Life Along the Way----Remembering Kindness

I shuffled in late to homeroom that cold January morning. My penny loafers, so cool in 'The Wonder Years' of seventh grade (and now) made that scuffing sound against the creaky wood floors at 'Old Junior' High in Enterprise, AL. I wished the shoes would have shut up. I was crying. It was not what a 13 year old boy living in the Deep South wanted to portray at that age.

My dad was on his second deployment to Vietnam. His first tour was far more dangerous, but I was in fourth grade then and the idea that he would not return home was foreign to my mind. This was the second time around. Pop had already been deployed, but his dad had become ill and he was flown home over Christmas Holidays to tend my grandpa. Once he was well, Pop vanished as quick as he came, back to Vietnam as he was CO of a helicopter maintenance company. I spent most of that year worrying about him, thinking I would never see him again. The toxic chemicals brewing in 13 year olds cause the emotions and brain to function in unusual ways.

My homeroom teacher was a professional in every respect of the word. You earned your grades. You behaved in class. We loved her and respected her. She was not exceptional; she was typical of teachers in Enterprise in 1968. I melted into my desk, and buried my head, embarrassed that I was crying in the seventh grade. The eyes of Alabama were upon me, at least that is how it felt. My ears were burning like a couple of Ol Diz briquets.  I remember our teacher speaking very plainly to the homeroom class. “Mark’s dad had to return to Vietnam today”. That is all she had to say. I have always wondered how she knew.

What struck me then and what stays with me now is the silent respect my classmates gave me. All the homeroom chattering stopped. No word was said, none were needed. I wonder if 12 and 13 year old kids would have understood that moment today. I wonder.

This little story is not an attempt to garner sympathy for my seventh grade episode; actually the incident is just the impetus to reveal the intention of this tale. There was no doubt that this was a tough year in my life; hey, who didn't have a tough year in junior high?
 My memories are more about these kids I spent all but one of my 7-12 grade years. There was a sense of goodness in them.

A powerful word in my life is simply the word 'kind'. There is a warmth to it, an action to it. My friends were simply kind to me that day. I remember the kind people forever. I spend very little energy focusing on mean, petty, malcontents. They are  poison ivy to the soul. Don't touch them, these kvetchers will infect you with a churlish itch.

I was expecting, being the ‘new kid’ and an Army brat to boot,  it would be difficult making friends in a small southern town of children who had known each other all their lives. My expectations were simply wrong. A number of kids who befriended me in the seventh grade are Facebook friends to this day. I don’t ever recall being looked down on because I was an Army kid, in fact, the respect my classmates rendered that day left an indelible impression on me; they were raised with an innate ability to care, to respect, to love, to be kind. 

I saw something the other day from a European newspaper that asked people to give one word to describe certain states in the U.S. One, of course, was Alabama and the results were not pretty. In fact, some of the descriptions were so ridiculously ignorant  that I just had to laugh. Is the South perfect? Hardly, as we humans aren’t perfect and that applies to every region of our country.

But I deeply love my little state of Alabama and there is a kind spirit among her people that permeates their souls. There is STILL a sense of goodness in them. Enterprise, Alabama is simply a microcosm of small town decency that is the backbone of the Deep South.

Life Along the Way----That Thing You Do

_{Do you have a ‘thing’ that you do—something so simplistic, almost not worth mentioning, but it gives you great pleasure?  It may be something that may even be a ‘secret’, not because it is some nefarious deed, but it wouldn’t even hold others interest?  So trying to hold your attention until the end may be a challenge, but hang with me.} 

<sub>Mine involves a trip. I suppose it goes back to our gypsy roots as a military family, I have always enjoyed ‘a ride’. Firing up my trusty pickup, I make an early Sunday morning run to Wal Mart or Home Depot. (Mouses are clicking off this blog now.)

