Children of the Corn-y, or Why I Loved the 80s
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I don’t like getting older, necessarily, but the beauty of it is that it’s happening, whether I like it or not. Might as well relax into it. So, what does one do as one’s “twilight” approaches? One reminisces about “what made them cool back in the day.” Nostalgia for children of the 1980s leads automatically to all the cool tchotchkes and fads that defined what cultural historians would eventually call the “Me Generation.” I’m sure it does for children of any decade, but I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about me, us. And, really, can we be honest, here?, children of...
To say nothing about hurricanes. Literally.
Ah, hurricanes. You live in Mississippi, you get used to it. And tornadoes. And heat. And humidity. And football. All of which cause problems. The only hurricane I have any serious recollection of, personally, is Katrina. I mean, there were others who came and went, tried their best, but Katrina, she meant business. Even as far inland in Mississippi as I was, we still went nearly a week without electricity. In the searing heat of late August, the lack of electricity tends to leave an indelible mark on you. Trust me. Still, I have great respect for weather phenomena. I actually love storms,...
And now for The Walking Dead, and the lessons they’ve taught me.
You were bound to find out. I’m a liar. I mean, I do sleep a lot because I love sleeping so that part from my blog the other day is not a lie. But, the part where I said I don’t watch a lot of TV? That was a lie. A big, fat, bald-faced lie – so called because 18th-19th century businessmen often grew beards to mask facial expressions when making “deals,”(Check it out http://tinyurl.com/5s9k7). By the way, though: Props to bald people. Get a rough end of it, don’t they? But back to me. I’m obsessed with TV right now. It wasn’t always like...
Go Green, young man, and grow up with the country.
I rarely cash in on a fad. Not out of disdain or separatist leanings, I’m usually just too lazy to keep up. But, Main Street, the heart of downtown, which I live so close to as to worry that it’s developed angina, has given over whole contents of wallets to cash in on “Going Green.” And let me tell you something. When you give a lot of money to a cause, it is no longer a fad. It is a fact, i.e. We now have bicycle lanes. The thing is, it’s catching on. I went downtown, before Christmas to buy a book for my brother-in-law, a...
You know what they say about big ears…
Yesterday, while at lunch—Chinese buffet, the temptation never dies, does it?—I overheard a table a few booths away talking. They were replaying, in conversation, a blow-by-blow of what they’d done earlier that morning: sledding. It doesn’t snow here the way it does “up north.” The threat of a half-inch closes down most businesses and schools. We’d gotten several inches, actually. And they had gone sledding. And they were talking about it. One guy said, “Yeah, I hit you pretty hard.” Another guy said, “Yeah, you did.” They laughed at that. Then, said the exact same thing again, using different words, and laughed again. From where I sat,...
A drum set, and other gifts not to give to children.
I found myself in a conversation the other evening in which the topic of Santa arose, and with it came the typical, post-adolescent baggage: How old were you when you found out Santa wasn’t real? It seems that Santa has a very thin line of discussability (today's word du jour). Either you are six, or thereabout, and Santa conjures up images so explosively potent that you have to lock yourself in a bathroom until the feeling passes, and though the whole messy Santa business only lasts for about twelve total hours on the night of his imminent arrival, you still swear...
Or, in layman’s terms, a fist.
I’m guessing you’ve never thought about this before, and until recently, it had been ages since it’d crossed my mind, but I’m going to ask you anyway: What kind of finger-pointer are you? I’m not sure how, but I think it’s probably very important that we ask ourselves this and learn how knowing what type of finger-pointer we are unconsciously dictates our lives. I was first brought to the attention of the power of the finger not, as you might imagine, by a rude driver showing me his emotional state caused by my “granddaddy” style of driving along our nation’s roadways. No,...
It’s beginning to look a lot like Ma Onie.
Ma Onie was another of my sidekick grandmothers. (Not blood kin, but I can’t recall a moment of my childhood where she wasn’t looming in some corner of the kitchen fermenting sugar syrup for her sweet tea or threatening a misbehaving child with the worn brass tip of her cane). She was, in most lights, the iron fist in the velvet glove personified with a smidge of Ma Kettle sewn in the seams; trust me, sugar syrup wasn’t the only thing she kept out in the smokehouse. And when Christmas rolls around I tend to give her her due because of her Christmas “inventions.” Now,...
First things first…
Filed under: Deep South, Everyday, family, humor
One thing that seems universal to all children is the idea of what it means to be first. It doesn’t matter at what they’re being the first, either. Being first carries within it all the intended glory necessary. First to sit still, first to get a haircut, first to touch base during hide-and-seek, first to finish dinner. Endless possibilities. My nephews, this past Sunday, case in point, were running neck-and-neck, outside, racing each other from one side of the yard to the other, simply for the bragging rights of saying, “I beat you. I got here first.” Wynn Chandler, the baby who...
Copycats are amazing listeners.
I’m not taking any illegal drugs, let me just get that out in the open, right off the bat. And I don’t think my diet has changed all that significantly, though I’ve graduated from Grade A, Farm Fresh, Organic Vegetarian to Fine-I’ll-Eat-Fish-anarian. But, something is making me have crazy, exhaustive dreams, as of late. It’s not the first time I’ve had crazy dreams, but rather, it is the first time I’ve had a regular string of them. I’m going on Week 3, now. Which makes for 21 nights of what can truly be called dreams of “complete abandon.” I’ve been shot twice, lately;...
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