When I first met the woman who is now my trophy wife, I told her: "I'm a guy. You're a girl. Guys lie to girls. I will lie to you."
She laughed. And didn't believe it.
Until she caught me in a lie. And when I told her I had warned her up front that I was going to lie, it didn't matter. She thought I was "kidding,'' or "being cute.''
It didn't take long to realize how important telling the truth is in any relationship, but especially one with the person you expect to be closest to for the rest of your life. It quickly became a matter of trust, something The Trophy Wife has had issues with because of things that happened prior to me, which I didn't necessarily help with my own somewhat self-centered attitude.
It didn't say a lot about my character and I have worked to be more honest.
But I started thinking about how crazy guys can get because of women.
Take religion. Have you ever thought about the problems with various religions whose central figures are married men?
The following research is extensive, or as extensive as I could do while taking a hot shower, trying to stretch out the spasms in my lower back.
Let's look at the world's major religions.
Islam: founded by Muhammed, who was married to a considerably older woman of great wealth. According to mutiple articles on Islam I found on the web, there is a popular hadith (a report of the sayings or actions of Muhammad or his companions, together with the tradition of its chain of transmission), in which "the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said, "Lies are not appropriate except in three cases: when a man speaks to his wife to please her, telling lies at times of war, and lying in order to bring about reconciliation between people.” (Reported Hasan by Shaykh al-Albaani).
You've got to admit, that's very much a "guy" approach to the truth. According to Muhammad, it's OK to lie to your wife "to please her." It reminds me of something else I once told my future wife: "I promise I will never lie to you about anything important." What I didn't mention was that I got to determine exactly what was "important.''
Funny thing is, she didn't buy that, either.
Mormonism: perhaps the most bogus faith from a historical, archaeological, and just about any other scholarly standpoint. Joseph Smith came up with a doozy in order to convince his wife that God had ordained the practice of polygamy. According to Mormon history, Smith is reported to have married as many as 28 wives, most between the ages of 19-21. How did Smith get his first wife to go along with the idea? Tradition is he told her that God intended for the two of them to one day rule their own planet, and that the first wife would hold the position of Queen mother, ruling over a population that included later wives and all the children. Apparently, the first Mrs. Smith bought it.
Wait a minute - 28 wives, mostly between the ages of 19-21? It sounds like an early version of Hugh Hefner. Let's be honest - if that's not a guy dream, I don't know what is.
Buddhism: it's a lot harder to get back to the founder of the Eastern religions, but let's just take Siddhartha Buddha. Again, legend has it that Siddhartha was a prince, raised in a palace, surrounded by luxury, married at age 16. At age 29, he made his first venture out of the palace and was shocked at seeing so many people who were poor, hungry, uneducated, and without shelter. He was moved to do something about it and after a few unsuccessful attempts to bring aid and comfort came up with a novel idea: the answer was not to feed, clothe, educate and care for the poor, but rather to teach the poor to achieve a state in which they didn't yearn to be fed, clothed, educated or sheltered - the "cessation of want.'' (The Middle Way).
If only a guy could get his wife to understand the "cessation of want." No more clothes, shoes, furniture ... no more shopping!
Which brings me to Christianity. Central figure: Jesus. Jesus was not married. He showed no interest, possibly because - if you follow the mysticism of The Bible - he was already promised to "the Church,'' aka "The Bride of Christ." It was an arranged marraige by The Father, so all pressure was off.
By the way, I quickly learned - before I got married - whatever I gained from a lie wasn't worth it in the long run. It also said much about my character (or lack thereof), and quite frankly if I'd lied to her, or continued to shop the 19-21 year old female market after marrying her, or didn't concern myself with meeting her needs, she couldn't really trust me and I wouldn't be much of a man.
Think about it.
Now, if you want to disagree with any of my premises, feel free.
After all, I'm a guy.
And I've already said what that means.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Natty Bumppo's got nuthin' on me now
I killed my first deer last night.
(Hence the reference to Natty Bumppo, the hero of James Fenimore Cooper's "The Deerslayer")
It was a doe. Not a big one.
But big enough to bust the front grill and dent the front right corner of the bumper of my beloved Cruella.
Did I mention I killed this deer with my car?
Yeah, I felt sick. After all, it was only a week ago that I'd been going down essentially this same road (by "same," I mean driving through central Mississippi on my way back to Gulfport), spun out on a ridiculous patch of ice, and busted up Cruella more than I thought.
Cruella DeVille - my old Cadillac.
I felt sick because the right front headlight I'd just replaced about six months ago was busted up pretty good, with little tufts of deer hair caught in the broken glass.
I felt sick because even though I thought the Caddy came out of "Skating With the Stars'' in pretty good shape, turns out she hadn't. She was loose in the front, and somewhere along the way the rear bumper skirts came off, leaving much of the old girls' bottom exposed.
I felt sick because sometimes you can't help but wonder, "Why me?"
Oh, and I felt bad about the deer, too. What tragedy compelled this poor little doe to throw herself out in front of an on-coming car in the dark of a January night in Mississippi? I know she saw me coming - I saw her tiny little fearful eyes looking at me as she leaped (leapt?) in front of my headlights at the last second.
Thousands of birds drop dead out of the sky in Arkansas; a hundred thousand fish show up dead in an Arkansas river; two hundred cows keel over in a field in Wisconsin.
And one sucidal doe throws herself in front of my on-coming car somewhere south of Hattiesburg, Mississippi.
What's going on here? Signs of the coming apocalypse?
On the other hand, this is something like a rite of passage for a man, isn't it? Killing game?
See, we didn't hunt when I was a kid. We played ball - football, basketball, baseball. But nobody in my immediate family hunted (except my mother, who could stalk a sale from one side of Atlanta to the other and never came home empty-handed).
I had uncles that were hunters. At family gatherings I listened to their stories of hunting wild hogs and turkeys and coons and, yes, deer. I had an uncle that trained coon dogs and I remember my Dad - also a non-hunter - telling the story of the time my uncle Woody took him coon-hunting.
I remember the first time I went fishing. I was so excited. I had visions of casting my line and then battling some monster of the deep back to shore. I'd seen "American Sportsman" and those guys on the back of boats whose hands were blistered and raw from hours of fighting to land a giant blue marlin.
Instead, I stood on a bridge over a little stream, dropped a line in the water, and waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Bor-ing.
When I was older, some men in the church decided to take a couple of us deer hunting. Again, I had these visions of stalking deer, creeping through the undergrowth, checking to stay downwind - all those things I'd read about in James Fenimore Cooper books.
(By the way, Cooper was ridiculous. You want a good laugh, read Mark Twain's essay on Cooper's litterary offenses at http://etext.virginia.edu/railton/projects/rissetto/offense.html . Then read Twain's commentary ridiculing the Book of Mormon .... oh, just go read Mark Twain, despite the current controversy).
