Memories of Wheel Life

I don’t know what all the celebrating is about with regard to New Year’s. It usually begins with a headache and memory lapses for some and a new tax year for others. For me it’s a subtle reminder I’m one year older and there will be thousands of new cars on the road I will not be able to identify. Cars have become like birds and evergreen trees, they all look alike to me. Used to be you could I.D. a car from a mile away and most folks were known by what car or truck they drove.

You could also come pretty close to guessing their “well-off quotient.” Gone are the days when people were identified with what they drove, like Old George Roebuck down in Statesboro, who drove a green Ford pickup truck in the winter as a basketball coach and the same green truck in the summer as a house painter for 20 years. Coach Roebuck, a community icon, always recognizable by his green Ford truck.

Then there was Lew Cordell in Milledgeville, who always drove Cadillacs, even when his “driving” days were over. He had two and when he wrecked one he’d just pull the other one out and steer it until the first one was fixed. Of course, their vehicles were paid for.

Nowadays, a lot of us drive cars we either can’t afford or have no intention of paying off. Some still borrow a ride.

Early on, I always had to share a car with my brother because neither one of us wanted to work hard enough to have one for ourselves. We shared three different cars during our growing up period; one being a ’59 Chevy Biscayne, three on the column and light enough that if the battery went dead, (which it often did) you could start it up by getting it rolling, jumping in at the right time and popping the clutch. You’d have that thing started before you could say help. I took Anita fishing in that car, somewhere down in Kathleen, got stuck in a mud hole and never saw her again. I don’t think we even took any bait now that I think about it. I loved that ’59 Chevy, no seatbelts and big ol’ seats.

When my brother and I didn’t have “our” car, we would borrow one. Jim Dooley, a roommate at Georgia Southern, had a ’56 Buick Special, big ol’ “thang” with fins, a big ol’ steering wheel, and big ol’ seats. Gas was 32 cents a gallon, and if you filled it to the quarter mark you were considered full of gas. Did I mention the seats? I borrowed that car on a spring night and picked Barbara up for a trip to “the lake” where I shut the lights out prematurely, hammered a guy wire, started a fireworks display and sent the campus of Georgia Southern into the dark ages for the remainder of the evening. Barbara soon took up with somebody who had his own car.

The following fall I borrowed my Aunt’s green ’58 Studebaker in Knoxville, Tenn., after hitching a ride with Mike Channel from Warner Robins. Carol and I were going to the Maryville College football game. My aunt failed to tell me the Studebaker’s heater only worked on odd days and that Friday happened to be the 16th of November. Carol never wrote me back after that but I believe those seats were a green plastic vinyl and colder than a well digger’s derriere in the Klondike.

So as the New Year arrives I’m thankful for my family, the fact that I can still recognize most of them by their old cars, and for these nice heated seats I found in my “new” ’06 Solara.

The History of Debt

I was talking to a friend the other day who was concerned about our country’s debt and that we seem to be borrowing loads of money from the Chinese. I said, “Doesn’t worry me in the least, friend. You see, I understand the history of debt, borrowing and such.”

Now, for what it’s worth (probably not much), here’s my opinion on the debt “crisis.” Debt was probably introduced around 2000 B.C. (before credit) in the garden when a rib was borrowed from Adam and given to the creator of all debt — the woman.

This is not to say that the woman was at fault but she simply began, refined and took debt to a level probably not envisioned by Solomon himself. This process took eons and began with the invention of the shoe and crude jewelry.

Shoes and jewelry, quality be dashed, rendered the woman helpless around the time merchants were invented. Since this was before the time of plastic, which has greatly enhanced the woman’s ability to increase debt exponentially (a word I have never understood but know it’s a lot of something), debt didn’t grow much initially.

It took the invention of the purse to fertilize the womans’ ability to increase debt as she found a place to store and hide what she bought.

Mankind has always borrowed, shared wealth and shown an amazing ability toward greed, but recent developments have taken this to the next level.

I’m reminded of the archaic practice of cave dwellers seen dragging women around by their hair. There seems to be an opinion out there that says, “what’s mine is mine and what’s your’s might be mine too if I can figure out a way to make it happen.”

Was this borrowing, sharing or just plain ol’ greed? The invention of the plastic card, which occurred around the time divorce and palimony were invented, jump started the debt we know and love today.

The card had a two-fold effect on people, decreasing their I.Q. while destroying their ability to remember what it was they charged. So at this point in time we really have no idea how much money we owe, nor do we care.

The inventors of the plastic card realized early on that if they sent it via mail we would use it. Now we see millions of Neanderthals spending money they do not have.

Am I saying here that our plastic card dilemma is only the womans’ fault? Of course not.

Men are occasionally seen making purchases, but more often than not, they are buying for women. Most men find using the plastic card boring. It’s the exchange of cash, real money that gets men excited. We see these exchanges taking place almost every day on the street in downtown Macon, as men barter their way to a healthier lifestyle. No I’m not worried about the debt, but our creditors might be another story.

We Be Crammin'

"Cruisin” was something we used to do around McDonald’s or maybe Krystal over in Warner Robins. “Not, anymore” as my wife likes to say. “Cruisin” has now embarked on a major eating/drinking tour of the islands or some other destination where the water is blue and you might be too, if you insist on eating your way south.
Eye fatigue set in early from watching folks chew. I now understand why a restaurant waiter might consider taking his/her own life. Have you ever watched cows over in “dairy country” (Putnam County)? Now you’ve got the picture.

