In a southern town

Everything closed on Sunday, 'cept the Shell and one drug store
Never thought you'd miss it then, but you kinda miss it now
You can still hear Daddy sayin', "We better be gettin' home
'Cause they'll be rollin' up the streets when the sun goes down..."
In a southern town

Commodity cheese and butter on the third of every month
Long line at the armory, but there's plenty to go around
Piggly Wiggly, Johnson's Hardware, Elmore's five and ten
It's been decades since their walls have heard a sound
In a southern town

One four-inch February snow would close school for a week
That hill out by the state road was good for sleddin' down
Preachers preached, teachers taught, and we prayed for peace and rain
We believed that the things we sought would someday be found
In a southern town

Rode everywhere in truck beds or pedaling our bikes

Every street, field, and creek, a new adventure to be found
Friday nights in fall meant high school lights and marching bands
You learned to kiss, and cuss, and fish, and make a joyful sound
In a southern town

At lunchtime, Miss Leona sliced hoop cheese and stick bologna
Buy a Moon Pie and a cold drink to wash it all down
We walked home from school, played outside all afternoon
Came home at suppertime, the whole family gathered 'round
In a southern town

We ate iron skillet cornbread at least four nights a week
Got tired of it then but you'd love to have a pan right now
And though it hadn't shown a movie since nineteen sixty-nine
It felt like somebody died when they tore the ol' Star down
In a southern town

Two-finger steering wheel wave to every car you'd pass
If they didn't wave back you knew they's from out of town
Go to the county fair, you'd swear half the county was there
Bingo on the loudspeaker, you can almost hear it now
In a southern town

God was great, God was good, we thanked Him for our daily food
Especially when it was dinner on the grounds
Kids wore out the town square and Winn-Dixie parking lot
On Friday and Saturday nights just driving around
In a southern town

They'd pump your gas and check your oil at Harris Sixty-six
Pass their days to the music of that bell hose sound
Mister Albert would cut hair, five dollars, six days a week
You still grin when you see a barber pole spinnin' around
In a southern town

You remember gettin' a Hardees, a Subway and a Sears
And we were all excited when Walmart came to town
But then Mister Sparks' store had to close, Johnson's hardware, too
And it hit real hard when the paper mill shut down
In a southern town

I'd vow there was more kudzu then, fireflies, and kindness, too
Our old tube TV must have weighed two hundred pounds
You's proud to say you voted but you never said for who
Seemed everyone you knew had been lost but now they's found
In a southern town

Everything closed on Sunday, 'cept the Shell and one drug store
Seemed so inconvenient then, but you kinda miss it now

The S-word

"Daddy, do you know the S-word?"

My heart dropped into my stomach.  He's seven!  They can't be cursing already.  What happened to his wide-eyed wonder questions?  What's the deepest river in the world?  What's the world record for holding your breath?  Where do storks come from?

These I was used to.  These I could ask Siri.  (By the way, the answers are (1) the Congo, (2) 24 minutes and 37 seconds, and (3) no one knows.  Though I do have some doubts about the veracity of that second one.)

Of course, I know the S-word, I thought, but how do you???

"Um, I'm not sure, buddy.  Which S-word are you talking about?"

"I'm not supposed to say it."

"Is it.... stupid?" I ask, lowering my voice even though there is no one else around to hear.

"No, Daddy.  That's the S-T-word."

"Oh, well I'm not sure then, buddy."

"Well then Daddy, do you know the C, D, F, and S-H words?"

That's it, George Carlin Junior!  We're home-schooling you!

As we played a fun little father-son game of Seven Words You Can't Say in Reading Circle, I was able to deduce with 73% confidence that the C-word was crap and the D-word was dumb.  I could tangibly feel my systolic pressure drop below 280.

Then one night as Mrs. B and I were eating dinner and the kids were watching TV in another room, I heard Luke remark, "He just said a bad word!"

"What?" I yelled from the kitchen.

"They said a bad word on TV."

"Which one?"

"The S-H-word!"

Mrs. B and I pondered for a moment before agreeing it must be, "Shhh."  Turns out it was "shut up."  In my defense, and as I pointed out to Luke, that's actually two words.