Of course, the reality is they took us out before daylight, stuck me on a tree stand, and told me to wait.
And wait.
And wait some more.
Bor-ing.
I finally got down and found my best friend who was equally bored. We walked back to the road where we thought the trucks were parked. While we walked and talked, a rabbit jumped out in front of us. Mitch was so excited he started pointing his gun and pulling the trigger, but the safety was on. The rabbit was a very good sport and waited until Mitch could get the safety off, at which time it darted away as Mitch fired off one round - and blew the heck out of a small pine tree.
"Looks like you got a nice 127-pointer there, Mitch,'' I said. "Do we skin it here, or drag it back to camp?''
That was my last time to go hunting.
So as I got older and the guys would sit around talking about hunting and fishing, I'd have to sit there and keep quiet and listen. I have to admit, they made it sound so much fun, so Southern and macho, that I was tempted ... but then I kept reminding myself that these stories were about five minutes out of who knows how many hours, if not days, of hunting/fishing trips.
Now I had killed my first deer. I believe I remember the proper response is to cut off the bottom of my shirttail and dip it in the blood of the kill.
However, when a deer is killed by an on-coming car there is no real blood to speak of, and my shirt was a nice, black-on-black dress shirt from Macy's that I really like.
Besides, I didn't have a knife or scissors with me anyway to cut off the tail of the shirt even if there had been any blood to dip it in.
And, honestly, it's not like I really felt good about killing Bambi.
As Bumppo himself says when he and his friend Hurry Harry fell a doe and Hurry is feeling proud, "Nay, nay, Hurry, there's little manhood in killing a doe ..."
(Hence the reference to Natty Bumppo, the hero of James Fenimore Cooper's "The Deerslayer")
It was a doe. Not a big one.
But big enough to bust the front grill and dent the front right corner of the bumper of my beloved Cruella.
Did I mention I killed this deer with my car?
Yeah, I felt sick. After all, it was only a week ago that I'd been going down essentially this same road (by "same," I mean driving through central Mississippi on my way back to Gulfport), spun out on a ridiculous patch of ice, and busted up Cruella more than I thought.
Cruella DeVille - my old Cadillac.
I felt sick because the right front headlight I'd just replaced about six months ago was busted up pretty good, with little tufts of deer hair caught in the broken glass.
I felt sick because even though I thought the Caddy came out of "Skating With the Stars'' in pretty good shape, turns out she hadn't. She was loose in the front, and somewhere along the way the rear bumper skirts came off, leaving much of the old girls' bottom exposed.
I felt sick because sometimes you can't help but wonder, "Why me?"
Oh, and I felt bad about the deer, too. What tragedy compelled this poor little doe to throw herself out in front of an on-coming car in the dark of a January night in Mississippi? I know she saw me coming - I saw her tiny little fearful eyes looking at me as she leaped (leapt?) in front of my headlights at the last second.
Thousands of birds drop dead out of the sky in Arkansas; a hundred thousand fish show up dead in an Arkansas river; two hundred cows keel over in a field in Wisconsin.
And one sucidal doe throws herself in front of my on-coming car somewhere south of Hattiesburg, Mississippi.
What's going on here? Signs of the coming apocalypse?
On the other hand, this is something like a rite of passage for a man, isn't it? Killing game?
See, we didn't hunt when I was a kid. We played ball - football, basketball, baseball. But nobody in my immediate family hunted (except my mother, who could stalk a sale from one side of Atlanta to the other and never came home empty-handed).
I had uncles that were hunters. At family gatherings I listened to their stories of hunting wild hogs and turkeys and coons and, yes, deer. I had an uncle that trained coon dogs and I remember my Dad - also a non-hunter - telling the story of the time my uncle Woody took him coon-hunting.
I remember the first time I went fishing. I was so excited. I had visions of casting my line and then battling some monster of the deep back to shore. I'd seen "American Sportsman" and those guys on the back of boats whose hands were blistered and raw from hours of fighting to land a giant blue marlin.
Instead, I stood on a bridge over a little stream, dropped a line in the water, and waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Bor-ing.
When I was older, some men in the church decided to take a couple of us deer hunting. Again, I had these visions of stalking deer, creeping through the undergrowth, checking to stay downwind - all those things I'd read about in James Fenimore Cooper books.
(By the way, Cooper was ridiculous. You want a good laugh, read Mark Twain's essay on Cooper's litterary offenses at http://etext.virginia.edu/railton/projects/rissetto/offense.html . Then read Twain's commentary ridiculing the Book of Mormon .... oh, just go read Mark Twain, despite the current controversy).
Of course, the reality is they took us out before daylight, stuck me on a tree stand, and told me to wait.
And wait.
And wait some more.
Bor-ing.
I finally got down and found my best friend who was equally bored. We walked back to the road where we thought the trucks were parked. While we walked and talked, a rabbit jumped out in front of us. Mitch was so excited he started pointing his gun and pulling the trigger, but the safety was on. The rabbit was a very good sport and waited until Mitch could get the safety off, at which time it darted away as Mitch fired off one round - and blew the heck out of a small pine tree.
"Looks like you got a nice 127-pointer there, Mitch,'' I said. "Do we skin it here, or drag it back to camp?''
That was my last time to go hunting.
So as I got older and the guys would sit around talking about hunting and fishing, I'd have to sit there and keep quiet and listen. I have to admit, they made it sound so much fun, so Southern and macho, that I was tempted ... but then I kept reminding myself that these stories were about five minutes out of who knows how many hours, if not days, of hunting/fishing trips.
Now I had killed my first deer. I believe I remember the proper response is to cut off the bottom of my shirttail and dip it in the blood of the kill.
However, when a deer is killed by an on-coming car there is no real blood to speak of, and my shirt was a nice, black-on-black dress shirt from Macy's that I really like.
Besides, I didn't have a knife or scissors with me anyway to cut off the tail of the shirt even if there had been any blood to dip it in.
And, honestly, it's not like I really felt good about killing Bambi.
As Bumppo himself says when he and his friend Hurry Harry fell a doe and Hurry is feeling proud, "Nay, nay, Hurry, there's little manhood in killing a doe ..."
Monday, January 17, 2011
Dumping Samantha for Karen while traveling life's long, lonely highway
I just dumped Samantha, and now I'm hooking up with Karen.
It wasn't easy. Over the last few months, Samantha had been there to help guide me through some of the longest, loneliest, most lost moments of my life.
But I had just had enough.
Now, some of you may be thinking, "Samantha? Karen? Neither of those names belongs to 'The Trophy Wife.'''
And you'd be right.
But when you're away from home, alone - well, to keep from feeling lost during those times of seperation from The Trophy Wife, I did the same thing many of you have done.
I got a GPS.
