Piddling Around

One of the signature pastimes of any true Southerner is piddling around. It’s a cultural art form.

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It’s Saturday morning. I sit around the pool deck, piddling. How do I know it qualifies as piddling? Read on, I’ll tell you.

Maybe you’ve never thought about piddling. Yet, maybe you piddle without even knowing it. So, what’s piddling, you ask? Why, it’s a state of mind, the ultimate ‘it is what it is.’ It’s anything, and everything; the quintessential personal choice.

Piddling defies description or definition. If you have to ask if you’re piddling, then you’re not piddling. The true essence of piddling has nothing to do with planned activities. Pure and unadulterated piddling is serendipitous and adventitious. While it may appear as an activity, who would call watching paint dry an activity? But it could be piddling.

Piddling around is not necessarily work per se, though under critical observation it might appear as such. Piddling has cracked the code of many conundrums without effort. Things like figuring out the genius of a thermos bottle: How does it know what’s hot or cold?

Sometimes piddling might involve work, like clipping your toenails; but effort without meaningful purpose is not work. The thin line of separation between piddling and work is this: If it has purpose, it’s not piddling.

Someone may ask, “Why are you staring at that dead bug?”

You could say, “Just piddling, passing the time of day.”

To which they might reply that such pursuit is a stupid waste of time. You would know that person is not a piddler, but a moron. Piddling has no objective pursuits. You marvel at mankind’s gross ignorance in simple nuance.

Piddlers never sit idle, watching the clock’s minutes crawl by. But doing so in rocking chairs is acceptable behavior. Piddling actually arrests time, the tireless tyrant that demands burning calories to justify your meager existence. Exempt from this, of course, is popping Dentyne Chewing gum or blowing bubbles from Bazooka Bubble gum. Prized forms of piddling.

While piddling is not gender specific, it’s unmistakably identified by the atavistic footprints of boys, men and dogs. In our family’s hardware store of the ‘50’s and ‘60’s, men stood at the counter honing their pocket knives on the whetstone for no other purpose other than shootin’ the breeze. That’s piddling.

True piddling is effort without contemplation. Engaging any part of your cognitive cortex is not a pure form of piddling. Piddling has mixed blood and a long chain of biological relatives. ‘Trifling’ is a distant cousin tainted by frivolous fascinations.

To trifle is sort of like twiddling your thumbs or popping your knuckles. My mother harped on the adverse effects of knuckle-popping, muttering something under her breath about my daddy’s knuckle-dragging side of the family. Her affirmation of the “I do” wedding vow rendered the complaint mute.

‘Plinking around’ is a wild branch grafted into the family tree by an adventurous but aberrant uncle who piddled a lot with bird dogs. In my youth I did a lot of plinking with my Daisy BB gun down at the city dump dinging tin cans and empty R. C. Cola bottles. In retrospect, it would have qualified for piddling except I was plinking to avoid mowing the lawn.

Piddling has a dark side. Two distant cousins, ‘Fiddling around’ and ‘Fooling around’ have tarnished the Piddling family’s reputation. These incorrigible and wayward cognates prefer the low-rent roads of the piddling highway. Especially ‘Fooling around.’

Fruit falls not far from the family tree. ‘Fooling around’ is like following your cross-eyed third cousin on a depraved bacchanalian bender. You stagger through dark alleys and smoky dives. You wake up the next morning in a strange place with an even stranger companion. A bad hangover, a nose ring and a serious regret remind you that Piddling can have its downsides.

Piddling always attracts the ‘you’re-wasting-time’ crowd. They load you with grievous guilt and lament like losers in the Saturday night card game:

The winners laugh and light cigars
And order another round;
The losers mourn and cry, “Deal on,”
In them no joy is found.

So, rest easy, dear piddler, your sins are forgiven. The Ultimate Arbiter of everything will show mercy on every idle hour of piddling.

**********

Now back beside the pool. I piddle, putter, trifle, idle and generally waste time.