So at this point, I'm ok.  I figure he's hearing words at school, most likely, or with his sports teams.  Possibly his teachers have pointed out that we shouldn't say some of these words.  He is aware of them, but he knows they are rude.

And then...

He hits me with the N-word.

We were playing football in the backyard, as we are wont to do every single day from August to February.  While attempting to catch him -- a task made more difficult by my increasingly flab-ridden torso -- I reached my arm out indiscriminately.  

And that's when he said it:

"Ow, Daddy! You hit me in my nuts."

.

.

.

To say that caught me off guard would be to say that Bruce Willis was slightly taken aback when he realized he had been dead the whole time in "The Sixth Sense."  (Spoiler alert.)

I know he didn't hear that from me!  But I do my best not to act shocked as I try to determine whether or not this is ok for him to say.  I mean, what else would he call them?   Privates?  The B-word (rhymes with falls)?  My danger?

The kid goes through active shooter drills at school.  Is saying nuts really the symbol of innocence lost?

Besides, when I was in second grade we played this stupid game called "national guard day" every Wednesday.  Guys would go around punching each other down there.  I hated it!  Dreaded it with every fiber of my being.  You walked around all day in the halls guarding your privates.  Yet we did it.  Every week.

So maybe nuts aren't so bad?  Are the prisons filled with people whose dads let them say nuts unabashedly when they were seven?  Surely not!  But what if it's a gateway word?  O, who can know, who can know!

As for the S-word, I believe I have managed to unravel that mystery as well.  

I was playing soccer with Luke and a friend of his, them against me.  After one of my kicks missed the goal, his friend yelled out, "You suck!"  Before I could say anything, Luke immediately responded , "Uh, we don't say that word."  I was so proud!

Now in his friend's defense, this kid is a year older.  Third-grade street cred being what it is, he's probably seen and heard some bad things.

After he yelled the insult a second time, Luke sternly admonished, "That is not a nice thing to say to my Dad!"  This time I backed him up. "Yeah, we don't say that word at our house, ok?"

Reflecting on the afternoon later I had my hardly-epiphanic moment:  Ah, suck!  That must be the S-word.

At least, I freakin' hope it is.

Apologies to any who may have been offended by the strong language of this post, most especially my mother.  Mom, if you're reading this, I'm sorry.  And I will fully expect to receive emancipation papers forthwith.

Oh, and happy national guard day to any who still commemorate the occasion and observe its senseless barbaric traditions.

That's what I've got for a eulogy

"Don't make me have to call your momma."

Words that I'm sure have been uttered to many a child partaking in some sort of youthful misbehavior.  Words that were no doubt used on me by more than one teacher.  But the one I specifically remember saying it was Mister B.

Mister B was our middle school phys ed teacher.  His daughter, Amy, was in my class.  He knew my parents.  And somehow he knew I would far rather face a swinging slab of oak than have my parents know I had done anything wrong.  

(That still holds true, by the way.  I can easily see Mom to this day giving me the days-long silent treatment and look of utter that-is-not-how-I-raised-you disappointment.  Though surely she wouldn't still pinch the living daylights out of me if I acted up in church.  Would she?  Nah.  I mean, I'm pretty sure.  And I don't even think Dad wears a belt anymore.)

Anyhow, back to Mister B.  There were good things about having the parent of one of your friends as a teacher.  Like the time I sneakily tripped Cedric King while we were playing football in PE.  

The school bully, he was fifteen in seventh grade and built like a middleweight boxer.  We'd only play tackle when Mister B wasn't watching. (Sometimes I think he knew but was just letting us be boys.) Everyone had always been afraid to tackle Cedric.  

Not me.  I was too dumb to know better.

After I tripped him, he got up and pushed me down in the dirt.  I was in no hurry to spring back up. Mister B quickly darted over and intervened.  He sent Cedric to the principal's office, almost surely saving me from what would have been both an embarrassing and fully expected licking.  

Mister B's wife, I shall refer to her as Mrs. B, was the high school home ec teacher.  And they had a pool table at their house.  This provided for some of the best get-togethers of my youth (and one epic co-ed sleepover my senior year).  

Usually, eight or ten of us would hang out at their house.  Mrs. B would serve all manner of snacks and baked goods while we watched movies, shot pool, or played cards and board games.  Most nights, Mister B would join in.  