My first GPS "voice" was American Samanatha. It was nice to have a woman's voice along on long rides through south Alabama and Mississippi, to share the beauty of the way they sun reflects off the Mississippi Sound while driving along the Gulf Coast seashore at sunset.
But right off the bat, Samantha and I got off on the wrong foot. Look, everyone knows that men don't really need directions. Especially not from a woman. Unless we ask.
And while initially it wasn't so bad, soon Samantha began to nag. It went from a nice, courteous "Turn right onto Ladnier Ave" or "in 200 feet, turn left on Acton Road,'' to suddenly a very agressive tone.
When I didn't do things the way Samantha wanted, it was "You missed the turn,'' and "Do a U-turn" and so on until I'd finally get this exasperated "Please drive to the highlighted area" - Samantha's way of saying, "I'm not talking to you again until you get back on the road like I told you!"!
Even when I was right, Samantha wouldn't leave it alone. It was frustrating to know short cuts that Samantha didn't know, and to have her sit there next to me constantly making that snide "Recalculating, recalculating'' comment.
Last night, driving back to Pass Christian from Birmingham, I had enough. I found Australian Karen, and said goodbye to American Samantha.
I'll admit, I was attracted by the accent. And the things I've heard about Australian women - primarily that they are very understanding in their relationship to men.
We'll see.
Already it's much better. Sure, she says a lot of the same stuff.
But just like in real life, it's not so much what a woman says as how she says it.
And right now, everything Karen says sounds so darn cute!
It wasn't easy. Over the last few months, Samantha had been there to help guide me through some of the longest, loneliest, most lost moments of my life.
But I had just had enough.
Now, some of you may be thinking, "Samantha? Karen? Neither of those names belongs to 'The Trophy Wife.'''
And you'd be right.
But when you're away from home, alone - well, to keep from feeling lost during those times of seperation from The Trophy Wife, I did the same thing many of you have done.
I got a GPS.
My first GPS "voice" was American Samanatha. It was nice to have a woman's voice along on long rides through south Alabama and Mississippi, to share the beauty of the way they sun reflects off the Mississippi Sound while driving along the Gulf Coast seashore at sunset.
But right off the bat, Samantha and I got off on the wrong foot. Look, everyone knows that men don't really need directions. Especially not from a woman. Unless we ask.
And while initially it wasn't so bad, soon Samantha began to nag. It went from a nice, courteous "Turn right onto Ladnier Ave" or "in 200 feet, turn left on Acton Road,'' to suddenly a very agressive tone.
When I didn't do things the way Samantha wanted, it was "You missed the turn,'' and "Do a U-turn" and so on until I'd finally get this exasperated "Please drive to the highlighted area" - Samantha's way of saying, "I'm not talking to you again until you get back on the road like I told you!"!
Even when I was right, Samantha wouldn't leave it alone. It was frustrating to know short cuts that Samantha didn't know, and to have her sit there next to me constantly making that snide "Recalculating, recalculating'' comment.
Last night, driving back to Pass Christian from Birmingham, I had enough. I found Australian Karen, and said goodbye to American Samantha.
I'll admit, I was attracted by the accent. And the things I've heard about Australian women - primarily that they are very understanding in their relationship to men.
We'll see.
Already it's much better. Sure, she says a lot of the same stuff.
But just like in real life, it's not so much what a woman says as how she says it.
And right now, everything Karen says sounds so darn cute!
Friday, January 14, 2011
The Stranger, an Innocent Man
I had a gift card for Barnes and Noble that was left over from something, and it turned out I had just enough left to buy a CD of Billy Joel's greatest hits.
Well, some of his greatest hits, anyway. "Scenes from an Italian Resturant" was missing. And some of the quirkier stuff, like "Stilleto."
But there were plenty of other songs, songs that remind you of that guilty pleasure of listening to Billy Joel music.
I say guilty pleasure because it's not cool to like Billy Joel. Despite how many albums the guy has sold, despite the number of hits he produced, Billy Joel has never carried that cache of, say, Bruce Springstein or Bono even though he's sold roughly the same number of records.
And the very fact that I'd mention those three in the same sentence has some of you screaming at this screen right now, either literally or figuratively.
Joel's song "The Stranger'' is not one of my favorites. On the other hand, is there anybody out there who doesn't understand what Joel is talking about? Don't we all have that hidden part of ourselves that, for whatever reason, we know better than to take out and show on any kind of regular basis?
Maybe it's that dark side that we don't want to admit too, or a soft side that we're embarassed about, or just that part of us that believes down deep, we really are more dangerous than anyone realizes.
"Well we all have a face that we hide away forever
And we take them out and show ourselves
When everyone has gone
Some are satin some are steel;
Some are silk and some are leather
They're the faces of the stranger
But we love to try them on ..."
To expose that side is to become truly vulnerable to another person, to risk no longer being liked or at least changing the relationship forever.
I know it's popular to say that we admire people for being vulnerable, but I don't buy it. There is a reason we call such secrets "deep and dark." They're not meant to be exposed to the light of human relationship except as an act of ego on our own part that craves attention.
I mean, what's to be gained by it anyway? Oh, sure, the person we share those feelings with feel connected to us and act all emotionally moved that we'd be so willing to share our true feelings with them.
But it seems to me that what most of us want is the ability be vulnerable with someone else, not necessarily have them be vulnerable back to us. And when we "open'' ourselves up like that to someone, doesn't it come with the unspoken obligation to allow the other person to be vulnerable right back?
Here's the thing: I know women always say the love it when men show their vulnerable side, I think they really mean it - for about 24 hours. Then those same women realize they've seen a weakness, and I don't care what you say, women don't want to see weakness in the men they expect to support and care for them for the rest of their lives.
How can you protect, care, support, and all those other things that, down deep, women still want from a man and at the same time know his weakness? Superman never went around sharing with his friends his fear of kryptonite. Lois Lane knew about it, but not because in a moment of emotional vulnerability Superman - with tears in his eyes - "shared'' his darkest secret. Lois knew about it because at some point, in the course of saving Lois as well as all of humanity, she saw Superman nearly felled by exposure to kryptonite.
From that moment on, Superman knew Lois knew his weakness, just as Lois knew it; but I doubt they ever spoke of it again.
That's why if or when we let the "stranger'' out, it's always better to do it around people we don't know or will probably never see again; people that we have a limited relationship with, that we can cut off easily with no repercussions. Paid professionals. Or bartenders.
Joel does that in his music, whether it's self-destructive relationships (Stilleto or All for Leyna), inherit professional insecurity (Piano Man, The Entertainer), an obsessions with phone sex (Sometimes A Fantasy), insecurity (Sleeping With The Television On), a general disappointment with life (Where's The Orchestra), even the embarassingly mushy "Just The Way You Are" - embarassing, because the woman he wrote the song about he divorced, but everyone knows he wrote it about his first wife.