How? By doing nothing but being astonished by the erotic mating habits of two earthworms entwined in a lover’s embrace beneath my chair.

Now friends, that’s ‘Piddling around.’


Bud Hearn
February 26, 2018

Lent: Who's Keeping Score?

The Renunciation, the Covenant of Ashes, the Horror of Abstinence, The Dejection of Failure. Such is Lent.

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I see a vision. A brilliant light radiates from The Great White Throne. Beside it is a golden table with the Big Book of Life. It’s full of names and notations. A diaphanous Apparition with wings writes someone’s name that begins with ‘H’. It’s a fearful sight to behold.

Abstinence provokes weird images during Lent. Perhaps in dreams they come, or in flashes of prophetic insight. Maybe mine was simply the question she asked Tuesday morning.

“What are you giving up for Lent?”

“The same as last year,” I answer. “Nothing.” I laugh. Heaven doesn’t. Humor has no place in Lent.

She gives me one of those long, silent stares that spares no feelings, “Maybe you should reconsider the repercussions.”

Travails of past Lenten failures flash by. I’m all for holiness, but I detest walking around with a hang-dog look because of having given up some insignificant excess. Chocolate won’t make the cut.

Milquetoast give-ups won’t get it. God demands commitment, a little suffering, a lot of penitence. In my pious past I attempted to follow Biblical advice. I needed chits in the Favor Book. Because look, we never know when ‘it’ is gonna happen. Be ready.

One year I swore to the suggestion of Matthew 5:44. Right…it’s the one where we’re enjoined to “love our enemies, and bless them that persecute us, and pray for those who despitefully use us.” And what happens the next day? Comcast comes calling. Failure.

Then once I chose to follow the advice of Matthew 5:41. Let me refresh your memory. It demands “going the second mile” with folks. Since we no longer walk much, especially with adversaries, the rule is confusingly metaphorical. And this is its problem: it can’t be quantified.

Accordingly, it’s impossible to know when you’ve broken the rule and only gone the ‘first mile’ with someone. Failure is constant. Heaven has no lawyers to negotiate on nuance.

Another time I girded up my loins for assault on two heinous Lenten enemies: anger and reconciliation. You can read about these combatants in Matthew 5:22 and 24.

But the oath of my commitment had barely escaped my lips when I found the newspaper lying in the flower bed, soggy wet. Believe me, Heaven can erase faster than it can write.

I ask my wife, “What are you giving up for Lent?”

“I’m trying a new approach,” she answers. “I’m not giving up, I’m taking on. I’m going to do something good for someone else every day.”

I ask if she would consider adding a couple more declarations to her Lenten vow.

“What’s better than what I said?” she asks.

“Oh, yours is commendable. What about adding Matthew 6:14 and 7:1? Forgiveness and forsaking judgment will get you gold points. They’re diamonds in the crown of every pious saint. The angels of Heaven will applaud you.”

Her look dismisses all doubts: there is no humor in Lent. Needing a haircut was a convenient excuse to leave the house after that comment.

Barber shops are a great place to snack on gossip or hear good jokes. I ask the crowd what they’re giving up for Lent. The usual, mundane ones: sweets, wine, cheese and Snickers.

Except one lady, who vows she’s swearing off sex permanently. Nobody says it, but I’m pretty sure everyone thinks it: she needn’t worry about failure. Heaven itself groans out loud.

Hugh’s mind drifts off into his past premonitions as old men are prone to do. He recites his dialogues with Satan, a frequent visitor on the end of his bed. Seems everyone has premonitions. He says if you want to score for Lent, try Matthew 5:28.

“Isn’t that the one about ‘lust’ in the heart?” I ask.

“Sure is.”

“Hugh, this is the downfall of every man. Avoid it. Relapse is guaranteed.”

Just then my vision of the scorching light, the golden table, The Big Book of Life reappears. The Apparition is entering more names: Himmler, H; Hess, R; Hitler, A; Hun, Attila the. Then, Hearn, B.

