For Bookings, email: donthewriter@twc.com
For Bookings, email: donthewriter@twc.com
Hey, Monday Humor Readers, here’s a repeat from a year ago. Hope you like it. Or remember it.
“The Christmas Tree”
Ever take in a whiff of Instant Childhood from an aerosol can in a hardware store?
I did, and the “Christmas Tree” scent took me back to old Louisville. I don’t mean Old Louisville, the neighborhood. I mean Louisville, circa 1957 or so. Back when I was nine years old.
Christmas Eve, to be specific. Christmas Eve in the West End, to be even more specific.
Christmas Eve, and us kids in the front room of our little rental house, with our noses pretty much pressing against the cold window. All of us watching and waiting for Daddy to come home with our tree.
Yes.
Not like today, when the giant-sized hardware store, as soon as Halloween is over, packs its 10-foot skeletons off the floor to make room for its first line of fake Christmas trees.
Back then, in the 1950s, us kids didn’t expect to see our Christmas tree--our real tree, with its needles smelling like nothing else smelled all year--until the night before Christmas.
As usual, Daddy had put if off, waiting for the prices to come down under four dollars. (Lordy, what would he think of paying $75 or $100 for a real tree in the 21st Century?)
So there they were, four child-sized noses pressed against the cold window, waiting for Daddy to show up with our very own tree. The one we had to have. Otherwise, what would Santa Claus put our presents under?
Mama told us to look out the window for Daddy. No doubt to get us out of her hair while she cooked supper.
Mama was used to this kind of behavior from Daddy, even on Christmas Eve. It was a sure bet Daddy had stopped on the way home from work, had taken a seat at one of his favorite taverns--John’s Dispensary on Hill Street or the Red Bull on Algonquin Parkway.
She had nudged him. She knew it didn’t do any good to push Daddy hard—but she did a lot of nudging, since we should have had our tree by now.
“Gene, the tree lots are almost empty. Don’t you think we should...”
“They’re too high, Laura. I’m not payin’ four dollars for a damn Christmas tree!”
So here we kids were. On Christmas Eve. Wondering if we would have any tree for Christmas.
Headlights!
The energized kids’ chorus: “Daddy’s home, Mama!”
The front door swung open so hard it bounced off the wall, and here was Daddy backing in, with his slender frame clutching--our tree!
It was incredible! Smelling like a real Christmas tree was supposed to smell. It was so big Daddy had to bear-wrestle it through the doorway.
Its branches bent against the door frame, then sprung back into shape when Daddy finally yanked it into the room. Dried-up needles fell to the floor. Maybe a thousand of them.
Us kids whooped it up while Daddy monkeyed with the screws on the tree stand. At last, our prize was pointed straight up at the ceiling—more or less.
Mama gently suggested to Daddy that he turn the side—the one with the gaping hole in it—toward the wall.
It was time for Daddy to defend our tree and tell his story.
“I was damn lucky to get it, Laura. DAMN lucky. By the time I got off work every tree lot was cleared out.”
Mama nodded.
“I went to every damn lot on this side of town! Trees were down to two dollars, but they was all gone! ALL of ‘em.”
“Where’d you get it?” Mama asked in her level voice.
Daddy swung his head around to make sure his kids were part of the listening audience here.
“You won’t believe it,” he said in that storytelling voice of his. “I’m driving home, and there’s this truck in front of me, and I see it’s got a Christmas tree on it. One. This guy turns around the corner and this tree falls off. Right in the middle of the street. Right in front of me!”
“Oh Lordy,” Mama replied. “Did you try to catch up with him?” Mama was that way, mindful of teaching her kids yet another lesson about doing the right thing.
“Hell yeah I tried!” Daddy said. “I stuck it in my trunk and took off after him. But I couldn’t catch up with the guy, Laura.”
This wasn’t long after Daddy had bought himself a brand new Chevy Bel-Air. That sedan could easily hit one hundred miles an hour. Us kids knew it, because right after he bought it, our father took us out on the Watterson Expressway on a lazy Sunday morning and showed us what it could do.
“Just lucky this year,” Daddy said, lighting up another Pall Mall. “DAMN lucky.”
So we turned the scarred side of our tree to the corner. While Daddy took it easy, Mama and us kids began to string our colored Christmas lights, passing them from hand to hand around our very own tree. Our tree.
Then we hung the gleaming ornaments, not seen in their faded boxes since last Christmas. And finally, the silver and gold “icicles.” Mama and my sisters carefully strung them from the branches, while my brother and I threw handfuls of them like baseballs to the top, at altitudes none of our arms could reach.
All of it done so Santa Claus could come, soon and in the middle of a magical night, to lay our presents under our beautiful, precious Christmas tree.
###
“My Opinion, Overall”
Cable TV, eager to satisfy America’s round-the-clock hunger for—well, anything moving in front of its eyes—has always been big on lists.
For example, it wouldn’t be beneath cable’s standards to give us viewers a 60-minute countdown of “The World’s Best Salads.”