You don't really want to know the deep, dark me that is hidden away. I don't really want to take that me out, either, because the point is to grow and mature into that person we can be, rather than give in to that person we started out being.
I can tell you things about myself that will let you know me better. But then I'd have to break off all communication with you.
And I like you too much to do that.
Most of you, anyway.
Maybe that's why Billy Joel never quite pulled off the "cool'' factor of most of his contemporaries.
He told us all about his vulnerabilities in his songs.
We related, because we shared many of them ourselves.
And then we had to break off the relationship.
It was just too painful to keep going.
You may be right
I may be crazy.
But it just may be a lunatic you're looking for ....
Well, some of his greatest hits, anyway. "Scenes from an Italian Resturant" was missing. And some of the quirkier stuff, like "Stilleto."
But there were plenty of other songs, songs that remind you of that guilty pleasure of listening to Billy Joel music.
I say guilty pleasure because it's not cool to like Billy Joel. Despite how many albums the guy has sold, despite the number of hits he produced, Billy Joel has never carried that cache of, say, Bruce Springstein or Bono even though he's sold roughly the same number of records.
And the very fact that I'd mention those three in the same sentence has some of you screaming at this screen right now, either literally or figuratively.
Joel's song "The Stranger'' is not one of my favorites. On the other hand, is there anybody out there who doesn't understand what Joel is talking about? Don't we all have that hidden part of ourselves that, for whatever reason, we know better than to take out and show on any kind of regular basis?
Maybe it's that dark side that we don't want to admit too, or a soft side that we're embarassed about, or just that part of us that believes down deep, we really are more dangerous than anyone realizes.
"Well we all have a face that we hide away forever
And we take them out and show ourselves
When everyone has gone
Some are satin some are steel;
Some are silk and some are leather
They're the faces of the stranger
But we love to try them on ..."
To expose that side is to become truly vulnerable to another person, to risk no longer being liked or at least changing the relationship forever.
I know it's popular to say that we admire people for being vulnerable, but I don't buy it. There is a reason we call such secrets "deep and dark." They're not meant to be exposed to the light of human relationship except as an act of ego on our own part that craves attention.
I mean, what's to be gained by it anyway? Oh, sure, the person we share those feelings with feel connected to us and act all emotionally moved that we'd be so willing to share our true feelings with them.
But it seems to me that what most of us want is the ability be vulnerable with someone else, not necessarily have them be vulnerable back to us. And when we "open'' ourselves up like that to someone, doesn't it come with the unspoken obligation to allow the other person to be vulnerable right back?
Here's the thing: I know women always say the love it when men show their vulnerable side, I think they really mean it - for about 24 hours. Then those same women realize they've seen a weakness, and I don't care what you say, women don't want to see weakness in the men they expect to support and care for them for the rest of their lives.
How can you protect, care, support, and all those other things that, down deep, women still want from a man and at the same time know his weakness? Superman never went around sharing with his friends his fear of kryptonite. Lois Lane knew about it, but not because in a moment of emotional vulnerability Superman - with tears in his eyes - "shared'' his darkest secret. Lois knew about it because at some point, in the course of saving Lois as well as all of humanity, she saw Superman nearly felled by exposure to kryptonite.
From that moment on, Superman knew Lois knew his weakness, just as Lois knew it; but I doubt they ever spoke of it again.
That's why if or when we let the "stranger'' out, it's always better to do it around people we don't know or will probably never see again; people that we have a limited relationship with, that we can cut off easily with no repercussions. Paid professionals. Or bartenders.
Joel does that in his music, whether it's self-destructive relationships (Stilleto or All for Leyna), inherit professional insecurity (Piano Man, The Entertainer), an obsessions with phone sex (Sometimes A Fantasy), insecurity (Sleeping With The Television On), a general disappointment with life (Where's The Orchestra), even the embarassingly mushy "Just The Way You Are" - embarassing, because the woman he wrote the song about he divorced, but everyone knows he wrote it about his first wife.
You don't really want to know the deep, dark me that is hidden away. I don't really want to take that me out, either, because the point is to grow and mature into that person we can be, rather than give in to that person we started out being.
I can tell you things about myself that will let you know me better. But then I'd have to break off all communication with you.
And I like you too much to do that.
Most of you, anyway.
Maybe that's why Billy Joel never quite pulled off the "cool'' factor of most of his contemporaries.
He told us all about his vulnerabilities in his songs.
We related, because we shared many of them ourselves.
And then we had to break off the relationship.
It was just too painful to keep going.
You may be right
I may be crazy.
But it just may be a lunatic you're looking for ....
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
For love of the game ... or to hear myself talk
This is a great example of how you can get lost while trying to make a point. I was inspired to write by a conversation my oldest son and I had while watching a high school basketball game. I was getting into it - I get into almost any kind of competition - and The Heir laughed at me, saying he doesn't know how I can get wrapped up in a game where I don't know anybody and don't have a side. He said he has to have a personnal interest in the game to watch.
That got me thinking about the motivation for people to play or get involved in sports. And somewhere along the way, I got lost in thinking about the people and half-stories I've stored away in my brain somewhere, and this is what happened ...
I ask myself every year about this time, the time of year when underclassmen in the college game announce their intention to leave school early to turn pro; the time of year when high school players start committing to where they will play college football:
Why do they play?
Is it for the glory? The money that waits the select few who make it to the NFL? For the championship that eludes all but the very elite teams?
And when does the sense of entitlement start? At what age do these athletes realize they are special?
I've know some of the finest athletes in the college game. I don't believe they seek special treatment. They're just used to it. They've always been treated special, so they don't know any other way.
Sure, some of them learn to take advantage of that. They realize they will always get another chance, that being so big or fast or strong or all three brings privilege they use to their full advantage.
But after a lifetime spent around these guys, I don't think it's quite so sinister for the majority of them. They don't demand second chances or expect to get away with things the average person doesn't get away with; it just happens to them. It's just the way life has always been for them.
I've known more than a few college football players who are genuinely surprised when a non-athlete fellow-student suffers some consequence for his actions - flunks a class, gets suspended from school, whatever. They believe the kid must have done something more than "just" fail in a class because nobody they know "just" fails - at least, nobody they know; certainly none of their peers in athletics unless the athlete absolutely just quit trying or had become dispensable to the team.
There is no question these guys - and girls, although our society hardly gives female athletes the same measure of status as male athletes - deserve admiration. Professional athletes are among the top five percent in their sport in the world.
And any lawyer or doctor or businessman who is in the top five percent in the world in his chosen profession is going to be similarly financially rewarded. They just don't get endorsement deals or show up on video games. If anything, they wind up owning the teams and therefore control these world-class athletes, or produce the product that uses the image of the athlete so successfully.