He was pretty handy with a cue (I was beyond awful back then).   I remember him always giving us tips to help us improve.  Grip, angles, English, bridges.  

It seemed like such a small thing to do.

As years sped by, I'd still occasionally see Mister B.  Anytime I managed to make it back to my hometown 10K, I would see him and Mrs. B walking the two-mile race.  Side by side.  Every year.

Mr. B also found me on the radio.  He would occasionally call and request a song.  He rarely introduced himself, but I recognized that forever enthusiastic, familiar singsong voice.  He was one of those people who always made you feel they were excited to see or hear from you.  

At the last station I worked, Mr. B never failed to call in and put Mrs. B's and the kids' birthdays on our birthday calendar.  As well as his and Mrs. B's anniversary.  Every year. 

It seemed like such a small thing to do.

I got out of radio in 2015 and they held the hometown 10K run for the last time in 2016.  I probably only saw Mister B a time or two after that.

Waiting in line at the visitation Saturday night, I was able to look at some of the pictures of Mr. B and articles mentioning him that were on display there, telling part of his story.  Things I had never known.

Turns out he was quite dapper in his younger days, and had been inducted into his home county's sports hall of fame.  He had coached his kids' youth sports teams.

There was a certificate acknowledging his election as a deacon at church.  I went back to look up the qualifications of a deacon before writing this.  One stood out: The husband of one wife.

As I read through the small funeral program, it stated one of Mister B's favorite hobbies was writing love letters and poems for his wife of more than fifty years.

That stopped me.

I thought about my marriage.  I couldn't help but think maybe Mister B was giving me one last tip on how I could improve.

There is a song Mister B used to call and request.  This was three radio stations ago for me.  Another century.  I didn't think of it the evening of the visitation.  I didn't think of it on Sunday as I texted back and forth with Amy about memories, how much I loved her parents, and how blessed we were to have had such a good friend group in high school.

But I thought of it today, as I was trying to think of how to write something worthy of Mister B.

Long story slightly less long, the song's hook line says, "It's better to be gone but not forgotten, than to be forgotten but not gone."

Gone.  They say his mind was starting to go.  He was beginning to forget things.  Hospice was called in near the end.

Gone.  From this brief human existence.

But forgotten?

Well, Mister B, that's about as likely as middle-school me continuing to misbehave after one of your "Don't make me have to call your momma" admonitions.

Not happening.

Many people were fortunate enough to know Mister B far better than me.  But I wanted to write something personal; things I remember about him and what he meant to me.  I just wish I had told him some of this when I still could.

It would've been such a small thing to do.

I have peaked

It's official.  I have peaked.

The realization hit me this weekend like an attack of the gout -- suddenly.  And yes, it burned.

It came after a Sunday afternoon visit to a lovely pumpkin patch.  After a traipse through the corn maze.  After I had not-so-gracefully plummeted down their 200-foot-long aluminum slide.  And after I had tried to get up.

Whilst attempting to "verticalize my assets" at the bottom of the slide, I experienced an unintentional discharge of rather raucous flatulence.

As luck would have it, there were witnesses nearby who can confirm my story.  Several witnesses, all of whom appeared to be of the female persuasion.  One cackled.  Maybe two.

I looked around for someone to blame.  Bupkus.

Dear Heloise, how do I extract myself from this situation with the least possible embarrassment?

"That ship has sailed, and sank," I imagine her writing back.

On my second attempt, I managed to stand without contributing any further to the auditory or olfactory delights of the Rockwellesque farm.  I told my captive audience they were welcome for the free entertainment, exited stage right, and with an urgency seldom seen in human history looked for somewhere to hide.

But even that was not what brought me to my downhill slide revelation.  That didn't come until the drive home when Mrs. Bone put her hand on my arm, gently squeezed, and smiled, "I'm proud of you."

"For what?" I wondered aloud.

Her smile grew.  

"There was a time when something like what happened at the bottom of that slide would have sent you into a panic.  You wouldn't have been able to enjoy anything for the rest of the day. And that’s if you didn't just leave entirely."

Oh, so what you're saying is I used to have some pride?

Anyhow, that's when it hit me.  That's when I knew.  I have peaked in life.  

I don't know when.  