Which gives me as good of an excuse as any to unveil to you, here at the front edge of Year 2023, what I consider The Top 10 Inventions of All Time. Here we go:
10) Printing Press
9) Internet
8) Lightbulb
7) Computer
6) Penicillin
5) Telephone
4) The Pill
3) The Wheel
2) The Brake
And, coming in at Number One…
1) Insulated Coveralls, Size 44-46
People, I am telling you flat-out that insulated coveralls—not overalls, which do not cover the whole torso and arms—are TOTAL GENIUS.
As you can see in this photo, coveralls, demonstrated by the comely male model, allow you to be comfortable in any brutally cold outdoor setting—even if you want to lounge outside on your deck during the last week of December!
Insulated coveralls allow you to shout out loud—and who cares if the neighbors are listening—“WHAT cold? WHAT wind? WHAT snow?”
Check out the road crews in your city, repairing sewers or potholes in January while they wear their big, blocky coveralls. Do those guys look like they’re cowering like sheep in the freezing air? No way! They’re so casual in the cold they might as well be standing around waiting for a bus!
Here’s how coveralls—not city employees—work:
The coverall is a single piece of tough, outer canvas-like cotton material, sewn as a one-piece suit. Quilted insulation lines the entire interior. Zipped all the way up, there is no way in Hades any spine-tingling cold drafts can get in to menace your back or those, ahem, lower regions.
You step into this outfit, as one would a snowsuit. And here is more genius—the legs are zippered and snapped at the sides, so you can seal your legs off from the elements. Then you slide your arms into the sleeves, which are cuffed at the wrist, pull the chest zipper up to the collar, and it is impossible for any rogue icy wind to blow in.
With the detachable hood tied down, the wearer is oblivious to winter’s harsh elements.
And because the outer layer is one tough fabric, you can take walks through the woods or on the trail and ignore sticky briars, grabby trim limbs and the like. As in, “WHAT briars?”
When you’re done and back inside the house or barn, you can even unzip the thing at the chest and legs and step right out of it, still with your boots on.
(C’mon. Why wasn’t there a Noble Warmth Prize given to this suit’s inventor?)
I began wearing this thing to take my dog to the big, hilly, city park for long walks during freezing Sunday sunrises. With a warm pair of gloves on and my heart rate up, I had zero problems.
A bonus from this design: Inner pockets that let you reach down and get to your pants pockets, if necessary. Don’t ask me why. Maybe to scratch. Not any of my business.
Want a real test and testimony? I wore them outside last week in a minus-30 wind chill in Louisville, and STROLLED to the mailbox. Is that OKAY?
They’ve held up pretty well, for not being the big-name, oft-advertised work clothing brand. You know, the one that rhymes with, “Bar part.” No, my pair came from the farm store with the little-known coverall label, bought on sale at nearly half the price of that name-brand version.
Worn usually for only one morning a week, my coveralls have lasted for more years than I can remember. Oh, there’s some fray at the bottom of the legs. And there’s a chest pocket that’s ripped at its zipper. No matter. I’m at the park to wear clothing that makes sense in the harsh weather, not rock a tuxedo!
Anyway, that’s my two cents for best invention ever. Not to hurt your feelings, but it may be too late to pick up a pair at the Christmas sale price.
Happy New Year! And try to stay warm.
###
“I’m Glad I Won’t Be Around to See It!”
Most likely you’ve heard this depressing statement, uttered by a family member or a sprinkle of friends here and there.
They take a galling glimpse at a current trend or catastrophe in our current world and project its effect to the future—say the next 20 or 50 years.
And their mood leads to this pronouncement:
“I’m glad I won’t be around to see it!”
I’ve heard it myself every now and then. It can be noticed in conversations about climate change. Or the decline of common civility. Or when a new telescope in space shows us rays of light from a star so far away that it’s hard for us to even grasp the meaning of distance and time.
Certainly, we all witness a world changing before our eyes, happening faster than ever as we age. Its evolution—or devolution, depending on our current mood—seems to be taking place faster and faster, from year to year to, well, the hellhole news pundits swear we’re descending into this week.
These changes are all around us.
We use our smart phone to show our doctor that strange rash on our arm. We drive cars that don’t have engines. We read our news from plastic tablets, not paper newspapers. We collect sunshine on our rooftops. We see that organized religion, for many, has been replaced by…whatever.
My guess is, people have been saying the same thing—“I’m glad I won’t be around to see I!”—for thousands of years. It is a fear spurred, as always, by the strange. The uncomfortably new. Hints of the Great Unknowns to come.
Let’s take a look back:
DATELINE 80,000 B.C…
”They say the Neanderthals over in the next valley have spears with flint points. Imagine that. Flint points! Our polished stones won’t be good enough anymore. How will we be able to compete with that?”
“(From friend, a GRUNT) “I’m glad I won’t be around to see it!”