But I'm way off track here. The question is, why do they play?
Years ago, when I was a young beat writer covering the University of Alabama, the Crimson Tide had a young quarterback named Billy Ray, who came out of high school as arguably the top prospect in the nation.
Ray had it all - great arm, great legs, great intelligence, leadership. Everyone wanted him.
But somewhere during his sophomore year at Alabama, in the course of a conversation, Ray told me - and I don't know why, but it's a conversation that has stuck with me to this day - that he was tired of playing football. That he'd been playing football since he was in the second grade, lived with all the expectations that grew every year as he got better and better, and he was tired of it. He played because everyone expected him to play and he was good, but he really wanted to quit football and study to become a doctor.
Later, Ray did indeed quit football at Alabama. He transferred to Duke, where he continued to play football and had a stellar senior year at quarterback for the Blue Devils. I don't know what happened to him after that, but I like to think that he used football to become a doctor and is happy living his dream, with no regrets.
Somewhere along the way, the game stopped being fun for Billy Ray. (At least, on that day sitting in the lobby or the old Bryant Hall in Tuscaloosa, he told me it had.)
On the other hand, there is Brett Favre. It appears that Favre has finally retired from football once and for all, but no one can know for sure because he's made a habit of "retiring'' every year for the last several, only to show up again in time for another NFL season the next fall.
Favre has become a punch line, the personification of not being able to make a decision. Why? It can't be the money, and he's already a Hall of Famer so it's not the glory. Maybe it's winning, but he's among the elite quarterbacks who has won a Super Bowl ring.
I don't know Brett Favre, but I like to think he simply loves playing the game, that in those Wrangler jeans commercials where he's playing pick-up football in a field with a bunch of actors he's having as much fun as he would if it were at Soldier Field, playing the Chicago Bears.
Another quarterback story that has always stuck with me: Cliff Stoudt was the quarterback who followed Terry Bradshaw with the Pittsburgh Steelers, and no matter how successful Stoudt was (and he was successful, leading the Steelers to the playoffs), he wasn't Bradshaw. So when the opportunity came to leave and join an upstart league known as the United States Football League, Stoudt left and came to Birmingham and led the Stallions to the playoffs in both years he was with the team.
One night, while shooting pool in a lounge on Valley Avenue in Homewood, Stoudt told me he was terrified of retiring because what else could he do that was as clearly defined as athletics? You work all week for a game, and on Sunday you either won or you lost, and then you started over. In business it might take a lifetime to determine winners and losers, but in football, the scoreboard answered that question every week.
Stoudt did not want to become a coach, but told me he was terrified that a coach is exactly what he'd become because he couldn't see any other profession that provided the immediate reward and sense of accomplishment as football.
For the record, Stoudt didn't become a coach. Like Billy Ray, I lost track of Stoudt, although I'm pleased that his son has apparently signed to play quarterback at Ole Miss this fall. I'm hoping I get the chance to catch up with Stoudt again. There was a time when I considered him a friend.
I have always loved the game for the sake of the game itself. I can watch almost any competition and get caught up in it. My son and I went to a high school holiday basketball tournament, and he couldn't figure out how I could cheer for both teams, how I could be frustrated that one team wasn't doing the things to be competitive with the other.
He told me he can't watch a game unless he has a "side,'' and when he has a "side,'' all he wants is for his "side'' to win.
We all know (don't we?) the guys who can't watch a game unless they've got something riding on it (usually money). If there is nothing personal at risk based on the outcome, what's the point?
Which brings me to Nick Saban, who I liken to the John Calvin of football coaches
Saban is a Catholic who coaches by the Protestant Work Ethic. You hear it all the time - he doesn't talk about winning or losing, but about his players playing their very best and letting winning and losing take care of itself. I've heard him say this over and over, and I'm not sure a lot of people believe him, because he does seem to get the best athletes and motivates them to play their best so his teams tend to win a lot more often than they lose. But I believe him when he says all he wants is to see each individual perform to his absolute best, and that's how he judges success.
That's why I call Saban the John Calvin of coaches. Calvin, among other theologians, believed the chief end of man was to glorify God. Man worked not to make money or be a success or retire early or gain fame and power and prestige, but to use whatever ability God gave him to the best of that ability because that brought glory to God.
It became known as the Protestant Work Ethic. This country was founded on the idea that you work hard not to impress the people around you or to achieve a life of comfort, but because it was how you brought glory to God.
Financial success was seen as a blessing from God for using those talents so well. Unfortunately, it didn't take long for financfial success to become the goal because it was a visible demonstration that you had found favor with God. Men began to do whatever they could to become successful because success was the end in itself.
Its part of the reason so many church "leaders'' tend to come from the most financially successful individuals in the church community. It's a hold-over from the days that financial success was seen as a blessing from God, and if a person was wealthy then they must be close to God, never mind how they achieved that financial success.
Meanwhile, we forget that some of the people God used the most were dirt poor by our standards. We forget the way God measures 'success' is not the same as the way the world measures. The Bible is full of those stories.
And it's the way Saban coaches. It doesn't mean it's the best way, or the most successful way ... but it's the way I'd like to think I'd coach, if I coached. It's the reason I'd like to think I played, if I could still play.
Well, I could go on. But I've gone on long enough. It's like a guy I once knew who told me, "I love conversations, except for that part where the other person talks.''
That got me thinking about the motivation for people to play or get involved in sports. And somewhere along the way, I got lost in thinking about the people and half-stories I've stored away in my brain somewhere, and this is what happened ...
I ask myself every year about this time, the time of year when underclassmen in the college game announce their intention to leave school early to turn pro; the time of year when high school players start committing to where they will play college football:
Why do they play?
Is it for the glory? The money that waits the select few who make it to the NFL? For the championship that eludes all but the very elite teams?
And when does the sense of entitlement start? At what age do these athletes realize they are special?
I've know some of the finest athletes in the college game. I don't believe they seek special treatment. They're just used to it. They've always been treated special, so they don't know any other way.
Sure, some of them learn to take advantage of that. They realize they will always get another chance, that being so big or fast or strong or all three brings privilege they use to their full advantage.
But after a lifetime spent around these guys, I don't think it's quite so sinister for the majority of them. They don't demand second chances or expect to get away with things the average person doesn't get away with; it just happens to them. It's just the way life has always been for them.
I've known more than a few college football players who are genuinely surprised when a non-athlete fellow-student suffers some consequence for his actions - flunks a class, gets suspended from school, whatever. They believe the kid must have done something more than "just" fail in a class because nobody they know "just" fails - at least, nobody they know; certainly none of their peers in athletics unless the athlete absolutely just quit trying or had become dispensable to the team.
There is no question these guys - and girls, although our society hardly gives female athletes the same measure of status as male athletes - deserve admiration. Professional athletes are among the top five percent in their sport in the world.
