Three Simple Notes

On Monday in Neptune Park the masses huddled in one accord in the day’s declining light.

Under a brilliant blue sky the sun’s last dazzling rays of the day refracted from the dappled gun-metal grey waters of the Atlantic. With this backdrop, and like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, four Marines stood ramrod straight, holding side-by-side two enduring symbols of America: The Stars and Stripes Flag and the blood-red Marine banner.

The occasion was “Taps at Twilight,” an island tradition held every Memorial Day in remembrance of and in recognition of Veterans of military service, living and dead. Each branch of the military was recognized by the playing of its marching music and the standing recognition of the Veterans. Souls were stirred.

Spectators sat orderly in rows, the very old and the very young. All had come to celebrate a time of remembrance for the occasion. Soon the Marines marched forth, Posting the Colors under the fading shadow of the flagpole. A wreath of colorful flowers, not unlike the faces, heads and clothing of the spectators, preceded a bagpiper, followed by the precise marching of Marines down a green grass corridor. The crowd was silent, absorbing the essence of the moment.

Our group of about 12 had arrived earlier. We set a table under the shade and shadow of a sprawling oak tree. An old-fashioned picnic was unfolding, itself a remembrance of days when towns were smaller, life slower, and time available for such endeavors.

The fried chicken was covered by a red and white checkered cloth, along with casseroles, sandwiches, snacks and sweets. Honorable mention went to the pineapple, tomato, chicken salad and pimento cheese sandwiches…all with mayonnaise on light bread! It returned many, if not most, of us to school lunch buckets, memories of simpler, and perhaps more tasty times.

In a land teeming with the crosscurrents of individual freedoms, such an occasion is one of the few connecting points in our culture that unites us, irrespective of everything divisive. We were Americans today, celebrating together something that was bigger than individuality. For a few hours we laid aside our self-interest and enjoyed the collective spirit that connected us.

Meanwhile, the band played. With hands over our hearts, or salutes, the National Anthem was sung. After a lengthy prayer, appropriate for a nation 238 years old, Georgia’s Governor Nathan Deal offered up appropriate remarks.
The sun set in the twilight’s last gleaming as the Marines Retired the Colors. The evening turned more somber. The student JROTC proceeded slowly down the corridor to the flagpole. The flag was lowered, folded and stored for the night. The tall flagpole stood naked as its golden dome pierced the graying sky.

A mournful trumpet began to sound out the three simple notes of “Taps,” Lights Out, or Gone the Sun…the call that ends the soldier’s day. In the distance its fading echo descended gently upon the declining day.

As we had arrived, so we departed. Chairs folded, picnic tables closed, food repackaged, good-byes said. Individuality had returned. But not without a renewed sense of our collective Greater Purpose and our individual roles in it.

Three simple notes closed the day… three simple notes will renew the morrow. Like death and resurrection, tomorrow’s bugle call is Reveille, also played with three simple notes to the accompaniment of a cannon’s retort. It is a rousing “get ‘em up” tune as the flag is again raised atop the naked flagpole … a renewed America on the go.

So, on three simple notes a new day begins, even as our old day ended. Both remind us of unity in spite of our differences and the redolence of our national pledge. “One nation, under God, with liberty and justice for all.”


Bud Hearn
May 30, 2014

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

The English lexicon is fragile. It’s made up with strands of small threads. Rip out a few words and the Babel chaos of grunts, uh’s and ah’s would result. One of those threads is the word ‘up.’

**********

My friend Terry publishes the weekly Miller County Liberal. He writes up a column called “Up the Creek without a Paddle.” The heat index assures that he’s not doing much fishing or paddling up Spring Creek these days. It’s mainly about reporting on what’s up in Colquitt, the home town where I was raised up.

I prefer editorials that tease readers. Tiny but tasty morsels of gossip are better than Sunday fried chicken. They hint something’s up or someone’s up to no good. Salacious innuendo sells papers. Alas, Terry avoids these. After all, he has to face up to what shows up in print.

Small towns are sometimes hard up for news. The town’s sidewalks roll up for naps at noon. Most stores lock up at five on other days. Editors are forced to be chained-up in an office and dream up something creative. Looking up at a blank computer monitor with an upcoming deadline is an editor’s worst nightmare.