DATELINE 3,500 B.C. …
”I hear there are cities in Sumer. I mean CITIES, not dinky villages. Places where thousands of people live. Can you believe it? Some day they’ll be all over Mesopotamia. No more lazy afternoons around the well.”
“I’m glad I won’t be around to see it!”
DATELINE: 2360 B.C…
“So what if we’re materialistic? Wealth and status have always been where it’s at in Egypt. These critics with their “social conscience” are going to mess things up, not just here but in the Hereafter.
“And get this, Ho-tep: Some people say, ‘The man with the upright heart is more acceptable than the ox of the evildoer’. What happened to class? What happened to hierarchy!
“Well, I’m glad I won’t be around to see it!”
DATELINE 900 B.C…
“I don’t believe it. Telling stories by the fire used to be all we needed. Now I hear the Phoenicians have come up with something called an ‘alphabet.’ You know—where thoughts and ideas can be written down. I guarantee you my wife will want to learn to read. Oh, where’s it going to end!”
“I’m glad I won’t be around to see it!”
DATELINE 500 B.C…
“You got everybody from the Hittites to the Hebrews to the Greeks crossing our sea lanes and our deserts. Oh, what happened to the Persia we used to used to party in? Someday soon, the whole world will be gone mad with trade routes!”
“I’m glad I won’t be around to see it!”
DATELINE 1485…
“And now this Columbus is sailing damn clear out of sight. We all told him that he’d fall off the Earth if he kept going. And he’s come back! But from where? What’s happening? So many explorers sailing to the strange and no doubt evil West now, we can’t keep up!”
“I’m glad I won’t be around to see it!”
You get the idea. Change is an unsettling thing.
It continues to be.
“A carriage without a horse? Does that even sound logical to you?“I’m glad I won’t be around to see it!”
“Flying through the air? In a metal box?”
“People moving and talking on a big screen on the wall?”
“Girls with pink hair!”
“Gay firemen!”
“A whole world filled with young people who don’t even know who Elvis is!”
“I’m glad I won’t be around to see it!”
As a very wise person once said,
"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
Or, put another way…
Life is change, change is life.
Aloha, friends and neighbors.
###
“It’s Hit or Miss”
Here’s the situation:
I’m walking alongside the suburban highway in the faint light of early morning. There is no sidewalk here to put me a safe distance from the roadway.
In front of me, a potentially unnerving scene is developing. The cars up ahead appear to be coming right at me.
Because they are.
This is where trust comes in. The big SUV that’s coming right for me is going to follow the curve and go to the left. Isn’t it?
I am not a wayward streetwalker here. I am a man with a purpose. Take a close look at my selfie. My body is in totally legal pedestrian territory. The bicycle lane givers me two-and-a-half feet of separation from the oncoming SUV. And since I’m walking on the berm, I’m another couple of feet from the highway.
Still, as I walk, I have to keep my eyes up for the SUV and all the other approaching vehicles. One has to anticipate a slip-up by a driver—just one. Could be made by a person who is checking their text messages. Putting on make-up. Squinting through their windshield with bleary eyes after a lousy night’s sleep.
Yes, you’re right. If one of these 5,000-pound rolling metal boxes doesn’t stay in its lane and it winds up running over me, I’ll be legally in the right. The downside is, I’ll also be legally in the dead.
On this particular day, the cars and trucks do the right thing. I make the half-mile walk safely home. On my next trip, I’ll try it again, attempt the return from the big discount store or to the hardware store or to the gym across the street. With no cross walk within three hundred yards, I’ll be watching all the way, not taking for granted what these drivers should do.
You might find it hard to believe, but even on this busy road, there’s a natural break in the traffic, as the traffic lights way up the street go through their cycle. Many times, I can actually stroll my way across all five lanes. At the least, I can cross halfway and stand reasonably secure on the elevated traffic island in the middle of the road until the traffic on other side clears.
I like walking to get where I want to go, not being at the mercy of a motorcar to transport myself to and fro. Random thoughts pop up when you don’t have to sit behind the wheel of a car and keep your attention trained on the changing traffic lights, or the *_&# driver that’s about to cut in front of you, or the jaywalking pedestrian who practically dares you to hit him.
Besides that bend in the road, there are plenty of other things to look over, in my neighborhood or anywhere else I walk. When a person is on foot, they notice sights and sounds that get lost in the blur of a world going by at 40 or 50 miles an hour outside a car window.
A beautiful garden hidden in a sideyard. A little shop tucked in among its neighbors. A huge picture window that you couldn’t appreciate in the split second it took to roll past it.
After the wave of hurry-the-hell-up cars and trucks roar past, you can hear birds chirping, even in the winter. You can hear the faint rattle of bare branches smacking against each other.
The noises of the city are forming an umbrella of sound. The hum of traffic. Mechanical heaters on top of buildings. Airplanes overhead. Emergency sirens. The ding-dings of gas stations. Commotion from a knot of little kids getting ready to climb aboard a school bus.