Maybe it was my 26-point outburst in church league basketball.  (Sorry, "pre-season" church league basketball.)  Perhaps it was finishing second place in the mud volleyball tournament when I was eighteen.  Or maybe it was winning the Presidential Fitness Run in middle school when the two guys in front of me stopped after three laps thinking the race was over.

But probably sports-related.  As you can see, there is a lot to pick from.

Whatever it was, one thing is for certain: Being unable to control bodily functions while simply attempting to stand was definitely not it.

There are no more hills to climb.  I've crested my own personal Everest, though it was probably more like halfway to base camp.  

If I might inspire for a moment...

You will never be younger than you are today.  You will never have more time remaining on this Earth than you do right now.  Lastly, and may I say this one is far too often overlooked, you will never, ever be more continent than you are at this very second.

So hold it in, kings!  Hold it in while you still can.  Hold it as long as humanly possible.  (Actually, now that I’m looking on webMD that could be quite harmful, so maybe don’t try that last one.)

Thank you for allowing me that dalliance.

I remember when Mrs. Bone was proud of me for more momentous feats and occasions.  Things like remembering where I put the scissors, putting a fresh bag in the receptacle after I take out the trash, and finishing one bottle of water before I open three more.  (Just kidding about that last one.  I'm still chasing that elusive three-minute mile of husbanding.)

Now?

She's proud of me for what?  For powering through an unseemly and very public fit of flatulence and coming out the other side.

That's right, people.  My name is Bone.  I've fallen and I CAN get up!

Eventually.

I just make no promises as to what you may see, hear, or smell in the meantime.

Decembers

I hope I've been easier
Since I've been on the pills
Thank you for still being here
Dim valleys and high hills

Nashville in summertime
Face down on Fourth Avenue
Who'd have known that all along
It was me who needed you

I don't believe a lover
Should have to be that strong
Through the worst you stayed and made
My Decembers not so long

I have known your tenderness
And I have seen you fight
You loved me on darkened days
When I could not see a light

I love the girl you were
And the mother you came to be
And I love all the flowers
That you've grown inside of me

I've heard said love is ageless
I hope they're not wrong
Thanks for staying and making
My Decembers not so long

On obfuscation and isolation

Covid visited the Bone home last week.  Mrs. Bone tested positive on Tuesday morning and, Alabama being a community property state, she was legally required to share the virus with me.

I have no idea what variant we are on now -- omicron, epsilon, kappa kappa lambda -- but it felt like we pledged to a bad sorority.  And no, not the one that takes in the unpopular girls who couldn't get into any of the others.  And why did I go with sorority there rather than fraternity?

Anyhow, in our all-inclusive Greek-letter organization, we wear masks, compare the shades of our throatal mucous, and sleep eighteen hours a day.

I slept much of Wednesday and Thursday.  Felt a lot better Friday.  Then was afflicted with a migraine Saturday morning.  So a couple more hours of sleep.

Fortunately, the kids have been able to avoid it.  Though there's no telling what they may bring home next week from the Petri dish we call an elementary school.

This ordeal has brought to mind the uncertainty of the early days of Covid.  I suppose all times are uncertain but those seemed especially so.

Oh, we were so young and green to the ways of novel viruses and mortiferous pandemics.  It truly was a simpler time, before Moderna, N95, and Dr. Fauci entered the daily vernacular.

I was still working at the 911 Center at the time.  In hindsight, I think that was a good thing.  Getting to maintain some sense of normalcy by going into work every night.  And let me tell you, traffic was a delight.  Best part of the pandemic, by far.

Mrs. Bone and I got vaccinated, then boosted.  It seemed like a no-brainer.  People were dying.  Dad was in the hospital for a week.  My best friend's father died without a funeral.

It was tougher when it came to the kids.  It always is.  You live with the decisions you make for yourself.  It's a whole other world when it comes to making decisions that will affect someone else's life.  Decisions they are unable to make for themselves.

Luke was four and had asthma.  Harper was two.

Fortunately by then, the pandemic had been fully politicized.  Experts seemed to sprout up by the minute so, naturally, 100% complete and accurate information spread like kudzu.

I had thoughts of writing a book.  The title would be "Parenting in the Time of Covid."  I quickly realized the title would likely be, by far, the best part, and just like that, the book idea was off the table.