Shocking stories of infidelity or marital breakups, dished up in sufficient licentious detail, will usually light up the gossip circuits in small towns. Unfortunately, such revelations tend to split up a town, and stew up a lot of unnecessary upheavals and upset the stasis. The printed word can open up a can of worms.

Colquitt may be the intellectual Mecca of Georgia. Nuances of vernacular utterances don’t dodge notice. Last week the Twilight Think Tank had to give up and concede that ‘uphold’ is not the same as ‘hold up,’ or ‘holed up.’ Neither is ‘tearing up’ the road to Panama City not quite the same as ‘fixing up’ the mess that you ‘tore up.’ Small towns need such vapidity to break up the stifling boredom.

Most can call up experiences learned in small towns. They survive for years. High school is where kids live up to the hard knocks of life. Being described as a kid who’s ‘eat up with the dumb ass’ could lead to a personality hang up for life. Same as being uppity or stuck up. Old monikers morph slowly.

First girlfriends offer up instructive life lessons. Mine was really ‘uptight,’ and was caught up with ‘fessing up’ to her mother the details of every date. A blow up was inevitable. She couldn’t ‘warm up’ long enough to ‘loosen up,’ if you know what I mean. But why dredge up old frustrations. We moved on.

School yards or DQ’s after football games were superlative places to ‘man up’ on the differences between ‘upbeat’ and ‘beat up.’ And ‘upstanding’ conveyed an entirely different consequence after the event. Many picked up on that subtlety the hard way. Scars and missing molars tend to yield up a host of memories.

Knowledge of verbal double entendres will keep one up to speed. Up and running and successful run-ups are good things if you have a car. But it’s not the same as running up your credit card limits. But you had already wised up to that, right?

The term ‘made up’ can often get confusing. It could be used in the romantic sense of reconciliation, or it could mean you’re lying through your teeth about some embellished experience. Whichever, it’s generally agreed that its cousin, ‘make up’ is most often used when referring to women. I hear the female chorus tuning up now.

**********

Time to wrap up this verbalistic excursion. Decorum won’t permit adequate parsing of the term, ‘give it up.’ But since you’ve been around the block before, wise up and figure it out. Up, up and away!

Bud Hearn
May 22, 2014

Of Ants and Men

Omnivorous readers make suspect writers. Recollection of detail is skeptical. Context of sketchy facts is confused. Trust, but verify. Such may be the case here.

* * * * * * * * * *

A recent article appeared in the WSJ on Edward O. Wilson. Not a household name, even after achieving two Pulitzer Prizes, one for a book on ants. He presented a shocking revelation of the future of humankind.

Wilson is a noted scientist, evolutionist and ecologist. He’s also a revered entomologist. He studies ants. He apparently prefers these tiny creatures to humans, having once opined that the problem with humanity is, “Paleolithic emotions, medieval institutions and god-like technology.”

He speculates that ants are the planet’s last survivors. At the rate things are going, who can argue? He gives many reasons. Not the least of which is that ant colonies consist mostly of females.

That’s right, females. Armies of females do the work, find the food, serve the queen. The males? They’re relegated to the lowly role of ‘agents of propagation.’ So the article said.

This sheds a whole new light on evolution. Men suppose they’re the apotheosis of all creation. But ants, the ultimate survivors of the planet, are organized with a radically different social structure.

It’s easy to drift into a swoon of science fiction possibilities. What if this hypothesis were true? How would our culture be changed? Females totally running things. Males simply ‘agents of propagation?’ It’s enough to cause cold night sweats.

There’s the world of male ego to consider. Would it disappear in a great sucking sound as it’s subsumed into the stolid world of household chores? Would it languish, home-bound, watching Rachel cook and Judge Judy adjudicate? Would shopping and changing diapers really support male self-conceit? The horror, the horror.

Imagine household cleanliness. Can men operate vacuums? Wash clothes? Iron blouses? Sew buttons? Polish silver? Comprehend recipes? Clean toilets? No man is cut out for such work. Cooking anything more than pork and beans is too much to ask.

Car pools. Think of the possible damage done by men being in vehicles with screaming school children, waiting in line to drop off/pick up every day. And homework. Do men have the patience? Can you picture the Men’s Morning Out group at the local church?