Speaking of buses, I like to walk to the nearby city bus stop, too. It’s right past the filling station with the sign that today tells us we’ll pay at least $3.19 if we want a gallon a gas. I can’t tell you how smug I feel when I remind myself my bus ride will cost 80 cents. Senior rate.
Yes, on the bus, you might run into the rare social deviant or old person mumbling about Jimmy Carter. But take me. I’m “normal,” just like nearly all of the other bus riders are.
Here’s one more thing that traveling on foot or riding a bus reveals: there are lots of people out in the city who don’t have it as good as I do. People who have to haul half a dozen loaded grocery bags home on a bus seat. A frayed, middle-aged guy with no bike helmet, laboring to steer a beat-up bicycle. A young mother maneuvering down a sidewalk with a child on one hand, and a stroller and baby with the other. Middle-aged men in raggedy jeans and windbreakers, climbing aboard the bus—likely on their way to the health clinic or to a low-paying job.
In short, they’re people you’re not likely to run into at the country club or the Lexus dealer. I find myself looking at this underclass of citizens, a human landscape which effectively does not exist for me when I’m inside my car.
Try walking or riding the bus sometime, if you already don’t.
You don’t know what you’re missing.
###
“Rate the Rants!”
Now here’s a question for ya: Why do so many TV shows have to be about COMPETITION?
We watch shows like, Who’s the best CAKE DECORATOR? And Which cake decorator will LOSE THE MOST WEIGHT by Spring?
Or, which team CONNIVES best to win on the island? Or, Which girl wins the bachelor who isn’t SURE anymore about his SEXUALITY?
Maybe it was the fever I had last week, but I came up with a new competition show of my own.
I invite you to “RATE THE RANTS!”
RANT #1
From Allyn in PA: ‘Every time I turn around, I see that this MILLIONAIRE COLLEGE COACH or that MILLIONAIRE PRO GOLFER has started up what they call a ‘Foundation’ or ‘Family Foundation.’ And these sports announcers go on and on about how much GOOD this guy’s foundation is doing out in the world. Okay. I say WONDERFUL to that. But in the interest of TRANSPARENCY, as our political leaders bleat in our ears OVER AND OVER, shouldn’t these wonderful do-gooders with money OOZING out of their eyeballs also admit that their foundations are gigantic TAX DODGES for their wealth? I mean, why don’t people like Allyn Q. Public qualify for a foundation, so HIS family can have its own TAX LOOPHOLE?
RANT #2
From C.C. in Littletown, CO: I get so HEATED when I watch one commercial after another showing me this FAKE ‘gang’ of friends having a BALL at their own little ‘Cheers’ tavern. I mean, all kinds of OVERFLOWING BEER MUGS are in our face and this bunch is having just a FANTASTIC TIME laughing and passing beer around and around the bar. Well, that message is clear enough—if you wanna have a good time, it’s all about passing unlimited mugs of BEER, BEER BEER around and around a bar! But just before the commercial ends, a semi-serious announcer’s voice reminds us, ‘PLEASE DRINK RESPONSIBLY.’ Aw, c’mon! Does this word of caution, after the beer company’s just LOADED UP the happy gang with its own fresh beers, make ANY SENSE AT ALL?
RANT #3
From ‘Miss Ma’am in Louisville: I’m not an EXPERT NEWS PERSON like that blonde b____ with the dress that’s TWO SIZES TOO TIGHT on Channel 9, but…who PRIORITIZES how much time each story gets on the news? I mean, like last week, they had an opening story about two residents minding their own business getting SHOT AT. And it lasted, like, 30 seconds. And the next thing I know, this same Blondie is suddenly all SMILEY AND GIDDY, taking maybe THREE TIMES as long to tell me about the city’s newest CUPCAKE SHOP that just opened up. Do you HEAR me here? They can’t even take time to tell me why these residents got SHOT—with a GUN—but they let the owner of this cupcake shop—who has MEDALLIONS dangling inside his EAR LOBES, by the way—harp ON AND ON about the big risks of running a CUPCAKE business. WHY?
RANT #4
From A.F. Freeling, Wheeling WV: Why do university administrators use the euphemism, “We want you to have a SUCCESSFUL OUTCOME.” Successful outcome? What they’re really saying to most of us is, “We’re here to offer you the ILLUSION OF HAPPINESS and FINANCIAL WEALTH that comes with a college degree. One that SUGGESTS you may someday land a JOB that will pay you enough money that you’ll turn into a genuine American CONSUMER so you can buy LOTS OF STUFF YOU DON’T NEED.” Well, is that what four or five years of college is supposed to be about? Mo’ MONEY? If it’s all about money, why don’t I just start at the bottom at the bank and think up HIDDEN FEES all day? And by the way, somebody tell me just what the reward of a liberal arts college degree is anyway, other than studying great novels so that some day I’ll be a teacher who gets PISTOL-WHIPPED by some fourth-grader whose parents support the Second Amendment. Don’t call security, I’m done.
