Buzzards and Mockingbirds

Mrs. Tucker taught 7th grade RWS (reading, writing, and spelling). When I say “taught”, I use the term loosely. She was quite old, drove a beat up shell of a pick-up truck, called us buzzards and towed her books down the hall with a red wagon. Each time the book club took orders she reminded us of her personal ban on "To Kill a Mockingbird.” We were to never ever read that book. We could only guess why. But it showed up on NBC Saturday Night at the Movies and we were beside ourselves. She couldn't stop us! I liked the movie but never figured out her objections. At thirteen, veiled references to sex or race just flew right over my head unnoticed. But in my house I could sense when to let sleeping dogs lie. Asking my parents a question never ended well anyway but queries about this movie would surely produce a calamity.

Mrs. Tucker would empty the wastebasket on her desk and reassemble torn up notes. Anything she did not finish went home in a paper bag. One day a kid threw a wad of paper and she conducted a half hour investigation involving the projectile’s direction, speed, distance, cross winds, and bad seeds to determine who threw it. It was remarkably similar to the courtroom scene in JFK about the magic bullet. Oliver Stone had nothing on Mrs. Tucker. 

She never got out of her seat and always had a half empty six-ounce glass coke bottle on her desk. She wore sunglasses with her elbows on the desk and her head resting in her hands. She told us the sunglasses prevented us from knowing who she was eyeballing. It turns out she was right. But one day the toughest hood in our class, a fellow with two first names, Scott Thomas or Thomas Scott, stood up without raising his hand, sauntered right up to her desk, picked up her coke bottle, hocked up a loogie, spit it into the coke, placed it back on the desk, and casually strolled back to his seat. She was asleep! The class was absolutely breathless. We sat in terror until the end of the period. When the bell rang we stampeded like cattle. It was a miracle we didn’t break bones getting through that door.

Twenty years later, I read the book for the first time and have since read it seven more times.

Drawing on my fine command of the English language, I said nothing. - Robert Benchley

Forgive Me

By twenty-one I had rebuilt three dead cars from this yard or that barn but had never owned any of them. I bought this one with my own savings. I did not ask permission so there was no advice from my parents, only grim silence. The old ‘66 Mustang only had the straight six, no a/c, no FM or stereo, had junkyard hubcaps (which Sandy called baby moons), and was on its third paint job, a dark turquoise over coral pink over a mystery factory color. I paid $500 cash to a passing stranger from Utah who took six months to mail me the title. I drove it for a year before we married and a year afterwards, with no registration, no inspection sticker, expired out of state license plates, and no insurance. No one ever found out because it couldn’t go fast enough to warrant a traffic stop. When we sold it, the buyer took his son and I on a test drive where I heard a body part fall off the front end! I turned to look out the back window and there was the chrome running mustang bouncing down the street. I turned back holding my breath. They had not noticed it amongst all the other rattling bits. He gave me $450 and I signed the unregistered title over, not knowing that jumping the taxman would prevent him from registering the title in his name. But, it never came back to me. He probably slipped a $5 bill to the clerk.

The things we did that we pray our own kids never have to. God forgives me because he sees all. He knows I drew the hand called trial and error. It’s not a bad deal but it wears me down because it shortchanges the ones I love. I know, it’s not something to worry about. But I pray my then wife has forgotten a few things and I hope my daughters forgive me for asking if they are taking care of business. They can’t see the map in my mind, the one marking where the all bodies are buried. 

I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools - friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty - and said 'do the best you can with these, they will have to do'. And mostly, against all odds, they do. - Anne Lamott

The Barber of DeVille

The small barbershop was right out of Andy Griffith’s Mayberry (think Floyd)…..a red and white striped rotating pole, windows with painted words on them, the smell of talcum and disinfectant, wooden venetian blinds, a mirrored wall, glass containers filled with scissors and combs soaking in bright blue Barbicide, and two old fashioned red and silver barber chairs. When it was my turn, the old man put a fancy upholstered board across the armrests for me to sit on, a paper collar around my neck, and a cloth cape. When he was done he brushed me all over with talcum powder. A large framed print of the dogs playing poker and smoking cigars was the coolest art I had ever seen. The coke “machine” on the floor was an antique even for those days. Inside a metal lidded box, the 6 oz. bottles rested in cold circulating water with their necks trapped by a pair of metal rods that snaked back and forth. You slid a bottle around the track until it got to the end where it would let go for a nickel. The use of vending machines was not allowed in my family. But the best thing about a visit to the barbershop was the luxurious blessed cool air from the window unit. I could have sat in that room all day long. I think some of the old men did just that.

