Peanut Farmers

I’ve thought about physically enhancing myself ever since a student popped up in a high school hallway one day and referred to me as “old baldhead”. That was twenty years ago and I had no idea I was in fact follically (don’t bother, I made it up) challenged. I went home that very afternoon, looked into a silver backed mirror I knew would tell me the truth and discovered I was indeed, heir to the Sean Connery dynasty. What else could I do…my hair was gone. I suppose I could have had a Biden hair transplant and a little plastic surgery and while today’s innovative marketers have expanded it to mean additional stuff, I just wasn’t into enhancement. So, in an effort to stay positive with this situation, I began to watch 007’s movies, realizing he was not only able to drive really fast without having an accident but in fact spent a large amount of time with fashionable females who found him “acceptable”, so to speak, in spite of his shortcoming.

Years ago down in Statesboro, we had what we used to call peanut farmers, weather beaten old salts whose faces looked like roadmaps when they came in to drop off their peanuts at the Rushing peanut plant. The plant was a combination tobacco barn and peanut receiving plant, where farmers brought their crop in for weighing and shipping in big trucks to Virginia, who then claimed they were Virginia peanuts and sent them on to the factory in Never Never Land where they became Peter Pan peanut butter. The farmers who brought them in were an amazing bunch of Americans who had probably done more physical labor in one month than Peter Pan ever thought of but he could fly so that evens it up. Their faces reflected years in the sun and seemed to be an open book into the lives they were living to bring the peanuts to a country using peanuts for everything from brittle to fudge. They didn’t know what sunscreen was back then and plastic surgery was deemed an extreme measure used to disguise years on life’s “tractor” and taken only when the potential new wife was the daughter’s best friend. Something we would never stoop to today. But it is possible they just didn’t care that their faces looked like a hundred miles of bad road and were in fact satisfied with the woman who had born their children and been a helpmate for the years following the wedding vows. They were just not into enhancement, although a few may have tried their luck. After all, it’s like going to Vegas and rolling the dice. Will this make me look more beautiful or more intelligent or just give me more lips and fewer lines? So what you had coming into the peanut plant was the real deal…weather beaten, ornery, might drink a beer on Saturday afternoon and still make it to church on Sunday, peanut farmer. When they lined their trailers full of peanuts up on ol’ Zetterhower street you could see the look on those worn faces that seemed to be saying, “Don’t mess with me, this is my place in line and by god I’m getting these things weighed and on to Never Never Land before sundown.” The thought that Peter Pan, who, as we all know, was older than he appeared and may very well have had a plastic surgery moment, never occurred to these men of the fields. So what is it with the Bruce Jenner usetabees and Phyliss Diller neverwases that makes them want to erase a hundred years of bad road and replace it with three square inches of wax? After all, it’s the only road they’ll ever own, unless their driveway qualifies…and they may as well lay claim to the road they’ve traveled. I think it has a lot to do with how you view Peter Pan. The peanut farmer I knew was focused on one thing, getting the crop to the Peter Pan people for the peanut butter. These other folks are focused on their thing, getting the most out of a face in order to look like Peter Pan when they’re ninety. You really can’t fault either one; after all, it’s their road.

