria Secret. A mob of men gather. They gawk.
The staff changes the manikins. The men point, discuss, drool, dream.
He knows their Santa list. Disappointment will fill their stockings.

His watch frightens him, 4:58. Time stalks him relentlessly. He becomes manic.
He shops the tawdry kiosks, grabs the garish junk, satisfied with the scraps.
He’s a pinball, bouncing shop to shop, running wildly down the corridors.
His cell rings. His wife calls. A party? Our home? 6:30? He emits an expletive.
He looks at his watch, 5:24. Doors are closing fast. No gift for his wife.

He is a feral savage, delirious. His bags bulge, his wallet wilts.
He’s punished by time, assaulted by the constant tick, tick, tick. 5:48.
Shops are closed. In the distance a dim light shines. Maybe, he hopes.
He remembers the toaster, the blender, the picture frame he gave her.
She cried. His children mocked him. She abandoned the kitchen forever.

He bursts into the store, grabs the clerk, shakes him violently.
My wife, my wife, what have you got for my wife? He’s hysterical now.
The best you have for her. What is it, man, what is it? Price no object.
The clerk recovers, shows him a shiny see-through model, the latest rave.
I’ll take it, I’ll take it. What is it? Why, sir, it’s an Oreck vacuum. The best.

Yes, he shouts, at last, at last. He’s ecstatic. It’s 6:05. He’s done.
He sprints to the exit. The doors are bolted shut. He’s trapped.
He rages, shakes them uncontrollably. Alarms sound. Security subdues him.
He pleads his dilemma. They release him, kick him out. Tick, tick, tick. 6:15.
He finds his car, drives madly, weaving wildly, a lunatic at the wheel.

He arrives home. His pulse pounds. He’s disheveled. His necktie is a noose.
He races in, kisses his wife, dumps his bags. His watch tortures him. 6:26.
She’s calm, smiles, says Merry Christmas, reminds him guests are arriving.
She sees his panic, pours him eggnog. Says to calm down, relax.
Don’t buy me a present this year, she says.

He’s stunned and confused, asks her why. She grins, points to the garage.
I saved you the trouble she says. I bought my own with your Visa. Go see.
He does. In the garage is a shiny new black Mercedes Benz convertible.
He stares in stark horror. Terror stalks him.
The doorbell rings. Guests arrive. The clock chimes 6:30. He faints.

Merry Christmas!

Bud Hearn
December 15, 2011

Black Holes and Other Euphemistic Sidesteps

Definition of Euphemism: A figure of speech in which the severe asperity of truth is mitigated by the use of a softer expression than the facts would warrant…a verbal evasion. The Devil’s Dictionary

The Associated Press article read: “Scientists find monster black holes, biggest yet.” Each is 10 billion times the size of our sun. Black holes are so dense that nothing, not even light, can escape being drawn into the black abyss of their vortex. They continue to grow considerably since their formation.

We know about black holes. Some people are human vortexes of negative energy, dense, drawing the life out of everything and everybody in their orbit. But more about black holes later.

I have a friend. He’s a black hole. Still a friend. I tend to shy away from him (avoid at all costs). He’s a little over the edge (totally degenerate), but he’s rich compost (good material) for a story.

It happened just this way. The phone rings, the caller ID flashes his name. I know better, but answer anyway. Mistake.

He shouts, “Hey, you got any loose change (available cash)?” I answer, “Maybe, why?”

He says, “I’m tight for cash (he’s broke), and today she hit me up for a ton (blackmail).” I ask, “Which ‘she’ is it this time? You been slippin’ around again (committing adultery)?”

“It isn’t like that. I only wanted to help her. She’s a very sweet girl (a 1 on a 10 scale) and down on her luck (fired from Waffle House). Besides, it was in a weak moment (I was drunk). I think I stole more chain than I can swim with (she’s young). Sometimes my tongue overrides my good judgment” (a Shakespearean aphorism seems appropriate: “When the blood burns how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows.”). My laugh is audible.

“Have you ‘fessed up (begged, groveled) for forgiveness from your wife?” I ask. “Are you nuts (insane)? I’ve already told her I quit foolin’ around (chasing skirts).”

I reply, “OK” (a catch-all acronym, meaning everything, and nothing). “What happened to all that money you squirreled away (invested). Tap into that (cash in). After all, it was a huge stash (big inheritance).”

“Long Story. A wealth manager (parasite) from GF Global hounded me. A real nice guy (a verbal flimflammer) over the phone. He had a hot tip (a scam) on gold futures. So, I leveraged the money. There was an equity retreat (a run on the bank) and he blamed the Euro for the problem (a margin call). It’s not my fault. They cooked the books on me (stole the money).”

“Well, how about all your real estate?” I ask.

“Bad news there. We’re in a period of deleveraging (a depression) and the market is just correcting itself (being sucked into the black hole). I had to monetize my assets (borrow heavily) and now the bank’s no longer inviting me to lunch (the loans have come due).” I heave a heavy sigh in sympathy.

I change the subject to health (artful dodge). I tell him I was recently diagnosed by five physicians and one voodoo doctor. They all agreed I suffer from supratentorial almondcashopathy (almonds and cashews). In other words, I’m a ‘nut case.’ He utters an obligatory grunt.