RANT #5
From Mel in Memphis: Is it really fair for a promotion for a TV show that HASN’T EVEN BEEN ON THE AIR YET to blare out totally bogus claims to viewers like this: “It’s the show America’s all talking about!” Isn’t this FALSE ADVERTISING, since nobody in America has even SEEN the show yet? I guess what these TV big shots are saying is, ‘What’s this guy named Mel in Memphis gonna do? SUE us? We’re a freakin’ NETWORK! This ‘Mel from Memphis’ is just a ‘Mel from Memphis.’ Everybody knows, if it ain’t STREAMIN’, it ain’t real.”
Life just ain’t fair, you know?
*TEXT your vote to DONRAYSMITH. Phone rates may apply.
###
“10 Early Questions for 2023”
1. Why is it that when our favorite team plays a road game, it’s always in an arena described by our homie announcer as “a hostile environment?” But when that same opponent plays in our team’s arena, the commentator describes our own rabid crowd as “great fans.”
2. When it comes to responding to commands, are domesticated cats intellectually slow to understand what we want, or do they actually know something we don’t know?
3. Which women’s college volleyball teams have the most/least tattoos?
4. Why do magazines for seniors have so many stories about old people?
5. How is it that, if I try to re-sell my Kentucky Derby or Beyonce tickets for more money than what I paid for them, I’m breaking the law as a ticket scalper. But online, “third party sellers” working through the Derby or the concert hall can jack the face value price out of sight, and it’s totally legal?
6. Will Louisville’s downtown ever again have what used to be called ‘stores?’
7. Why do so many old TV shows described in network promotions as “classics” come off in 2023 as helplessly corny and clueless?
8. Why do “ethics” committees in Congress keep changing the rules?
9. Does America have any of its own “weather balloons” floating over China?
10. What are the real odds of seeing somebody smiling from ear to ear—like we’re always shown in TV commercials—in a gambling casino?
*Bonus Gambling Question…How is it that the lottery company is allowed to tease us with a lines like, “Somebody’s gotta win, might as well be you!” When, in reality, NOBODY has to win. More and more often, it seems, there’s NO winner for several drawings. So bettors have to buy more tickets for more drawings, where the sales pitch is still, “Somebody’s gonna win, might as well be you.” Isn’t all this hooey about having a guaranteed sure winner false advertising?
###
“10 Early Questions for 2023”
1. Why is it that when our favorite team plays a road game, it’s always in an arena described by our homie announcer as “a hostile environment?” But when that same opponent plays in our team’s arena, the commentator describes our own rabid crowd as “great fans.”
2. When it comes to responding to commands, are domesticated cats intellectually slow to understand what we want, or do they actually know something we don’t know?
3. Which women’s college volleyball teams have the most/least tattoos?
4. Why do magazines for seniors have so many stories about old people?
5. How is it that, if I try to re-sell my Kentucky Derby or Beyonce tickets for more money than what I paid for them, I’m breaking the law as a ticket scalper. But online, “third party sellers” working through the Derby or the concert hall can jack the face value price out of sight, and it’s totally legal?
6. Will Louisville’s downtown ever again have what used to be called ‘stores?’
7. Why do so many old TV shows described in network promotions as “classics” come off in 2023 as helplessly corny and clueless?
8. Why do “ethics” committees in Congress keep changing the rules?
9. Does America have any of its own “weather balloons” floating over China?
10. What are the real odds of seeing somebody smiling from ear to ear—like we’re always shown in TV commercials—in a gambling casino?
*Bonus Gambling Question…How is it that the lottery company is allowed to tease us with a lines like, “Somebody’s gotta win, might as well be you!” When, in reality, NOBODY has to win. More and more often, it seems, there’s NO winner for several drawings. So bettors have to buy more tickets for more drawings, where the sales pitch is still, “Somebody’s gonna win, might as well be you.” Isn’t all this hooey about having a guaranteed sure winner false advertising?
###
“Take Your Places”
The following comments were made by Don Ray Smith to fellow members of his Cherokee Round Table writers’ group. They were delivered at Sweet Peaches diner in Louisville on February 18th, 2023.
As host of this CRT get-together, I’ve got something new today—a lecture! So…Good afternoon, class!
(Short pause)
You just can’t sit there, class. You students have to answer back, ‘Good afternoon, Misth-ter Thmith.’ Class?…”
(Audience responds)
That’s better.
One thing I’ve noticed is that a number of writers in this group are strongly dedicated to this important literary tool: the sense of place.
Place, in so many stories and poems, is the ground floor, the setting where many writers feel their most comfortable.
Such people are in this very room.
Just to mention a few: Mary, and Nelson County. Jerry, from Eastern Kentucky. Ona from Canada.
Doug, whose sense of place is…usually his point. Elaine, who can take what I would consider an absurdly mundane view from her window—and somehow spin it into lyrical magic.
You may have observed over the years that I—often without being desperate—have produced stories that have been mined from my own sense of place.
I invite you to look out the windows of this cafe, and you’ll get a glimpse of the West End of Louisville, Kentucky.