Learning A Lot From Dogs

From the day I picked him up over in Eufaula, Ala., 12 years ago to the day I laid him to rest in the woods out back he made a difference in my life. He never weighed more than six pounds, but he was the “big dog” where ever he happened to be.
He had this presence that demanded your attention and respect. With just a snort or a bark, he could let you know how he felt about a situation and usually get his way. He was, as they say, “the runt of the litter” and, as he matured, had no hair except that on his face. We had that in common.
He was a Yorkshire Terrier, but took no stock in that or his status in the community of dogs. He was a special little fellow whose name was Deuce (from the tied score in a tennis match), and he was a fair-minded guy who knew when the other “dog” needed to win. “All bark and no bite,” as they say.
He was content with having a contest with most anything that could be tugged at, and he spent many a day tugging socks with Daisy, his “wife.” Daisy left us two years ago, the victim of a hit and run. She’s also in the woods out back.
Deuce saw most of the Eastern half of the U.S., from south Florida to D.C., and had pictures to prove it. He toured D.C. on a bicycle, left his mark on most of the Smithsonian buildings and played on the tennis courts in Fort Myers. While he never made it to New York, he seemed to be content with Milledgeville and her people, wagging his tail and barking whenever a visitor came to his house.
He never asked for more food than offered nor saw a female dog he didn’t love. I guess he was what we call fiscally conservative and socially liberal. Of all the talks we had, we never talked politics so I don’t know how he would have voted in the recent presidential election, but he would have voted.
I never saw him take a life, lizard or bug, but he was a staunch defender of his home, barking whenever anyone came up the driveway. I guess he had one of those “live and let live” attitudes. He didn’t own a gun.
Deuce never fathered offspring. Females found him rather rough looking and maybe the timing was never just right. I remember taking him to the park one afternoon for tennis matches and introducing him to this “knock out” female lying in the grass over by the courts. Deuce had his visor on and I thought he looked his best, sort of sporty and all. Well, she gave him the “what ghetto you from” look, swished her tail and walked away. Not fazed by this behavior, the little guy simply walked over to her owner’s purse cocked his leg and left the impression that he just didn’t care.
It is amazing how one of these little guys can steal your heart, as he did mine, barking and excited to see someone they care about after a day’s work. We could learn a lot from dogs.
Near the end he had several medical problems as most aging dogs do and developed an ulcerated eye. I took him to an eye specialist in Athens who took the eye out and recommended a prosthetic eye for replacement. We opted for a patch. I don’t think he ever missed that eye.We had him for a few more months and then one day I came home. I knew he was ready to leave. The last words he heard from me were, “you were a good dog.” Yes, he was a good dog and I miss him.

The Great Ear Ache of 09'

After finding out the cost of ear drops I decided to drop the President a note. It went something like this:
Dear Mr. President,
For seven days now I’ve been through the nightmare of an ear that can no longer hear and only ache. I’ve stuck everything I can think of in there to no avail and as a last resort must resort to appealing to a higher power for help. This all started with my irresponsible behavior at the lake, swimming with reckless abandon underwater with no ear plugs. After that it was first one thing and then another as I began the process of prodding my ear into hearing again. I’ve drained, flushed, pulled, blow dried and speared my ear with cue tips in an effort to get some relief but like the Katrina survivors, the water just won’t go away. I’ve spent seven days listening to my dentures rattling around in my mouth, my heart beating and echoes from noises I cannot describe but know are there. I’ve chewed food in a state of torture similar, I’m sure, to what the CIA must have done to numerous suspected terrorists, as I hear my teeth coming together with each bite, a grinding hollow sound followed by swallowing which I will not attempt to describe here for fear it would offend. Suffice to say, if your health care program can give me relief, count on my vote in the next election. The last time I heard, ear drops were running about a hundred seventy dollars without insurance and a hundred and six with it.
Sincerely,
A potential supporter when you run for re-election

So, there it is, and I didn’t even mention the hemorrhoids, which I’m sure will be covered somewhere in that one thousand page bill. If they’re not, our political geniuses would be woefully neglectful voting “yes”. I wonder what hemorrhoid would come under. Probably hidden somewhere under “recoverable assets” or something like that. Well, we bailed out the banks, what’s the problem?