**********

Somewhere the quiet voice of Omar Khayyam whispers: “The moving finger writes; and having writ, moves on: nor all your Piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all your tears wash out a word of it.”

Maybe repentance is not such a bad idea after all. Good luck with your Lenten pledges. Somebody’s keeping score.


Bud Hearn
February 16, 2018

Let's Have Lunch Soon

Stealthy exits keep social intercourses friendly. This is a good one.

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On the whole most of us follow the ‘do unto others’ theme in matters of social decorum. We use well-meaning but dismissive comments to conclude social interaction; comments like ‘See you later,’ or, ‘Stay in touch.’ Light touch escape idioms.

Such comments, while weak with substance, accomplish the conclusions of conversations or meetings without offence to the listener. Look, we all know people who tend to drone incessantly without ever taking a breath. Their mantra is: ‘Whoever breathes loses their spot.’

So long are their discourses you almost lose consciousness. Your ears strain for the sound of a ‘comma,’ and you pray---no, you beg---to hear a ‘period’ in their interminable soliloquies. Opportunity is fleeting, so you latch on as soon as you hear one, 'Been good to see you,’ and you fling over your shoulder a ‘Catch you later’ brushoff as you fade the scene.

The other day I’m sitting at my desk, trying to figure out how to rob Peter to pay Paul with Bitcoins. Because Paul is sure to be calling me, looking to collect the $20 alcohol-infused bet I made on the Super Bowl game. Hint: always take the point spread. I didn’t. Brady let me down.

For practice I rub two nickels together hoping to get a dime, or at least an idea. Sometimes the alchemy works. But not today. I’m hung up on square one. I’d like to keep the $20 bucks in my jeans for another day. Sometimes bets are forgotten. But to welsh on a friendly wager among gentlemen, why, it’s worse than accusing God of keeping a double set of books on your tithes.

Of course, where money is involved, nothing is really a friendly bet, you know. Like playing poker, the bet’s with money. Irrespective of the amount, honor can disappear quickly. Beyond a certain point you cross a threshold where there’s nothing friendly about money.

Downstairs the door opens. Footsteps shamble ponderously up the stairs into my second story office. It’s not Paul. It’s Bob, my political pundit. He’s a man who dines daily on a menu of doom and gloom. He even brushes his teeth with ‘did-you-hear’ salacious street gossip and wears a ‘Tweet Me’ pin on his lapel.

He swaggers in like a popinjay who’s picking through the merchandise in a New Orleans cathouse. He plops down, frowns and holds his head in his hands. I know what’s coming. Even before ‘Hello,’ his torrent of words begins.

“I’m here to tell you, we’re done for now, the republic is finished, over, nobody’s in charge in DC, Congress has packed up, headed home, the government has officially shut down, the Dow has collapsed, the banks are closing their doors, the computer systems have all failed, our money has been confiscated, riots everywhere, North Korea has invaded, aliens swarm over the borders, get your guns loaded, it’s coming here, I just heard the causeway is being barricaded, a tsunami is predicted, the moon is not full yet…”

Finally, he takes a breath. I seize my opportunity. “Bob, Bob, breathe, get control of yourself. You’ve been listening to Orson Welles, you dummy, a replay of ‘War of the Worlds.’”

“Huh?” He hands me a question mark. I take it.

“That’s right. It was advertised on PBS. Things are fine.”

“Whew for a minute I thought…” He slumps in the chair, rubs his chin. “Well, did you hear about...”. Before his verbal effluent begins, I slap the desk. The noise startles him. I stand up.

“Bob, I have a great idea. Let’s have lunch soon, and you can tell me all about it. I’m dying to know. Now, let me walk out with you. And stay in touch, you hear?” And so goes this wonderful but meaningless dismissal of Bob. We’ll both rest easier.

Later, back at my desk, I flip a quarter; heads I call Paul, tails I delay. It’s heads. I call him. “Paul, you lucky devil. Bookies were heavy on Brady. You sneaked by.”

“Yeah, lucky me. Now about squaring up on our little bet. I believe you lost, brother.”