If you let your mind’s eye travel south on 18th Street—which is thata way—within just a few blocks you’ll come upon Broadway. Eighteenth and Broadway. Say hello to one of my important story settings.
On one Saturday morning after another, I stood on that corner with my twin brother and my mother. Ronnie and me, grade school age.
We’d just stepped off the 18th Street bus and were waiting to transfer to the Broadway bus. It eventually showed up, and the three of us rode it to 8th Street, where we got off in front of the enormous Sears and Roebuck store.
Mama took us inside, and proceeded to do more window shopping than anything else, since Mama didn’t have a lot of what people back then called MONEY. No credit cards back then, or Apple Pay or Orange Pay or Whatever Pay. Back then, if you wanted to buy something, you used something called Cash Pay.
Anyway, from Sears, we walked on to Fourth Street, where it was all happening in the 1950s—if you were white. Fourth Street had movies houses that were built like palaces. And fine, fancy department stores and shops.
Mama had this system. One Saturday, she took her two girls with her on the bus. The next Saturday, she took her twin boys. The following Saturday, it was the girls’ turn again. This continued all through grade school. Mama wasn’t nuts. No way was she going to herd all four of her kids on a city bus at the same time.
Since Daddy was most likely back at home sleeping off his Friday night hangover, most Saturdays we just did the reverse order with the buses, to get back home.
So, at the end of our shopping day downtown, we found ourselves back at 18th and Broadway. Taking shelter behind the big brick building on the corner. Which is still there, by the way, over 60 years later. In the fading light of a late winter’s day, we would hide behind it, to escape the icy cold winds that came at us down Broadway.
In the summer, this same building—Uncle Miltie’s Pawn Shop, as I recall—gave us cool shade from a blazing late day sun. A sun that, I guarantee you, if given a chance, would have took my fair skin and burned it like bacon.
So class—if you’re still paying attention to me and not PLAYING WITH YOUR PHONES—what I’m telling you again is, it was the West End and its sense of place, that supplied me with a mother lode—no pun intended—of story material.
Places like our first home, in the projects. Ronnie Popham is a witness—another white kid from Louisville’s once-upon-a-time white projects.
My McFerran Elementary School, all-white. Algonquin Park, which was a playground for two races, but split right down the middle. Parkland Junior High, at the dawn of Louisville’s integration, suddenly a white and Black school.
The open air market on 18th. It had that incredible live talking parrot that cussed just like Daddy did. Well, okay. Daddy started it.
Here’s a question for you, class:
How many of you would-be writers, when you were eight or nine years old, took notes? I mean, actually scribbled thoughts and observations down in a notebook.
I’m thinking, none of you did. I mean, what kid who is grade school age says to himself, I’m going to take down all these notes, and when I’m 46, I’m going to write myself a book!
NOBODY.
And then one day, maybe one or two or three decades later, he or she somehow morphs into an actual writer.
I remember many things from my childhood. Most likely because, as a young boy, my head had plenty of empty storage space. Had all kinds of unused shelving up there to put memories on.
So, class, here is your homework assignment:
Notice America’s sense of place.
Pay attention and speak out to those people who are more than happy to re-write my history and yours. People who are ready and willing to delete facts they don’t like. Act as if all sorts of ugly and vile and hateful things never happened at all.
One closing question: Have you noticed, class, that some in this country are busy banning books, simply because their messages about race or sex or inequality, make people “uncomfortable?”
There are people out there who would just as soon discourage writers—writers including me, and writers including you—from telling the truth. And that should get the attention of all of us.
Isn’t that why we all became writers in the first place?
Class dismissed.
###
“Don’s Discount Pyramids”
My current Big Worry: Failing infrastructure.
No, not the national infrastructure—bent rail lines, crumbling interstates, deteriorating Republican brains that suddenly under oath can’t remember which day of the week Tuesday Weld was named after.
I’m talking about local infrastructure. My place. Your place.
My short list:
*A magnet on the pull-out kitchen sink sprayer that wasn’t magnetizing anything anymore;
*A toilet lid that broke its hinge;
*A front door that heated up like an oven;
*Chipmunks conducting mining operations under my front porch.
I examined each of these problems and decided none of them were worth calling a professional repairman to fix. DIY! So I got started.
Broken Sink Sprayer: I called the manufacturer. They sent a “magnet installation repair kit.” Well, all I can say is, when their printed instructions read, “If (their repair tool) doesn’t work, use a screwdriver,” you know that a simple fix won’t exactly be simple.
Hey, with repairs, I have no problem repeating the same stupid instructions 17 times, if that’s what my brain tells me to do. On the 18th try, my wife walks up and says something like, “Isn’t that the magnet right…there?” Or something else cute like that. She was right. All I had to do was put everything back where it was supposed to go.
Job DONE! Total repair time for a 10-minute job: 1.5 hours.
Toilet Lid: The hinge was broken, leaving us with a dangerously-loose bathroom lid.
