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.

Old School Logic

Juanita Harvey was her name, and she was my sixth grade teacher, but if she taught school today, she’d be looking for work as an ex-teacher. She was a wonderful teacher, and you always knew where you stood academically because at the end of each six week period you were seated according to your grade average. Those who worked hard and made the grade were assigned seats to the right of class beginning with the student with the top average. Those not performing well enough were assigned accordingly in seats to the left. I got off the last row to the left once with a seventy-seven average and was ecstatic. Mr. Cochran, our principal, who was years ahead of his peers and one of the most admirable school administrators I’ve ever known, visited on occasion and always found twenty-five students “on task”. That’s a term we use today to signify students are busy with academic work and not using cell phones to twitter and text or verbally assaulting another student.

Mrs. Harvey was a large woman, dark hair and tall, but not over weight, big enough to intimidate us sixth graders physically and intelligent enough to let us know she knew a whole lot more than we did intellectually. When you entered her room there was something in the air that said, “Do your work, pay attention and learn, and you will survive”. It wasn’t a slogan on the wall somewhere; it was a feeling she projected the moment you came under her umbrella of influence. I came within a “U” of not making it to seventh grade but it was the best year of my educational life.

Because of this seating arrangement and the fact that she would “get on to you” when you didn’t perform to your capabilities, Mrs. Harvey would probably not be employed in today’s market. She would actually say in a loud voice, “I know you can do better than this!” After that a report card would go home with the appropriate number of “unsatisfactory” or U’s on it, and if it were I, there would be accounting to be done at home with two people who were convinced I was normal but perhaps distracted and in fact could do better and it was probably either their fault or mine if I didn’t. Today there’s a different philosophy out there that seems to be saying, “Mrs. Harvey, what’s your problem and why is my “disadvantaged” son unable to read?” No, Mrs. Harvey would not have survived because she believed the responsibility for the education of the child fell first on the parent and second on Mrs. Harvey. So she would have said, “Your son can’t read because you didn’t read to him, preferring instead to watch reality television and soaps. We have math, science, English, and geography, among other subjects to teach your sixth grade child which means reading is a ways down on the list. What have you been doing for twelve years?” Or perhaps in a last ditch effort to reach the parent she might have used the soaps and done it this way.

“You need to be more of a Guiding Light for your child so they can see the way in which The World Turns. Remember, they only have One Life to Live and you need to be there in their Search For Tomorrow. Set the proper example by becoming a reader yourself and develop a Love of Life, not just a love of reality television, you can pass on to your child. As The World Turns, The Days of Our Lives run out and so must your time as a parent. Today’s children are Young and Restless and require commitment and guidance from you, the parent, or they will soon find themselves in Another World, a world of constantly being behind The Bold and Beautiful people, who learned how to read, study, and pursue excellence.” Yes, that’s what Mrs. Harvey would have said as she packed her books, pencils, and paper and bid a fond farewell to parents who didn’t deserve her in the first place.

She Was There

I suppose we all have a special place, a place where, when we visit, life’s memories can be called up by the simple act of standing quietly for a moment and waiting…waiting to hear from people, pets and times that made us who we became. Maybe you’d call it home. I took a trip back to Knoxville, Tennessee, this past week and visited with an old friend I consider to be home. She just happens to be a house, but she’s still standing and still giving off that biblical look that seems to say, “Come unto me all ye who labor and are heavy-laden and I will give you rest.” And although my loved ones were no longer there, she gave up her memories as I stood in the old driveway and looked up at windows that had peered out on eighty years of dreams lost and found, loved ones in a Normandy grave, marriages lasting sixty years, children gone too soon, and Papa Jack, an old Kentuckian and my grandfather. She was his house, built on a hill, and surrounded by hundred year oak trees with acorns and leaves in the fall and plenty of shade for summers. She gave shelter and love for many years to those who lived there, which is why, I suppose, she’s still standing. Two stories with an attic full of bedtime stories waiting to be read by loving aunts, a staircase that creaked and moaned and a grandfather clock chiming the hour to signal the arrival of various “ghosts” heard late in the night. She heard the news December seventh, 1941 when one of her “sons” realized his life would never be the same. She was there on November 22, 1963 when our country “grew up” and again on April fourth, 1968 when we realized we had not grown enough. She saw pets and people come and go, like old Chipper, the sweet, golden cocker spaniel, whose ears shared the food bowl each time he ate and my cousin's dog Spike, who roamed the woods out back until a car caught up with him on Sharp’s Ridge. She heard Santa's bells on Christmas Eve as he drove his sleigh through her woods, and always stopped whether we were naughty or nice. And she watched as Aunt Jo beat the batter of chocolate into homemade fudge. We had quite a visit as she reminded me of those Fatima cigarettes Papa Jack would smoke. They were, “the most powerful draw of tobacco made and would take your head clean off” (Dirty Harry). He lit those Fatimas with a bona fide, long stick, strike anywhere, sulfur match, the smell of which never left the house and in fact is probably still there today, floating high in the rafters. We listened to baseball on the front porch by radio and Papa Jack could make you think you were behind the dugout with a bag of peanuts. I swear it was as real as going to Turner Field and not near as pricey. I have no idea how many more times I’ll be seeing my old friend. No doubt she will out live me and when she goes a century of memories go with her. But in her brick and mortar will lay the bits and pieces of who I am today, a grateful son for all the people who lived in that old house. I’m grateful for the morning devotionals, the unconditional love and charity shown each day by those who lived there and Papa Jack, my grandfather. Most of us have a place, someplace really special, where we can stand and wait …wait for the memories to come... the memories that tell us who we are. Dorothy was right you know, “There’s no place like home.” I hope you’ve found yours.