I think about how my grandparents or great-grandparents might have handled a thing such as Covid.  Probably would have just done whatever the doctor said, if they even went to the doctor.  Or perhaps a good old-fashioned blood-letting.

And I wonder about the things my children will face.  How will they know what to believe, what is real, what is truth?

For while there is a mind-boggling amount of information literally at my fingertips every second of every day, I can only imagine there is exponentially more misinformation.  You can find someone somewhere to agree with any bit of ludicrousness you might come up with.  A website or YouTube channel dedicated to any of a thousand conspiracy theories you might fancy.

Luke recently asked me why people fought wars and I reckon I had no good answer to give.  But I did think of this song.

Maybe it's not all about always knowing or finding the answers.  Maybe part of the answer is to never stop questioning.

Of course, what do I know?  I'm just a bumpkin who believes he lives on a round planet and that this whole climate change thing might not be a hoax after all.

Revisiting Theo

Vinyl was on its last legs when I began my long, mostly obscure radio career in 1990.  You would come in fifteen minutes before shift and "pull" your first hour of music.  This involved flipping through shelves of LPs and 45's which lined three walls of the studio.  

Working with two turntables, you'd have to select and backcue the next song while the current one was playing.  Everything was live.  Dead air was a sin.  So it was imperative to be prepared.

Record companies began sending us compact discs.  Some along with the vinyl album, and then eventually only CDs.  When the FM studio was built, there were two CD players and only one turntable.  Theo ultimately disconnected the turntable (possibly because I was going rogue and getting off format by playing too much old Charley Pride off vinyl late at night).

A few years later, everything began to be computerized and the art of the backcue was never fully appreciated again.

In the years since leaving radio, I've had a recurring dream about not being able to find the song I wanted to play next, panicking and having dead air. Commercials would be missing, or the ones in the racks would be outdated.  More recently, the situations within these dreams had become progressively worse.

At first, some of the discs were not in their usual location, but I was able to find them in another spot, a large filing cabinet in another room.  In subsequent dreams, more and more seemed to be missing, and I was no longer able to find them at all.  It was like someone (Theo?) was hiding them from me.

It got to where there were only a few songs available to play and I had never heard of any of them.

And then...

Two nights after I had written about Theo, I had another in this series of dreams.  Perhaps the finale.  

Again, I am at the station.  Except this time, there is no music.  Not a single song.  At least none that I can find.  There are fifteen minutes of dead air.  (Other than someone going off on a curse-filled tirade during the call-in request show, this is a DJ's worst nightmare.)  I just want to lie down in the floor and sob.

Then Theo appears.

He shows me a box full of carts and says the music has been transferred over to these tapes.  They are sort of like 8-tracks.  All the music is there.  Indexed.  Easily accessible.  

There is relief.  At long last, some resolution to this frustrating, anxiety-ridden series of dreams!

When I awoke and recalled the dream, I smiled.  Two nights after I had written about Theo, he had appeared.  But why?

Had Theo come to make peace?  Maybe he just wanted to let me know he was finally at peace.  Or perhaps I was holding onto something -- some conflict, some disharmony, something that just didn't sit right - and telling Theo's story had allowed me to let that go.

Or maybe it was just another dream, dreamt by an idiot, signifying not much of anything.

Either way, I thought it worthy of sharing.

Next, I think I shall write about my unresolved issues with Kristen Wiig.  See if she shows up!

Day is done

Backyard fireflies flicker in dusk light
Sliver of a silver August moon
Through Saharan dust haze
Soft breeze moves birch tree leaves
Traveler, put your cares away
It's end of day

Dog day cicadas sing summer's tune
Shades of blazing sunset hues
Slowly surely melt away
Bury all of your futile regrets
Deep beneath cold Earth clay
At end of day

Darkness anon will settle in
Greet you like a trusted friend
May the sky astound always
Take ye no thought for the morrow
No good comes from trouble borrowed
It's end of day

Tally what's been won and lost
And when you've figured up the cost
Throw the bill away
Nocturne bliss is all around
The grass is cool on stolen ground
At end of day

Ponder on how small we are
Marvel how the nearest star
Is still four lightyears away
What might have beens will never do
Put them to bed, clear the queue
It's end of day