“How’s your mama these days,” I ask. “One foot in (comatose),” he says. “I’m afraid soon she’ll be pushing up daisies” (die, but the French apercu fits the best: manger les pissenlitspar la racin, literally translated, “eating dandelions by the root”).”

“Sorry to hear that (empty sympathy),” I say. “And the kids?”

“Well, except for school. They stay in hot water (failing grades), but it’ll all work out (state of denial). Forget them (it’s all about me). What about my money problem (shakedown)?”

“How much do you need to get out of hot water (bail you out)?” I ask.

“I’m really under budget constraints (tapped out). Can you spare $50 G’s (a New Jersey Mafia term)?” For that kind of money, I’m thinking she must have been a real sweet girl.

I can see this call is circling his black hole, so I tell him another call’s coming in (a lie). “I’ll have to get back to you (a coward’s escape).” I hang up. I never worry, he’ll call back.

Now about those black holes the scientists have discovered. Oh, did I forget to say where their telescopes were aimed? Why, at the black-hole galaxy named Congress.

Bud Hearn
December 8, 2011

Had it made. Until that day…..

I write this, fresh from having Thanksgiving in my small home town with assorted kin whose unabated appetites have added to their ample girths.

Ah, the small towns of youth…freedom and innocence! We had it made. Until….

My wife and I shared a small room in the local Inn, a quaint Victorian retro, and a bed somewhat smaller than the front seat of my car. Country boys are familiar with car seats, especially back seats. But lo, after 45 years of marriage, well, you know, a good night’s sleep is preferable.

The town gets ghostly quiet at night. What’s there to do but sleep? After a quantity of barbiturates sufficient to sedate an elephant, we finally doze off. Until the sirens wail. Every night they whine. Grief, groans and lamentations follow them, along with a caravan of teenagers, curious for some ‘action.’ We bolt up in bed, take the Lord’s name in vain. It’s Dante’s third circle of Hell.

Sirens bring back youthful memories. They signaled something was happening. Nothing much happens in small towns, except at night. Teenage boredom is a terrible thing to waste. So we’d follow the sirens to fires and the hospital emergency room. Mayhem and blood excites teenagers.

Little has changed in my home town. The old stores are still there, occupied by others. My uncle, Ben Hill, had a haberdashery (a museum, really) on the corner of the square. It bulged with post-Civil War clothing, purchased from an itinerate goy from the Garment District, a fellow named M. Lipmann. It was a sordid tale of greed and sullied our family reputation for good business.

Uncle Hill lived next door. His wife was from somewhere near Milledgeville. She had a nephew named Baldwin who visited them. Now, who would name anybody Baldwin? Junior, Runt or Shorty, yes. But Baldwin? He had freckles, red hair and sweated profusely. Girls fled in disgust. Plus, he was full of mischief. I had gold stars for perfect Sunday School attendance, until he led me astray.

We climbed trees and dropped chinaberry bombs on cars. He promised we wouldn’t be caught. Beware of promises from kids named Baldwin from near Milledgeville. My father’s belt often had its pleasure with us in those days.

Uncle Hill had a cane patch in his back yard a little smaller than a football field. We made it into a fort. We had it made, until Baldwin stole his aunt’s cigarettes. Winstons, I recall. Once we each put a whole pack of cigarettes in our mouths and lit up. Smoke billowed, the sedge field next door caught fire, my brother told my mother, and soon the sirens wailed. And so did we when my daddy got home.

My brother was no saint either. Daddy had bought a new Chevy convertible. It was his idol. One day we crawled on top of it. Convertible tops don’t support stupid boys. It ripped apart and we reaped the whirlwind of daddy’s wrath.

The Brunswick paper reported the saga of a fellow who had it made.., until the Sheriff served him divorce papers. He went berserk and holed up in his house with an arsenal. The local SWAT team converged, an army somewhat smaller than Napoleon’s Russian contingent. The last action they had was the biscuit fight at the station which resulted in some ugly name calling.

Unconfirmed reports say his wife sued for divorce because of his nasty habit of leaving his tobacco-stained dentures in the refrigerator and the lid up. He was lit up by a taser and hauled off in a strait jacket for mental evaluation. The SWAT team retreated to clean up their biscuit mess.

My little town didn’t have a SWAT team. When times got slow we’d shoot rats at the city dump, or sneak into the city jail and taunt the drunks while the jailer slept. We were convinced that the jailer fed the inmates rat stew. Small boys can often be confused.

We did have one divorcee in town. Hushed whispers had it ‘another woman’ was involved. Small boys can be mistaken on certain kinds of details. But having matured, and made a study of politics, it now seems highly likely that might have been the case.

Bob’s liquor store, tattoo parlor and pool room were closed for Thanksgiving. The evils of gambling and alcohol were hotly debated at the local Baptist church. The Methodists quietly assented but secretly imbibed. No such debate raged at the AmVets Club, which was always open, if you knew the secret code. We did. We had it made.

You know, a wink and a nod from the local constable, and things worked smoothly.

Yes, we had it made. Until that day when we grew up!

Bud Hearn
December 1, 2011