And any lawyer or doctor or businessman who is in the top five percent in the world in his chosen profession is going to be similarly financially rewarded. They just don't get endorsement deals or show up on video games. If anything, they wind up owning the teams and therefore control these world-class athletes, or produce the product that uses the image of the athlete so successfully.
But I'm way off track here. The question is, why do they play?
Years ago, when I was a young beat writer covering the University of Alabama, the Crimson Tide had a young quarterback named Billy Ray, who came out of high school as arguably the top prospect in the nation.
Ray had it all - great arm, great legs, great intelligence, leadership. Everyone wanted him.
But somewhere during his sophomore year at Alabama, in the course of a conversation, Ray told me - and I don't know why, but it's a conversation that has stuck with me to this day - that he was tired of playing football. That he'd been playing football since he was in the second grade, lived with all the expectations that grew every year as he got better and better, and he was tired of it. He played because everyone expected him to play and he was good, but he really wanted to quit football and study to become a doctor.
Later, Ray did indeed quit football at Alabama. He transferred to Duke, where he continued to play football and had a stellar senior year at quarterback for the Blue Devils. I don't know what happened to him after that, but I like to think that he used football to become a doctor and is happy living his dream, with no regrets.
Somewhere along the way, the game stopped being fun for Billy Ray. (At least, on that day sitting in the lobby or the old Bryant Hall in Tuscaloosa, he told me it had.)
On the other hand, there is Brett Favre. It appears that Favre has finally retired from football once and for all, but no one can know for sure because he's made a habit of "retiring'' every year for the last several, only to show up again in time for another NFL season the next fall.
Favre has become a punch line, the personification of not being able to make a decision. Why? It can't be the money, and he's already a Hall of Famer so it's not the glory. Maybe it's winning, but he's among the elite quarterbacks who has won a Super Bowl ring.
I don't know Brett Favre, but I like to think he simply loves playing the game, that in those Wrangler jeans commercials where he's playing pick-up football in a field with a bunch of actors he's having as much fun as he would if it were at Soldier Field, playing the Chicago Bears.
Another quarterback story that has always stuck with me: Cliff Stoudt was the quarterback who followed Terry Bradshaw with the Pittsburgh Steelers, and no matter how successful Stoudt was (and he was successful, leading the Steelers to the playoffs), he wasn't Bradshaw. So when the opportunity came to leave and join an upstart league known as the United States Football League, Stoudt left and came to Birmingham and led the Stallions to the playoffs in both years he was with the team.
One night, while shooting pool in a lounge on Valley Avenue in Homewood, Stoudt told me he was terrified of retiring because what else could he do that was as clearly defined as athletics? You work all week for a game, and on Sunday you either won or you lost, and then you started over. In business it might take a lifetime to determine winners and losers, but in football, the scoreboard answered that question every week.
Stoudt did not want to become a coach, but told me he was terrified that a coach is exactly what he'd become because he couldn't see any other profession that provided the immediate reward and sense of accomplishment as football.
For the record, Stoudt didn't become a coach. Like Billy Ray, I lost track of Stoudt, although I'm pleased that his son has apparently signed to play quarterback at Ole Miss this fall. I'm hoping I get the chance to catch up with Stoudt again. There was a time when I considered him a friend.
I have always loved the game for the sake of the game itself. I can watch almost any competition and get caught up in it. My son and I went to a high school holiday basketball tournament, and he couldn't figure out how I could cheer for both teams, how I could be frustrated that one team wasn't doing the things to be competitive with the other.
He told me he can't watch a game unless he has a "side,'' and when he has a "side,'' all he wants is for his "side'' to win.
We all know (don't we?) the guys who can't watch a game unless they've got something riding on it (usually money). If there is nothing personal at risk based on the outcome, what's the point?
Which brings me to Nick Saban, who I liken to the John Calvin of football coaches
Saban is a Catholic who coaches by the Protestant Work Ethic. You hear it all the time - he doesn't talk about winning or losing, but about his players playing their very best and letting winning and losing take care of itself. I've heard him say this over and over, and I'm not sure a lot of people believe him, because he does seem to get the best athletes and motivates them to play their best so his teams tend to win a lot more often than they lose. But I believe him when he says all he wants is to see each individual perform to his absolute best, and that's how he judges success.
That's why I call Saban the John Calvin of coaches. Calvin, among other theologians, believed the chief end of man was to glorify God. Man worked not to make money or be a success or retire early or gain fame and power and prestige, but to use whatever ability God gave him to the best of that ability because that brought glory to God.
It became known as the Protestant Work Ethic. This country was founded on the idea that you work hard not to impress the people around you or to achieve a life of comfort, but because it was how you brought glory to God.
Financial success was seen as a blessing from God for using those talents so well. Unfortunately, it didn't take long for financfial success to become the goal because it was a visible demonstration that you had found favor with God. Men began to do whatever they could to become successful because success was the end in itself.
Its part of the reason so many church "leaders'' tend to come from the most financially successful individuals in the church community. It's a hold-over from the days that financial success was seen as a blessing from God, and if a person was wealthy then they must be close to God, never mind how they achieved that financial success.
Meanwhile, we forget that some of the people God used the most were dirt poor by our standards. We forget the way God measures 'success' is not the same as the way the world measures. The Bible is full of those stories.
And it's the way Saban coaches. It doesn't mean it's the best way, or the most successful way ... but it's the way I'd like to think I'd coach, if I coached. It's the reason I'd like to think I played, if I could still play.
Well, I could go on. But I've gone on long enough. It's like a guy I once knew who told me, "I love conversations, except for that part where the other person talks.''
Monday, January 10, 2011
Super 8, Super late
OK, I didn't want to get too personal with this blog, but I'm bored.
I went home to Birmingham Friday to see the family and hear my daughter sing at the wedding of a friend. On Sunday, an ice storm moved across the South, so I tried to get out ahead of the storm for the return trip to Gulfport.
I'd considered driving south on I-65, thinking I'd get below the storm, but the radio said the ice storm was going to be worse in Montgomery and the counties below Birmingham, so I went west toward Tuscaloosa and Mississippi - the preferred route for returning to Gulfport anyway.
But the sleet started before I even got off I-459, and by the time I hit Tuscaloosa I was in a caravan of creeping cars and trucks, doing about 20 mph, watching the local tow truck economy boom by the minute, judging by the number of cars and trucks stuck on the side of the road.
I tucked in behind a big 18-wheeler, figuring the truck would blaze the trail for me - while keeping a safe distance just in case either one of us hit a bad spot.
By Meridian, I encountered a phenomenon I'd only heard about: frozen windshield wipers. I couldn't decide if it was better to drive without them operating or to try to see through the blur they left behind on the windshield as I drove. It was night and, as I said, rain/sleet was falling, so I needed them.