No! Propagation is the solution. Men are especially suited for this line of work. First of all it requires no fore thought, no advance warning, no warm-up, no intelligence, no circumspection, no flowers, no ‘fore’ anything. Nothing changes. Volunteers for conscription are plentiful.

The reversal of roles would forever alter the course of human nature. Science fiction would become reality. Are we ready for this?

I’ve had my share of experience with ants and ant farms, jars of sand filled with big black or red ants. Fun to watch for hours. Once I even ate an entire colony of miniature ants that had sneaked into my unsealed cereal box. I faintly recall the smell of Chanel No. 5.

Then there was the time I took a nap on a large boulder in the yard. Hundreds of large black ants began to crawl on my body, up my pants, in my hair, on my face, in my nose and consorting in the canyons of my ears. I felt their female caress. My body was the day’s prey.

It was a curious experiment on my part. Black ants don’t sting. Had I known this particular search party was an army of females, I might have changed my mind. Trusting females with your body is a bad bet.

Their curiosity lasted only a few minutes. They decided I was either too big to cart back, or I didn’t meet the queen’s criteria. They left as they came, this army of black female ants, crawling off for another carcass. I was left with that let-down feeling I always got in high school…always being spurned by females is a terrible thing to endure.

* * * * * * * * * *

Maybe being an ‘agent of propagation’ is not such a bad thing after all. At least men can continue to utilize their Paleolithic emotions for a good cause. Wishful thinking and delusional dreaming are not that far apart.

Bud Hearn
May 16, 2014


Illustrations Courtesy of Leslie Hearn

The Devil's Whip

The devil has many whips. They’re essential. Frequent scourging controls the inordinate mischief among the malcontents of the earth. His favorite is the Whip of Irritability. He uses it often. The lashes spare no one.

* * * * * * * * * *

It’s undeniable…we live in a territory largely controlled by the devil. Chaos bubbles beneath the surface of everything. Wild winds of random blow indiscriminately at the whim of the planet’s prince. Anything can happen. And usually does.

Notwithstanding the bad rap the devil gets, he’s actually Chairman of the Chastisement Committee. Commissioned by the heavenly Trio, his duties are to reprimand and prepare the wayward heirs of paradise for the tough road and narrow gate. Being on commission and bonus, he’s diligent in his duties.

Irritability is an insidious temperament. It’s cloaked in the guise of righteous indignation. We’re put upon by a myriad of things, small and large. It takes little to feel the whip. It’s administered arbitrarily as the potentate wills.

The whip of irritability adjusts our sullen attitudes of superiority. The daily beatings deliver the message...we’re not in control. Pride is thrashed into submission. It’s the only way.

It begins every morning. The devil sits in wait on the corner of our bed. He plots with delight his odious plans for our daily downfall. Swoosh, the wind blows. Crack, the whip pops. He’s tuning up.

You stagger out for the newspaper. It’s playing hide and seek. The carrier is the culprit, the devil’s minion. You refer to him obscenely. You pick through the shrubs. Mosquitoes attack. You lose blood fast. You curse. Snap. Hiss. The whip warms up.

Maybe you have children. They’re precious progeny, fruit of your loins, loves of your life. Today they’re restive, irritable. They demand breakfast. They hate school. They hate you. They whine. Their whimpers become the whips of irritability. The bellyaching torment drives you from their presence. Now you know why some animals devour their young. The whip starts to sting.

You ask yourself, “Why me?” You answer yourself, “I deserve better. After all, I’m innocent.” You talk frequently to yourself like this. You constantly feel entitled, immune from the anguish of life. But nobody listens. Nobody cares. They are, like you, the center of their own universe. The whip lashes vanity with unmitigated delight.

There are degrees of irritability, a hierarchy of things that agitate us. Mild irritability is the beginning of Dante’s nine rings of hell. Each rung leads to more heinous whippings. You discover yours usually by circle four.

Traffic is the devil’s playground. He’s the architect of interstate highways. Nobody’s friendly there. Present advantage rules the road. Courtesy is mocked. Murder enters your mind. The whip of irritability is a terror for the lack of benevolent thoughts.