Sometimes I have my constant slips of paper, scratched with writing that was once considered cursive; now it is simply a form of shorthand that is about as difficult to decode as the German Enigma machine. Sometimes I just go, not knowing which store I am going to until I get there. I live on the edge.</sub>

_{Today I had a purpose. We are going to make some chicken stir fry later in the week and Annie forgot the frozen Bird’s Eye veggies and the low sodium Kikkoman.  I added a CD, the Eagles Greatest Hits. And of course I cannot forget the Diet Mt. Dew, the drink of choice for my journey.} 

_{From there, I take the long way home. It is a beautiful little drive through a community called Pike Road, a truly idyllic southern hamlet fenced neatly providing security to cows, horses, goats, mules and donkeys.} 

_{The speed limit is around 50. I rarely drive the speed limit, which makes all the city folk mad-- the ones who have moved to the McMansion subdivisions that are springing up in Pike Road---you know, the folks who want to ‘slow down and escape the fast life of the city.’  There is a certain irony as I open my new CD and play ‘Life in the Fast Lane' as I drive 45. To many of you, this is not a surprise. Additionally, I lower all 4 windows in my quad cab and turn the A/C on full blast, remembering  the days of my youth with plenty of air and noise flowing through a vehicle. It also clears out the dog hair, as Millie and Lucy have probably been in my truck at least once or twice in the last week.}

  _{I pass by my Anne Alan’s riding stable and wave, knowing she is probably home enjoying a cup of coffee, but I wave anyway. A right turn puts me on the final leg of the journey. Sipping on my Diet Dew, I breeze by Debbie and Ed’s home, hoping to see them out front with one of the many rescue dogs making a temporary home with them.  I wave again if they are not out. I pass the ball park where I have spent many Saturdays with the Miracle League and think about the good times I have enjoyed for a number of years now.} 

_{The final stretch on my little junket is a pretty view this time of year, as one of the subdivisions has planted white crepe myrtles as a privacy hedge. Turning on our street, the windows go up, the music goes down, and the girls wait at the back door like I have been to London. I will settle for a quiet trek through Pike Road.  I have learned long ago to live for the simple pleasures. I have fewer days left on this earth than I have lived. That is not fatalistic, it is just a fact. And I am going to enjoy them all!}

Life Along the Way-----Summertime Blues, Red Dirt, and Sweat

Summer Solstice will occur June 21, 2014. The official first day of summer, except in Alabama. The old joke down here is that Alabama has two seasons: Summer and February. Spring was as pollen ridden as I can ever recall. Two steroid shots instead of one had to get me through the season this year, both equally stinging like a shot of Louisiana Hot Sauce in the butt. Allergies aside, May and June have actually been decent, I wouldn’t say pleasant, but decent, with copious amounts of rain. The weekends have been filled with dueling 4 stroke and 2 stroke motors all over the neighborhood, cutting grass, edging driveways, weed-eating pesky dandelions, and manicuring hedges. 

I had a late haircut tonight. I walked out to a friendly night air we call balmy. It is that warm, happy air that surrounds you and takes you to places like the Gulf Of Mexico, porch swings, camp sites, night fishing. It even smells friendly. I suppose those who know Mr. Balmy also get this description, especially when compared to his evil cousin Humidity. 

 

There are times in Alabama, usually in July and August that the days are so laden with heat and humidity, you sometimes wonder if this stuff we inhale (with some difficulty) has any oxygen composition at all. And while southerners know we will endure this torture year after year, it is still incredulous that at 9PM, the temperature will be 90 degrees with stifling humidity. 

Air conditioning sure changed things in the South. Businesses started posting signs on the doors with a little penguin blowing vapor breath with the words, “Come on in, it’s COOL inside!” My first memory of this life saving invention is still clear. During those Ft. Benning/Columbus GA years in the mid 60’s, I played with reckless abandon; riding my Schwinn Typhoon on pot-holed streets, exploring the woods with my Daisy BB gun, picking teams for a schoolyard game of baseball, and sweating.  A kid would sweat those reddish streaky lines, indicating a day mixed with perspiration and the red clay that constitutes much of the good earth of the Deep South. My buddies and I seemed to be gone all day, breaking only for a quick PB&J for lunch. By the time supper rolled around, Ol Humidity caused layers of fine dusty clay, brought on by one activity after another, more sweat, more dirt. Mamas greeted these little dirt daubers with, “Boy, go get in the shower NOW! And soap-up a washcloth!”

Back to air conditioning. My first encounter was one of those noisy window units, installed in the living room at my buddy Brad’s home. His family seemed like they were up on all the ‘latest things’ and even had factory air conditioning in their 66 Chevy Impala. I thought they were rich, but actually his dad was just like everyone else, carving out a living as a car salesman at the local Chevy dealer.  He was able to drive a demo, I suppose. 