The hardware store would be glad to sell me all kinds of lids—basic, padded, self-closing, etc.—for $30 and up. Not me, brother. I’m not the kind of person who needs to impress my guests with a $75 toilet lid!
All I needed was a new hinge. What sense did it make to replace the whole thing?
After using up several hours of my life with online research, drives to stores and phone calls, I came to the obvious conclusion that replacing a hinge for pocket change was a pipe dream—these toilet people practically insisted that I buy a whole new toilet lid and be happy about it. Stick a fork in me.
Front Door: Things were fine until we had the huge diseased maple tree cut down. But now—even in late winter—we suddenly had a sun-splashed door that got so hot you couldn’t touch it.
Options:
*Replace our glass storm door with “low-e” glass. Helpful, but it still wouldn’t do the job.
*Me, squeegy-ing a big piece of tinted window film on my door. Really? I’ve seen too many DIY car window tints that might as well advertise, “Betcha didn’t know I did this myself.”
*Doorway awning? Pricey. Very pricey.
So I’m still trying to figure this one out.
Front porch: No problem until we made improvements. Right after we had the sidewalk re-poured, several crafty chipmunks figured that the soft ground the concrete guys had left behind was perfect home burrow material under my porch.
See, this is why DIY is risky business for people like me. Who gets all these once-in-a-lifetime repairs right the first time?
I can just see me trying to build something slightly more complicated. Say, a pyramid:
(Phone rings) (Don answers)
ME: Don’s Discount Pyramids. ‘Not a pharaoh? Then don’t pay ‘mo!’
CALLER: Yeah, well I saw your ad, and I thought this might work for my uncle. He’s not royalty, but he acts like it.
ME: In that case, think we can find something affordable. Our entry-level model is 50 feet high.
CALLER: Well…
ME: But lucky for you, our Spring Upgrade Sale is goin’ on right now! You get another 100 feet of height, plus a secret chamber!
CALLER: How long would construction take to get to, um, move-in?
ME: Super-fast. I’m thinking six to nine years.
VOICE IN THE BACKGROUND: Cheops, get off the phone! Marsha said they did her grandfather’s pyramid and it wound up looking like a trapezoid!
(Caller abruptly hangs up)
To be honest about it, Readers, I would be Exhibit A in the argument for hiring professional tradespeople.
And by that, I don’t mean your brother-in-law’s barber’s nephew’s next-door-neighbor’s substitute teacher’s second cousin’s godmother’s fellow choir member in the tenor section.
Think about it: Not only are the pros usually very good at what they do, they’re not mad at the world for having $100,000 in college bills.
###
“Backward-Looking”
Scene: I am walking along a dirt path in an undisclosed woods.
As I walk further amongst the trees, I notice that the tree line, which had begun at a thicket, is getting higher as I go.
My walk slows as I take in these trees, nearly all of them stretching higher and then higher. And I realize that I—if I’m not shrinking—am barely growing at all.
It is certain now, as I continue to make my way, that I cannot keep up with their maturing, their blossoming.
And then it occurs to me: Hey, these trees aren’t trees after all. They’re— relatives!
They’re all my grandkids and legions of might-as-well-be-grandkids and now even our great-grandkids. All of them continuing to sprout up and climb, while my own path grows darker, becomes overshadowed by them all.
And this intruding thought bulls its way into my head: It is time for My Life Assessment. A Taking of Stock. A making measure of the Accomplishments I’ve Notched during my lifetime.
And then I think to myself: NOT!
I’ve seen other people do this very thing. From family to friends to self-absorbed celebrities penning out their wishful memoirs.
And it’s so damn depressing, because within a year or two, some of these same people, for whatever reasons, suddenly find themselves residents of an old folks home somewhere. Talking to no one and reminding themselves how great a TV show, “The Love Boat” was. Committing blood-curdling stuff like that.
Or worse, they’ve succumbed to time and have made the ultimate road trip, have moved on to The Promised Land.
All that being the case, I don’t see the point in wallowing in the risky business of Looking Back.
Hey, Satchel Paige knew that much.
Probably the only reason I am telling you all this is owing to the experience I found myself immersed in last Friday, on a windy and stormy day that seemed to be tailor made for hunkering down inside and—preserving old pictures.
I’d decided to go through an old album of family photos and finally—finally—scan them into my computer. Scanning being a technical term which means using my desktop computer’s printer to make digital copies of these old prints, before they fell victim to mold or a house fire. Before I lost them for good behind the Christmas decorations in the basement, or before the aging paper they were printed on fell victim to time and literally crumbled to dust.
So I turned the album pages and gently, delicately, made my visual way back through the 20th Century.
A studio picture of Mamaw: There she was, Sallie Elizabeth McCartney. In her late teens or early 20s. Mamaw, petite and pretty, looking straight at the camera with those guileless eyes of hers that were gentle and yet direct. A pretty mouth, a face without blemish or wrinkle. An emerging young woman, destined to someday be Mamaw. How could that be?