We each cuddle with our own favorite irritations. They grind us like sandpaper; they enrage us like Comcast; and peeve us like a wad of bubblegum stuck on our shoe. Cell phones in the hands of loudmouths provoke us. Almost as appalling as being seated in a smoking section or near a table of screaming babies. Do you hear the whip coming closer?

Humans are strange creatures, perhaps the only living fossils that must always understand ‘Why.’ We’re annoyed because of our arrogance, our innate desire to have things ‘our way.’ Such nonsense summons up the whip because it’s a threat to authority. Chastening is here to stay. Get used to it.

Irritability is a matter of perspective…yours and theirs. Nobody’s immune from its whip. Perhaps the whip is sent to chastise us, to demonstrate the depravity of our fallen state. Or maybe it’s sent to give us fair warning of the consequences to come. Who can say? One thing can be said…it’s here to stay!

* * * * * * * * * *

A friend has a sign in his office. It reads, “The beatings will continue until attitudes have changed.”

Given our current self-righteous State of the Union, the whippings may need to become more savage for remedial purposes. Otherwise, hell will be crowded and paradise will be a vacant and lonely place. Sinatra is not singing, “I Did It My Way” in the heavenly choir…refer to The Book. Crack.


Bud Hearn
May 9, 2014

Illustration by Leslie Hearn

Mama Had a Saying

“Son, never get up on the wrong side of the bed.” How many times have we heard Mama say this?

**********

The day was doomed even before entering the office. The wilted and leafless roses greeted the entrance. The portrait of Sir Winston sneered and stared down his lofty Churchill nose at my presence.

It all started because Mama’s advice was ignored. A grievous error. A voice inside pleaded ignorance. It argued, “Which is the wrong side, or the right side of a bed?" Mama’s eyes sent scorn from her heavenly perch with silence, shaking her head again. “Will that boy ever learn?”

The jails are full of malefactors who plead ignorance. Nobody listens. Once the deed’s done, it’s done. And since one can only get out of bed once a day, caution is commended. So mama said. She was never wrong.

There are relentless retribution gods, you know, sent forth to adjust the scales of justice. Dull razors make band aids essential. Try parting your hair on some days. Public humiliation occurs. Mama warned, nobody listened. She was never wrong.

The wrong side of the bed causes coffee spill on the white sofa. It makes cereal stale. It sours orange juice. It mocks everything we do. We curse it. Some days are irredeemable, even as they begin. Who devises such torments…from which side of the bed do they slither?

Getting dressed is a clownish affair. Nothing matches. Mama’s voice echoes, “No stripes with plaids.” As an additional warning, “Don’t get too big for your britches.”

Mama’s voice even speaks from shoes. “Son, don’t start out on the wrong foot.” A voice inside wants to answer, “But Mama, which one is right, which one is wrong?" Somewhere in the ether it thunders, “Son, quit asking stupid questions.” Was your mama like this?

“Young man, don’t hang out with the wrong crowd, ya hear?” She probably heard an expletive cross my lips. So did the retribution gods. They laughed hideously at my flat tire.

Have you ever looked at mirror after lunch? There it is, a huge red glob of spaghetti on your white shirt? Snickers and giggles follow you from the restaurant. You are fixated on that spot all day. No work gets done. Such are the consequences from the wrong side of the bed.

All prospects of making rational decisions are impossible when getting up on the wrong side of the bed, or starting out on the wrong foot. Forget dinner, especially tacos. They will laugh uncontrollably throughout the night. Does no good to shake your fist at the heavens and complain, “Well, Mama, are you satisfied? Look, a clean plate. I thought about the starving Chinese.” Does your mother treat you so shamefully?

Mama is usually right, not wrong, especially about what’s right and what’s wrong. But we ignore vicarious advice, preferring experiential knowledge. Backsliding is inbred into our nature, just like crossing our fingers in case of failure to obey. After all, we were born into trouble as the sparks fly upward. Do you feel this way, too?

It is possible to trick the retribution gods. Tonight, when you go to bed, try the sofa. You might not sleep too well, but there’s only one way in, one way out. Play the odds…let the gods know that Mama didn’t raise no fool!

**********

There is no moral to this story, only a caveat…Mama is never wrong!

Bud Hearn
May 2, 2014