The window unit became our new best friend. After a ball game, we adjusted the vents just right, some pulled up a few chairs; others sat on the floor and took in this most glorious substance. I know his mom must have been glad we were all around 10; while we were dirty we lacked the real ‘boy funk’ that would kick in a few years later. A gaggle of 10 year old boys taking in the cold air was tolerable.  A gang of 13 year olds in the same sweaty state would have caused his mom to shoo us with a broom and a can of Lysol.

 

Summer in the South now has us scurrying from one air conditioned box to another via a smaller air conditioned box on wheels. I am not complaining. But as I age, I am growing in appreciation for that friendly Mr. Balmy. His cousin Humidity can return to Hades as far as I am concerned. Until then (November) I will fight him with every Btu that our system can muster.

Places Along the Way----The Hidey-Hole

Have you ever read The Yearling by Marjorie Kennan Rawlings? Yes I know…it is an ‘Old Yeller’ story that people do not like to revisit. I have enjoyed re-reading this book over the years, not necessarily for the plot, but for the character development and the incredibly descriptive language that Ms. Rawlings used in portraying life in the Florida scrub. Her book Cross Creek is also a gem as it tells of her transition from New York to a 72 acre Florida scrub orange grove. 

The first chapter of The Yearling captured me immediately, as the young protagonist, Jody, built his first ‘fluttermill’ on a clear creek bank: He watched the fluttermill indolently, sunk in the sand and the sunlight. The movement was hypnotic. His eyelids fluttered with the palm-leaf paddles. Drops of silver slipping from the wheel blurred together like the tail of a shooting star. The water made a sound like kittens lapping.  It is the kind of writing that is truly American---full of simple symbolism without trying to impress by going to a thesaurus. 

I had a place like Jody’s creek bank when I was a kid at Ft. Rucker. Below the man-made small reservoir, Lake Tholocco,  Four Mile Creek ran north to south through Ft. Rucker. My buddies and I found it frequently in our explorations through the heavy hardwoods and piney forests of the Army post. Many times I would simply go by myself. Today, parents would demand an Amber Alert for the amount of time I would disappear into the solitude of the gurgling creek. I usually told my mom that I was going ‘to the woods’. That was enough. No cell phones, no GPS, just, ‘I am going to the woods’. It was a different time. I wrote this description many years ago of my little hidey-hole. Hope you enjoy it:

Carved out of the sandy red dirt, hardwoods and pines of Dale Co., Ft Rucker was a young explorer’s dream. I had a secret place, a familiar junction, where I would steal away in the woods near our home.  It was a quiet haunt by Four Mile Creek, a refuge from the summer heat, tranquil with the placidity of an early Sunday morning. The water had worn the sand into and fine, clean, grain, cool to the touch. I loved sitting with my shirtless, tanned back resting on the swollen trunk of an old cypress, listening to the soft gurgling of the eddy pool that provided cool relief for my toes.

The water moved slowly, much like the pace of everything in the Deep South in the summer months. Never the boisterous sound of rushing water, it was more like that beautiful guttural cluck that a turkey-hen makes during the spring ritual of finding her tom.

I spent hours leaning against that old cypress, digging for smooth rocks, examining them and then tossing them in a long lazy arch to produce that perfect ‘kaboomp’ sound as they hit the eddy pool. Looking up, I admired that classic contrast of a thick humidity laced blue sky against the green of the tall pines. Oh sweet memories...let your mind take you to one of those places for a moment..a heartbeat or two away...you can spare the time...I know you had your own hidey-hole. 

In closing, this is not a generational thing. Don’t think that kids can’t have these experiences now. My son is 23 and he knows every nook, crook, creek, and cranny of my folk’s farm in Coffee County, MUCH more than I do. He is making his own memories in his own generation…with his iPhone, and other conveniences that were unknown to me. And that is ok. I am not one to ‘down’ the current generations because they do things different from the way I did it. I suppose my point is, we all need a time and a place to reflect, to meditate, to pray. Ms. Rawlings said it best: “I do not understand how anyone can live without some small place of enchantment to turn to.”
 
Given the many environments we live, my creek bed may be your coffee shop. Whatever the setting, I love what my son says, ‘Dad, I can get in a deer stand and just not think about anything’. I truly understand that; it makes me think of cut-offs, Keds, and creeks.