The shop closed a few years later so my mom drove me up Telephone Road and dropped me off with the motor running in the middle of a row of bars, dance halls, and strip joints with names like The Owl Lounge, The Four Aces, Roseland, etc. It sounds sketchy, and it was, but the truth is that it was on the same stretch as The Kolache Shop, Wieners (family clothes), the pony rides, and the Santa Rosa Theater. The crusty parking areas had an odd assortment of decrepit pick-ups, town and country family wagons, and Cadillac Coup de Villes that we would call pimped out in this century. My new barbershop was very dark inside. The walls were paneled with fake wood and hung with stuffed fish….real stuffed fish. The barbers and patrons were thirty-something to forty-ish, listened to country music, smoked, drank beer, and were pretty rough around the edges. The coffee table was piled with two kinds of magazines….fishing and detective stories. Some of them showed photos of murder victims at the scene…think of the photographer played by Jude Law in Road to Perdition. One day, I was astonished to discover a photo of my own maternal Grandfather in one of them! He had been the coroner of Jefferson County several years earlier. In those days it was not a medical job in small towns but one that was filled by whoever owned the local funeral parlor or a station wagon in which to transport the occasional corpse. I always wondered what the family of the coroner thought about that. The most fascinating thing was the shady graphic art on the covers of the pulp fiction magazines. They all had the same theme….women with pinup figures, flowing manes, wearing the tattered remains of clothing, tied to something, and being whipped by Nazis. Whaaaaa? Later in life I realized why it was always Nazis. If you are disgusting enough to print sexually violent images but you don't want the public to burn your door down, blame it on a Nazi. Everyone hated them already. It’s not the publisher’s fault, it’s that dang Nazi on the cover. One day I opened one and there was no story inside about Nazis. Thank goodness but still only a small favor for the woman on the cover.

Overall, I had no objections to that shop but forty years later I said, “Mom, we have to talk about your choice of barbershops.” Her explanation, “I just started driving, it was the first barbershop I came across, and no woman in her right mind would get out of the car on that stretch of Telephone Road.” “Ya think?”

I was so naive as a kid I used to sneak behind the barn and do nothing. - Johnny Carson

Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company. - Mark Twain

K - i - T - i - R - i - K

Kitirik was our after school children’s TV celebrity. The station's call letters were KTRK. They just put an “i” between all the letters. In the late 50's, Kitirik was to make an appearance at our annual Garden Villas Grade School carnival but could not make it. At the last minute my mom volunteered to "be Kitirik". I have practically no memory of it so I don't know if she presented as a stand-in-mom or they tried to pass her off as the real thing. I'm sure she didn't own any black fishnet (shudder). These photos of the two are a decade apart but at approximately the same age. I've said too much already.

To succeed in life, you need three things: a wishbone, a backbone and a funny bone. - Reba McEntire

Fat Albert

I was a dude, in it just for the fun, and didn’t ride in anything higher than NIRA sanctions. But one night in Elgin, my very first show, was kinda crazy. A retiring Darrell Royal christened the new arena with a bottle of champagne against my gate, leaving all the glass right in front of my chute. My draw was Fat Albert, named for a character in Bill Cosby’s night club routine. He was ranked 15th in the world which is not uncommon for small shows. World class outfits like the Steiner Ranch have to keep the cash flow steady. My teammates said, “He doesn’t do the normal spinning or rocking. He twists in the middle like you’re wringing out a wet dishrag and he does it with all four hooves off the ground. At the same time he kicks his hind legs backward so it launches you.” I said, “You know you’re describing a house cat, right?” All I remember from those 1.2 seconds was the gate, me face down in the “dirt”, and the clown, a young Leon Coffee, sailing over me like an olympic hurdler. Forty years later, Leon is in multiple rodeo halls of fame. In his profession they should be called balls of fame. All joking aside, we had some life altering injuries and one death. There were no flak jackets, helmets, etc, as there is now. I believe we were idiots. Handsome, charming, and toting a UT degree, but seriously, idiots.