My new favorite Pilot truck stop beckoned. I filled up with gas, broke the ice off the windshield wipers, bought a good supply of junk food (two hotdogs, Pringles, and two Diet Cokes), and headed back out onto I-59.
The roads were pretty clear, and the sleet had turned to rain, so I was feeling pretty good as I came around the curve where I-59 splits with I-20 and heads south. The curve is a big bridge and I was careful as always. But as I came off the big curve and accelerated, I didn't see the second, smaller bridge and ... well, the next thing I knew I was spinning wildly down the interstate... then off the interstate ... then up an embankment ... then down an embankment.
It's funny, the things that go through your mind in a moment like this. I knew not to hit the breaks, of course. And I remember my head being on the roof of the car and thinking it was softer than I'd have expected. I wondered if my Diet Coke was spilling all over the front seat. And what I'd do if I flipped over. I could feel the seat belt/shoulder strap digging into my ribs ...
I also remembered seeing a car do the exact same thing once and actually bounce back onto the road, where the driver just kept driving. I wondered if I'd be so lucky.
I wasn't.
When I stopped, I was wedged in a ditch, nose toward the interstate. It was dark. There were no cars that would have seen me. And it was raining harder.
I opened the door and sure enough my Diet Coke had spilled on the front seat, but not so bad that I couldn't clean it up with the hefty supply of truck stop napkins that I always remember to bring with me. Don't ask why I found that satisfying.
I got out, and the car didn't look too bad, other than an enormous amount of mud and grass and the fact that I was wedged between two embankments.
I got back in the car, and restarted the engine. It cranked and the lights came on. I put the car in drive, but of course it wouldn't go anywhere.
Bored yet? It doesn't get any better.
I put my flashers on and my bright lights, and sure enough a nice guy stops to see if I'm OK. He called 911 and reported what happened and offered to stay with me. I said no, there was no telling how long this would take and I could stay in my car. I appreciated his kindness, however. I wish I could remember his name.
I called the trophy wife and told her what had happened, but just then a Mississippi state trooper pulled up. He called for a tow truck, and said it would take about 30 minutes - not bad, considering what I'd seen on the drive up to that point. And he waited with me. Again, I appreciate the kindness of strangers.
Finally, the tow truck showed up, and agreed to pull me out of the ditch. He said he would not be responsible for any damage to the car that might result from being pulled out of the ditch, but what choice did I have? He said it was either agree he would not be responsible, or wait for another truck who might have another idea about how to get me out of the ditch. I figured we'd go for it.
After getting the old girl up on the side of the road, it was obvious she was a mess but mostly it appeared to be cosmetic (which matters to old girls, you know).
We had to cut off the lower spoiler under the front bumper, and I was able to re-attach the rear fender skirt that had come off. But other than that, it looked to be just dirt and mud and grass.
"I hope you take credit cards," I said.
"Cash only,'' he said.
"What do you want to do?" I said. "I don't have any cash."
"You can follow me back to the Chevron station. There's an ATM there."
I said ok, actually feeling good that I'd have a tow truck escort just in case the old DeVille (I call her Cruella .... Cruella DeVille) wasn't fine after all.
It wasn't.
At slow speeds, it ran fine. But the faster I drove, the more the car seemed to buck.
Now, she has bad shocks. I knew that. But I didn't know what else might be wrong. So the tow truck driver stopped, and I climbed into the cab with his granddaughter while he hooked the car up to the truck in the freezing rain. It wasn't an easy process, because so much of his equipment was frozen to the truck and he kept having to get this big 4x4 block of wood and knocking things loose.
The granddaughter was nice. Her boyfriend kept calling to see where she was and how long she'd be, and she finally told him to stop calling and she would call him when she go home. Then she told me she wasn't going to call him at all, because she was tired of him calling her over and over.
Her mother called, and wanted to know where they were. She said she didn't know, that "Papaw" - obviously her name for her grandfather which, ironically, is also what we called one of my grandfathers - was helping a guy out and had to take him back to town.
When Papaw climbed into the truck to drive us back, she put on a country music station and began to sing. At first, I thought she was trying to sing harmony. But the more I listened, the more I realized she just couldn't carry a tune.
Now, that's strange for me. Everyone I knew growing up could carry a tune. They might not have good voices, but they could at least come close to carrying the tune.
The first person I ever really heard that just couldn't sing anything close to on key was one of my wife's brothers. We were roofing a house - this was years ago - and he started singing an old song ("Hey, hey, Paula"). I thought he was being funny, singing so far off key, and I joined in, singing just as bad, but on purpose.
Then I realized he wasn't doing this on purpose.
That was a revelation to me. I'd always heard of tone-deaf people, but never really encountered one that I could think of. Bad singers, yes. But to just not even come close to the actual tune while believing you were singing along perfectly? Never.
But I digress (which is OK, since this is my blog).
I couldn't help but think how my weekend started by going to hear my daughter, who has a wonderful voice, sing in a wedding, and how it was going to end with this country girl butchering every song that came on the radio.
But again, I appreciated the kindness of strangers. She was genuinely concerned that I was going to be "late for work,'' as she put it. She wanted to know if I would get in trouble. I told her I didn't have much choice. Papaw took me to the Super 8 because it was walking distance to a Cracker Barrell and Logan's, realizing I might be stuck here awhile.
Again, the kindness of ... well, you know.
So I'm in a Super 8 motel room, in Meridian, with no car and no idea of when my car will be checked out. I called first thing Monday morning and the tow truck driver told me the mechanic lived "way out in the country, but when he comes in I'll take your car up to him."
Meanwhile, it's rather soggy powdered donuts, industrial strength blue berry muffins, a 75-cent can of Diet Coke, and SportsCenter.
It occurs to me that I might be here tonight, watching the BCS national championship game, by myself.
It also occurs to me that because of cell phones and internet, I can still get some work done.
And since it's 8 a.m., I guess that's what I'd better do.
Don't get me wrong. I realize it could have been a lot worse, and I'm thankful.
But now the thankfulness has worn off, and I'm anxious to get on the road, or to get to the garage to urge the mechanic on, or do something.
There is an old saying that sticks with me and I use often. It goes, "If you want to hear God laugh, just say 'I have plans.'''
I think I hear God laughing.
I went home to Birmingham Friday to see the family and hear my daughter sing at the wedding of a friend. On Sunday, an ice storm moved across the South, so I tried to get out ahead of the storm for the return trip to Gulfport.
I'd considered driving south on I-65, thinking I'd get below the storm, but the radio said the ice storm was going to be worse in Montgomery and the counties below Birmingham, so I went west toward Tuscaloosa and Mississippi - the preferred route for returning to Gulfport anyway.