I don’t know beans about the healthcare debate. All I know is when I was growing up my dad made many a decision based on security for his family and that included health care. Any job he chose to take, after Air Force retirement, had to include health care for his wife and five children. Oh, he had many an opportunity to speculate on various employment opportunities, make no mistake. Ol’ Bill Slater would come by at least once a year and dangle a financial karat in dad’s face. “Harmon, he’d say, this cannot miss!” Whether it was trampolines at the beach or a goofy golf course in some remote area next to a Dairy Queen, ol’ Bill had it going on. Dad never bit. He always put his family ahead of the karat and made sure health care was in the package.
We all grow up looking at security, money and jobs in different ways. Some take chances, some find security with education, and some just work their tails off looking for a better life. Some of us are chance takers and some just aren’t and just like dad, I’ve always opted for the security of a job that carries good health insurance. I figure most of us are like that. But then we have others of us who, for whatever reasons, just can’t seem to get a handle on a job that carries health benefits. Oh I know those of us who have it pay a lot for it but it’s where we want to be with ourselves and our family’s wellbeing. A fundamental difference between a liberal and a conservative might be in their view of security and its source. I’ll leave the rest up to the voter. Now, as for that ear ache. I’d actually had it for so long the experience of hearing out of one ear was beginning to grow on me. It’s amazing what you can hear when you only have one ear working. Some call it selective hearing. With only one ear you’re very careful about what goes in the ear and what comes out your mouth. I suppose we all could use a little more of that.

Of Mice and Men

They said it was “the worst one we’ve ever seen”. And as I sit here now I still cannot believe there was more than just one. It’s called denial and we do it all the time around here. The car begins to sound funny when you start it up and you think after a while, well, it’s still starting, must be normal for this time of mileage. A mouse runs across the kitchen floor and you think, well, he’s probably just trying to beat the heat. Denials always start with the word, “well” for some reason. You see this dark little shadow scurrying along the baseboard in the living room and think, well, I must be seeing things, there’s no way that mouse could have made it in here. Well, he didn’t, they did and according to the “experts” we have a problem and they are partying in just about every room in this house. I thought we had just one, sort of a pet you might say, and even wondered why the dogs (who couldn’t catch a mouse) would, for no apparent reason, go into a barking frenzy right there in the living room but figured, well, they hear a lot better than I, maybe there’s a deer outside. Mouse pellets were found in the pantry on the third shelf and in my denial it became obvious to me that we had a gifted little fellow capable of climbing and squeezing between shelves until he found what he wanted. Well, I thought, he’s quite the circus mouse, this one is (so I named him Barnum). I thought of Steven King’s cute little fellow in The Green Mile. Well, there is no way I am going to risk harming our gifted little visitor who, after all, is only one and just trying to stay cool. Enter the daughter and a friend from Tennessee, who has had extensive training in mouse affairs and in fact may be considered a czar in these matters. She says, “Daddy, according to my friend here, who’s considered a czar where mice are concerned, we are experiencing an infestation.” “Really, I say, is he an exterminator?” “No, but he’s worked on oil pipelines”, she says. Well, then what could he possibly know about my circus mouse. “They’re stealing the dogs’ food, bringing in pine straw and paper and setting up house in the attic, for Pete’s sake! We could start a pellet farm in my old bedroom”, she says. Well, maybe he’s got a girlfriend like ol’ Mickey…wouldn’t want to deny him one of life’s necessities. We could handle two. “We’ve got to get a cat, she says, and it would have to be a wild one.” “That won’t work, says the pipeline exterminator trained mouse czar, there’s too many now for just one wild cat.” Well, I’ve never seen more than one. “Do you guys have insurance for this sort of thing?” he says. “Mouse insurance?” “We’ve always been more concerned about termites, if you want the truth, I lament, looks like we put our eggs in the wrong nest.” “You’d better call an expert”, he says. “Well, why do that, I seem to have two standing right here.” “We did put some poison out last night”, he says. Well, it appears these two are determined to kill Mr. Barnum Trapeze and his significant other by any means available. “You might see them acting weird, going in circles and looking for a drink.”, he says. Well, that’s pretty much normal behavior around here after five.
Tonight I found my Barnum and Bailey pride and joy lying on the kitchen floor. Got there just in time to see a tear in his eye and a look that seemed to say, “Thanks for a couple of months of leftovers in air conditioned comfort. Take care of the family (not sure if he meant his or mine) and for Pete’s sake, get some dogs with a sense of smell!” Little fellow had one hell of a vocabulary for a mouse.