If everything seems under control, you're just not going fast enough. - Mario Andretti

Hook, Line, and Sinker

Interviews were important. How much resume does anyone have at twenty-one? You need something to set yourself apart from the herd. I decided to apply for the job of refilling vending machines. It was a small vendor with just one contract, the seven acre IBM plant. Fill, clean, and repair broken machines alone in the dark until 3 a.m. I had never seen vending machine innards but I needed work and it wasn't going to cost me anything to try. I reported on time to the owner’s home. He was in a wheel chair wearing nothing but a towel and dripping wet from the shower. The languid interview told me this was a chore he detested. He knew nothing of mechanics which made it difficult to show him that I did. He shelved his decision, I walked outside, looked at the sky in disgust, then looked at my ’69 Cadillac Fleetwood. This will make a dandy prop. Turn the key but not long enough to start the engine. Do it again. Raise the hood and get my tools from the trunk. Crawl under the car and remove the starter making lots of superfluous clanking noises. Rub a little grease on my face and knock on the door, starter in hand. "Sir, my starter died. There is a Hi-Lo Auto Parts at the end of the block. May I leave my car in your driveway just long enough to get a new starter? Thank you.” Walk down the block with the starter, a can of WD-40 and a rag in my pocket. Spray the starter all over and wipe it clean. Walk back and reinstall the “new” starter. Don't forget the clanking noises. Crank her up and let her hum. As I'm packing up to leave a teenage boy comes outside and says, "My dad asked if you could come back inside for a minute." I smile. Hook, Line, and Sinkaaaahhh!!!!…free Twinkies all summer.

A graduation ceremony is an event where the commencement speaker tells thousands of students dressed in identical caps and gowns that individuality is the key to success. – Robert Orben

Change is inevitable, except from vending machines. – Larry the Cable Guy

Green around the gills….

My grandparents lived in Port Arthur, 100 miles away down a two lane coastal highway. For the sake of drainage, it crowned sharply, leaving all the vehicles leaning to the right. There were no seat belts in cars back then. If I sat on the uphill side of the backseat, I had to cling to the door handle for dear life. If sat on the downhill side, I got squashed against the door by a couple of big sisters. But the constant reality was that I never sat next to a door, always in the middle with nothing to hold onto. Between the ages of five and nine, my parents sent me alone on the Greyhound. I will never forget one particular return trip. We were waiting at the stop when a brand new bus rolled up. It had air-conditioning! The man in front of me got the last seat so I had to wait for the next bus. My grandfather was livid and vocal but Greyhound didn’t care that he was a small town JP. The second bus was ancient and like most vehicles had no A/C. I ended up in the middle of the rear bench which sat five across. A body as small as mine left the seat by an inch with every bump. I was between two men smoking green cigars on a hot/humid summer day. The floorboard was loose and rattling. This allowed engine odors, noises, and fumes to enter the seating area. Early on, I refunded half digested candy corn all over myself and the aisle in front of me. In those days, people traveled in suits, ties, dresses, and heels. Everyone scootched and turned away, the ladies covering their noses with handkerchiefs. The men just kept smoking. No one said anything to me and the bus never stopped. I wiped my chin and closed my eyes. At 50 mph, it was going to be a very long trip.

When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on. - Franklin D. Roosevelt

Fly Me to the Moon

We lived next to the airport as NASA was starting up. When the astronauts came to town they stayed in a motel on Telephone Road called the Skylane Inn. It had a cocktail lounge with a neon sign that read "Orbit Room". I remember riding my bike over there and just staring at it from the other side of the road. My parents would not tell me what was in the Orbit Room but they assured me none of the astronauts would go into that part of the motel. When I asked my elderly school teacher, she would only say with a sniff, "That is where Frank Sinatra would loiter if he stayed in that motel." Of course, all my grade school teachers, when asked where babies came from, told us they were found in the cabbage patch. That was confusing since no one on the bayou had a cabbage patch. The critters would eat it up in one night.

A memorandum is written not to inform the reader but to protect the writer. - unknown