But the sleet started before I even got off I-459, and by the time I hit Tuscaloosa I was in a caravan of creeping cars and trucks, doing about 20 mph, watching the local tow truck economy boom by the minute, judging by the number of cars and trucks stuck on the side of the road.
I tucked in behind a big 18-wheeler, figuring the truck would blaze the trail for me - while keeping a safe distance just in case either one of us hit a bad spot.
By Meridian, I encountered a phenomenon I'd only heard about: frozen windshield wipers. I couldn't decide if it was better to drive without them operating or to try to see through the blur they left behind on the windshield as I drove. It was night and, as I said, rain/sleet was falling, so I needed them.
My new favorite Pilot truck stop beckoned. I filled up with gas, broke the ice off the windshield wipers, bought a good supply of junk food (two hotdogs, Pringles, and two Diet Cokes), and headed back out onto I-59.
The roads were pretty clear, and the sleet had turned to rain, so I was feeling pretty good as I came around the curve where I-59 splits with I-20 and heads south. The curve is a big bridge and I was careful as always. But as I came off the big curve and accelerated, I didn't see the second, smaller bridge and ... well, the next thing I knew I was spinning wildly down the interstate... then off the interstate ... then up an embankment ... then down an embankment.
It's funny, the things that go through your mind in a moment like this. I knew not to hit the breaks, of course. And I remember my head being on the roof of the car and thinking it was softer than I'd have expected. I wondered if my Diet Coke was spilling all over the front seat. And what I'd do if I flipped over. I could feel the seat belt/shoulder strap digging into my ribs ...
I also remembered seeing a car do the exact same thing once and actually bounce back onto the road, where the driver just kept driving. I wondered if I'd be so lucky.
I wasn't.
When I stopped, I was wedged in a ditch, nose toward the interstate. It was dark. There were no cars that would have seen me. And it was raining harder.
I opened the door and sure enough my Diet Coke had spilled on the front seat, but not so bad that I couldn't clean it up with the hefty supply of truck stop napkins that I always remember to bring with me. Don't ask why I found that satisfying.
I got out, and the car didn't look too bad, other than an enormous amount of mud and grass and the fact that I was wedged between two embankments.
I got back in the car, and restarted the engine. It cranked and the lights came on. I put the car in drive, but of course it wouldn't go anywhere.
Bored yet? It doesn't get any better.
I put my flashers on and my bright lights, and sure enough a nice guy stops to see if I'm OK. He called 911 and reported what happened and offered to stay with me. I said no, there was no telling how long this would take and I could stay in my car. I appreciated his kindness, however. I wish I could remember his name.
I called the trophy wife and told her what had happened, but just then a Mississippi state trooper pulled up. He called for a tow truck, and said it would take about 30 minutes - not bad, considering what I'd seen on the drive up to that point. And he waited with me. Again, I appreciate the kindness of strangers.
Finally, the tow truck showed up, and agreed to pull me out of the ditch. He said he would not be responsible for any damage to the car that might result from being pulled out of the ditch, but what choice did I have? He said it was either agree he would not be responsible, or wait for another truck who might have another idea about how to get me out of the ditch. I figured we'd go for it.
After getting the old girl up on the side of the road, it was obvious she was a mess but mostly it appeared to be cosmetic (which matters to old girls, you know).
We had to cut off the lower spoiler under the front bumper, and I was able to re-attach the rear fender skirt that had come off. But other than that, it looked to be just dirt and mud and grass.
"I hope you take credit cards," I said.
"Cash only,'' he said.
"What do you want to do?" I said. "I don't have any cash."
"You can follow me back to the Chevron station. There's an ATM there."
I said ok, actually feeling good that I'd have a tow truck escort just in case the old DeVille (I call her Cruella .... Cruella DeVille) wasn't fine after all.
It wasn't.
At slow speeds, it ran fine. But the faster I drove, the more the car seemed to buck.
Now, she has bad shocks. I knew that. But I didn't know what else might be wrong. So the tow truck driver stopped, and I climbed into the cab with his granddaughter while he hooked the car up to the truck in the freezing rain. It wasn't an easy process, because so much of his equipment was frozen to the truck and he kept having to get this big 4x4 block of wood and knocking things loose.
The granddaughter was nice. Her boyfriend kept calling to see where she was and how long she'd be, and she finally told him to stop calling and she would call him when she go home. Then she told me she wasn't going to call him at all, because she was tired of him calling her over and over.
Her mother called, and wanted to know where they were. She said she didn't know, that "Papaw" - obviously her name for her grandfather which, ironically, is also what we called one of my grandfathers - was helping a guy out and had to take him back to town.
When Papaw climbed into the truck to drive us back, she put on a country music station and began to sing. At first, I thought she was trying to sing harmony. But the more I listened, the more I realized she just couldn't carry a tune.
Now, that's strange for me. Everyone I knew growing up could carry a tune. They might not have good voices, but they could at least come close to carrying the tune.
The first person I ever really heard that just couldn't sing anything close to on key was one of my wife's brothers. We were roofing a house - this was years ago - and he started singing an old song ("Hey, hey, Paula"). I thought he was being funny, singing so far off key, and I joined in, singing just as bad, but on purpose.
Then I realized he wasn't doing this on purpose.
That was a revelation to me. I'd always heard of tone-deaf people, but never really encountered one that I could think of. Bad singers, yes. But to just not even come close to the actual tune while believing you were singing along perfectly? Never.
But I digress (which is OK, since this is my blog).
I couldn't help but think how my weekend started by going to hear my daughter, who has a wonderful voice, sing in a wedding, and how it was going to end with this country girl butchering every song that came on the radio.
But again, I appreciated the kindness of strangers. She was genuinely concerned that I was going to be "late for work,'' as she put it. She wanted to know if I would get in trouble. I told her I didn't have much choice. Papaw took me to the Super 8 because it was walking distance to a Cracker Barrell and Logan's, realizing I might be stuck here awhile.
Again, the kindness of ... well, you know.
So I'm in a Super 8 motel room, in Meridian, with no car and no idea of when my car will be checked out. I called first thing Monday morning and the tow truck driver told me the mechanic lived "way out in the country, but when he comes in I'll take your car up to him."
Meanwhile, it's rather soggy powdered donuts, industrial strength blue berry muffins, a 75-cent can of Diet Coke, and SportsCenter.
It occurs to me that I might be here tonight, watching the BCS national championship game, by myself.
It also occurs to me that because of cell phones and internet, I can still get some work done.
And since it's 8 a.m., I guess that's what I'd better do.
Don't get me wrong. I realize it could have been a lot worse, and I'm thankful.
But now the thankfulness has worn off, and I'm anxious to get on the road, or to get to the garage to urge the mechanic on, or do something.
There is an old saying that sticks with me and I use often. It goes, "If you want to hear God laugh, just say 'I have plans.'''
I think I hear God laughing.
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