Another black-and-white picture: Mama herself, with those same soft-blue jellied eyes that her mother had, smiling as she bends down to wrestle control of her two squirming infant daughters. Lovingly smiling there in the yard of her parents’ Wilson Avenue home, pregnant already with me—and my twin brother.
So many pictures, so many memories. A grandfather I honestly don’t remember. He had become Mamaw’s husband, Charles Thomas Allen. Standing there in 1924, posing for a family photo as he proudly wore his Louisville trolley conductor’s cap.
A picture of a now-unidentifiable couple from more than a century ago. She, a slender young woman. He, a likewise nameless young man. The two of them taking a jaunty ride in an ancient automobile. The handwritten, enigmatic caption reads, “Me and my girl in my Lizzie.”
Family members, most likely. But, Who were they?
HEY, SNAP OUT OF IT, DON!
You’re still a resident of the top side of Planet Earth! It’s Year 2023! Covid’s under control! They’re finally cutting some time off baseball games! And most states still think there are more important things to worry about than their drag queens!
The past has passed. Memories are wonderful. Precious, as the song reminds us.
But I don’t believe we humans were intended to hold our gaze too long in the rear view mirror, no matter how many years we’ve accumulated. Not as long as we can breathe and enjoy our grandchildren and try to imagine What’s Next.
What will my grandchildren’s own grandchildren be like, in Year 2123? Will they find some old digitized pictures of me on a computer or hidden inside a phone and wonder what I was like?
I hope they do.
Fine, kids. Take a genealogical glimpse. But just hang with it for a few minutes. You’ve got your own lives to live.
###
Blame the Time Change!
It’s cold. It’s dark. It’s wet. What time is it?
Sorry, no Monday Humor this week.
“The Case Against ‘Air Quotes’”
Exhibit A: The monthly statement I just received from my health insurance company.
Soon after I saw THIS IS NOT A BILL, I read on the first page that this wad of papers in my hand was my—in quotation marks—“Explanation of Benefits.”
Page "2 of 16,” as it was identified, broke down my “out-of-pocket costs.”
The hideous grammatical cancer continued, as follows:
Page 6 of 16 helped me identify which “drug payment stage” I’m in.
Page 7 of 16 defined $7,400 as my year-to-date accumulation of “out -of-pocket costs.”
Page 8 of 16 was there to provide specifics on that “drug payment stage” again—just to make sure I was paying attention.
Page 9 of 16 was provided, as my health insurer stated, to help me keep track of not only my “out-of-pocket costs” but my “total drug costs.”
Page 10 of 16 showed me how my insurer has lowered the cost of my prescriptions, using a column it calls, “Prescription cost with plan.”
Page 11 of 16 included updates on the cost of “drugs you take.” Well of course I was taking drugs. Look at this gibberish I had to hack through. Wouldn’t you?
Page 13 of 16 told me I could get more details about my drugs and how much they cost by looking at their booklet called, “Evidence of Coverage.” When my insurance company decides to bill me or not and for how much, it would be called a “coverage decision.”
Pages 14, and 15 of 16, contained instructions written in Hindi. And Russian. And Chinese Mandarin. And something called Tagalog. And a dozen other languages, all lying in wait with their own quotation marks.
The conclusion I have to draw here, people, is that whoever wrote this health report is a very sick person.
I mean, does he or she go home after work and walk through the door and say, “Hi Hon. How are the ‘kids’?” Did they have a ‘good day’ at school? And how do I know they’re ‘my kids,’ anyway? I mean, you did have that ‘fling’ with that ‘personal trainer’ while we were separated for two years.”
I think it was Lincoln who said, “A country half slave and half 'air quotes’ cannot stand.”
Seriously, a Republic which thinks it can survive on air quotes is in real trouble.
What does it say about a health insurer when it has to couch so much of what it says in “air quotes?”
Think about it. What does an “air quote” suggest?
Well, lack of “transparency,” for one thing. Or “honesty,” as they used to call it in the old days. Lack of something called, “trust.” Lack of faith in “science.” Lack of faith in “religion.” Fear of “future litigation.”
Any time we watch a duly elected official use air quotes to try to convince us of their version of “the truth,” we Americans are in deep doo-doo.
It seems to me that air quotes encourage skepticism. Distrust. Doubt. Don’t look now, but they can even lead to a devastating national paranoia.
As you may have read in your high school “history” books, the Apaches saw air quotes coming 150 years ago.
The white men showed up one day and told them, “Here’s this fine ‘peace treaty’ for you. If it’s okay, we’re just going to ‘share’ these 14 million acres of land with you. You can live over—there—and we’ll be ‘neighbors.’ Oh, and we have some suggestions on how you can change your ‘native customs’ so they won’t be so—to be frank about it—‘offensive’ to us Europeans. You know, so we all can live like ‘brothers,’ forever and ever.”
If you don’t believe me, just ask a Native American.
Air quotes. Not to be trusted, folks.
THIS IS NOT A BILL.
###