My wife and I cruised last week on the “We Be Crammin’” (Marley) cruise line, and found ourselves bloated and in a country where everyone rides a scooter, speaks a different language, and either wears the same helmet or is related. I saw the same guy 20 times or 20 different guys carrying somebody’s wife and two kids on a Vespa scooter. He looked like a balancing act from the old Ed Sullivan show.
Upon embarkation (ship talk for leaving) I had to, of course, call mom and tell her all about the Dramamine. She laughed her head off, “Are you kidding, you won’t even know you’re moving!” Well, we were either moving or the passengers were having a Mai Tai moment.
The staggering continued throughout the cruise as many of the men went into their second trimester of “pregnancy” on board the good ship “Buffet,” courtesy of the “all you can eat ‘free’ food.”
Passengers were allowed to major in whatever their favorite food group happened to be, so I chose butter. I put it on everything but the ice cream. There were 40 year olds who majored in ice cream, but they had to wait in line. The butter was always available. No waiting.
We hit the sun deck early the next morning on what the “Buffet” calls “augmentation/line dance day” and I got to see some really interesting breast implants and tattoos doing the electric slide. The “blue card” they give you will buy anything on the ship, but I doubt those were on the menu.
After two days of eating/drinking and line dancing to burn it all off, we arrived on the island to the sound of mariachi bands and people with lots of clothes for sale.
Most of the folks on the ship had gone from one size to one size fits all and the dressing rooms were full of those trying to fit into the size they had before we embarked.
Tears followed, but the natives encouraged us to drown our sorrows in Tequila. Tequila gives me heartburn so I stayed depressed on day three.

Day four it’s back on the boat for more line dancing and karaoke. No one cares anymore so karaoke is a big hit. Most of the participants are wearing spandex tops and bottoms. The colors are magnificent. On the evening of day four and still hundreds of miles from port, cruising at 15 knots, my wife says, “I think I’ve had enough Diet Coke.” “Uh,” says I. “Did you bring any Rolaids?” Are we moving yet? How far are the bathrooms? Who finished my last drink? Where’s me spandex shorts be?
Will we go again? Of course. We saw some things and met some folks that made us feel really great. Like the mom spanking her mouthy 14 year old; the double lung transplant from Puerto Rico, on a trip she cherished with her relatives; the newlyweds who couldn’t wait to find their stateroom; the ruins (which are actually just that — ruined) and too much to tell here.
Who knows, we be Crammin’ to Hawaii one o’ des days, hopefully on de good ship “Buffet.”

The Black Bean

There she sat, eyeballing some Newman’s Own Salsa, the kind with the black beans and corn in it. Loves it on just about anything, which is what we were eating that evening. I saw her eyes move to the last one on her plate...A big bean he was, standing out among the corn and tomatoes and begging to be eaten. Her eyes got that glazed over look and I knew she was probably having one of those epiphanies that usually lead to me doing something around the house. “This color would look great on our shutters” she muttered, moving him around the plate. “Sure would, I said, save it.” She likes the stuff so much I knew there was no way big guy was going to make it into a plastic bag. I figured I’d be safe when she finally finished him off because as they say, “in the tummy, out of mind”. It makes me shutter to think about it because all our shutters are fifteen feet off the ground and the ladder I use every ten years to paint stops at ten. After that it’s me, a gallon of paint, and a brush, balancing on rung number one. Around the neighborhood they refer to me as “Mr. Wallenda”. Not that I mind painting understand, in fact I used to paint for money…now I just paint for love. It seems the sight of me holding a paint brush does wonders for the wife’s libido… that and the weedwacker. I try to weedwack once a day whether the place needs it or not. Our yard looks like the Sahara Desert but with gas at $4.00 a gallon, I may have to cut back to every other day. But I digress…again.

She ate him … but he had left one of those indelible marks on her brain, or maybe her taste buds, and so she still wanted to paint. So we developed the project sans bean, which was a real gamble, considering the value of our house is dropping like cow manure on its way to becoming a paddy. So I said, “You know, I think I remember that thing having a little red in it.” She picked her teeth and said, “Yep, I think you’re right”. “But that could have been the tomatoes in the salsa”, I said. “Could have” she nodded. I’m feeling like that little guy with the flower, “she’ll love me, she’ll love me not”, but we’re having the longest conversation we’ve had in days and I’m rather enjoying it. We finally settled on something that had the color of one of the dogs’ collars, reddish/black/maroon. The guy at the paint store didn’t like salsa but said “black bean is a color you know.” I thought I might find it somewhere near an illegal immigrant poster but went with the dog collar color.

Our shutters are currently green, so we’re looking at two coats for optimum coverage. I’m the idiot who put the green on there and I regret it. We could have gotten by with one coat, my painting philosophy being, if they can’t see it from the road, why bother. But ol’ “Beana Reena” wanted green so…So I called a good friend, who is a great painter and claims to be the guy who came up with the, “it ain’t the fall that hurts, it’s the sudden stop” adage and he convinced me we could get the shutters painted in record time if I would pay him a decent wage, buy him a ‘cuttin’ brush and put gas in his Lincoln, which he can drive to Myrtle Beach and half way back on a tank of gas. So I agreed to pay him something less than what is fair, being he’s my friend. We spent the next day painting shutters and talking basketball. He was just one shot short of the NBA in the eighties and I was thirty dollars short of being able to watch it on cable.

We finished the shutters with no mishaps and Mrs. “Mona Lisa” appears to be happy. Well, gotta get to the store for some gas. Time to fire up the ol’ weed wacker.