“I was thinking about that. Let’s have lunch soon. I love you, brother.”

**********

Sometimes a delay is victory in disguise. Perhaps ‘I love you’ is the ultimate send-off that everyone likes to hear but no one really believes.

Gotta run. Nature’s calling. See ya later.


Bud Hearn
February 9, 2018

The Toothpick

The invitation was engraved. The embossing reminded Bob of some bath towels he once bought from Sears. He asked himself, Why me? Hack journalists don’t hobnob with the highbrow upper crust crowd. He shook off the inhibition and showed up.

A lovely evening, guests always say. The word gets a workout from the wellborn. Perfect for all events. It means everything in general, but nothing in particular. It’s the disguise of choice. It mingles with departing hugs, sideways, of course, air kisses and back pats. Dinner parties can be strange. They swirl in rarified air.

All lovely dinners demand a formal thank you note. It’s wise to synthesize the experience. It’s best to delay a day, let the details distill into the essence of the evening. Then write. Bob ignored this advice. His note will not meet the standard for inclusion in the primer for Life Among Southern Gentry.



Marvin and Sue, dear friends, February 2, 2018

Your dinner party was a smashing success. Thank you for including me. It was a lovely evening. From the moment I entered, I could see the welcome surprise on the faces of your guests and yourselves. Please don’t even think about apologizing for your dog mistaking my leg for something else vertical. It often happens. I’m sure the cleaners can eliminate the stench.

I regret not wearing a jacket, but frankly, I thought the black silk Tommy Bahama shirt with the pink flamingos would be a hit. It coordinated well with your loan of the brilliant yellow blazer.

The hors de oeuvres on silver platters were scrumptious. Real class. It reminded me of my aunt’s tenth wedding. Her pigs-in-a-blanket were just as big a hit as your fish eggs, at a fraction of the cost. But your champagne was definitely superior to her Ballatore Spumante at five bucks a bottle.

Place settings confuse me. Especially silverware. Why do place settings require more than a knife, fork and spoon? Whatever. But, thank you, Sue, for helping me to segue through the sixteen pieces of silverware surrounding my plate. I noticed that your initials were engraved on each piece. Clever. Cuts down on pilfering.

Marvin, excellent choice of wine. Delicious is a cheap word…it was divine, purely ambrosial. A strange label, written in some foreign language. Something like Henri Jayer Richebourg Grand Cru, Cote de Nuits France. Your butler, Roland, was in a bit of a snit. I think I offended him. He kept coming to fill up my glass. I told him to just put the bottle on the table, I’d pour my own. Is he on a quota system?

Sue, your flower arrangements were absolutely elegant. They were an incredible artistic design of dandelions. Imagine, a common weed. Splendid.

Thanks to Lamar, I wasn’t the only one eating those luscious lamb chops with my fingers. I recall reading once that it’s against the law in Georgia to eat lamb chops with anything but your fingers. Is that true? I was a bit surprised Heinz was not served. I‘ve never eaten meat without ketchup.

The finger bowls and lemon wedges on the white doilies arrived just in time. I would have hated to soil the linen napkin with more au jus of chops. I think the last time I used a finger bowl was at the White Star prom dinner in the Sigma Nu frat house. I dipped a biscuit in it.

Sue, I just adored the colorful coffee demitasse. So French. But the handles are quite small. I’m sorry it slipped from my hand and ruined Marvin’s yellow blazer. Fortunately, it didn’t soak the half-smoked stogie I discovered in the pocket. Please forgive me for lighting it at the table and setting off the alarm. It was a case of bad judgment.

Thank you again for including me in your lavish affair. It was lovely. And please let me clear up a slight confusion. I’m not runner-up for the Pulitzer Prize as I thought. It’s for the Publisher’s Clearing House sweepstakes drawing. I hope this inadvertent oversight won’t spoil our friendship.

Yours, fondly and with affection,

Bob

PS: One thing still bothers me, though. Where did you hide the sterling toothpicks?

Bud Hearn
February 2, 2018