"Well, I'll Be John Brown"

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 23"

2010-11-01T02:54:00.000-07:00

It was 3:00 AM when the phone rang at the Hamilton home. "Wrong number," Autumn thought, as she turned over in bed. The phone went silent after about the third ring. One of her parents must have answered it.

In a few moments, Rhett Hamilton opened the door and slipped quietly into Autumn's room. He turned on the small lamp on the table in her sitting area. She felt her father's hand as he patted her on the back. "Sweetie, wake up," he softly whispered. She turned over and wiped her eyes and sat up in bed. Rhett Hamilton's expression was one of concern. He hugged Autumn and softly said, "That was Beau on the phone." Autumn flinched and pulled away from her father's embrace. "What?," she demanded. "It's his mother, baby, I'm afraid she's gone," he said, lowering his eyes in sadness. "Beau is at the hospital...He said not to wake you up...He just asked me to tell you whenever you woke up..."

Autumn jumped out of bed, threw on her housecoat, and ran to the bathroom. "What hospital, Daddy, where is he?," she asked as she hurriedly washed her face and applied some makeup. "He's at Crawford Long, baby," her father replied, "I don't know how long he will be there...There's no sense in you going down there tonight, Autumn, he may not even be there by the time you make the drive..." Rhett Hamilton could tell he was talking to a wall. Autumn threw on some jeans and a sweater, grabbed her keys and purse, and flew out of her room and down the stairs.

Tears ran down her face as she started the car and flew out of the driveway. A lifetime of thoughts raced through her mind as she drove. She thought about the sweet expression on Rose Jackson's face as they broke the news to her about the engagement. She cried even more as she thought about Beau, sitting at the hospital all alone. "He has nobody now but me," she whispered to herself. She thought about the wedding. Who would sit on Beau's side of the church now? Who would be, "his family?" Autumn looked at the shiny diamond on her left hand as she clutched the steering wheel. "I hope he still wants to marry me now that this has happened," she thought.

The trip to downtown was over in a flash. Autumn hoped that the valet parking normally available at Crawford Long was a twenty-four hour service. It wasn't. She had to park across the street in the near vacant visitor lot. She ran across the street without paying attention to the late night traffic, and was almost hit by an Atlanta police car. Out of breath from running, she could barely speak when she finally got to the emergency room desk. "The family of Rose Jackson," she huffed. The attendant looked over the roster of patients admitted that night, and hesitated. "Just a minute," she said, as she dialed an extension from the phone on the information desk. Autumn heard her ask if the family of Rose Jackson was still in the hospital. She hung up the phone and turned to Autumn, "I'm sorry Miss, but the family has already gone."

"I AM family," Autumn blurted, in almost a shouting tone. She burst into tears. "I've got to find her son, Beau," she said, "he is my fiance'," wiggling her ring finger in front of the attendant. "Just one moment," said the attendant, as she rose from the desk and disappeared through the large double doors leading into the emergency treatment area. In a few moments, she came back. Her countenance was not good. "Miss," she began, "Mrs. Jackson is deceased, and there is no one here...They said that her son left here about fifteen minutes ago...He probably went home."

Autumn turned and bolted out the door, running back to the Jaguar and screeching its tires as she left the parking lot. It took only about then minutes for her to reach the Jackson home. As she pulled in the driveway, the headlights of her car found him. Beau's motorcycle was parked in the small front yard, and there he was - sitting on the front steps of the house. Still in his leather jacket and jeans, he was leaned back against one of the modest columns of the front porch - looking up into the sky and cradling the motorcycle helmet in his arms. He looked like a lost little boy whose best friend had just deserted him.

Autumn ran to his side, slinging her keys on the lowest concrete step, and throwing her arms around his neck. "I am SO sorry, honey," she said, bursting into tears. Beau laid the helmet aside, and took her in his strong arms. He began to cry as well. "She really loved you," he said. "She was so happy for us," he continued, with a hollow emptiness in his voice, "she'll get to watch our wedding with Daddy now...Maybe that's how it should have been anyway."

Autumn couldn't think of anything else to say. She just knew that she loved this man with all her heart, and right now her heart was breaking for him.

They stayed out on that front porch, neither of them saying much of anything, and watched the sun finally begin to come up. "You want some coffee," Beau asked, breaking the long silence. "Sure, that sounds great," Autumn replied. They got up, stretched, hugged each other tightly, and went inside.

Rose Jackson had "chosen" her time to die. She held on for her Beau - until she was certain that he would be alright without her. Seeing him so happy with Autumn convinced her that her work was done, and she could finally let go of this world.

God is good.

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 22"

2010-09-21T15:21:00.000-07:00

There are some things in this life that heaven just does not explain to mortals. The Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes says that in life, "there is a time to be born and a time to die."

The Good Book doesn't say why this is. It just IS.

Beau waited several days before he broke the news to his mother of the engagement. On Thanksgiving morning, Beau and Autumn enjoyed sharing the longstanding family tradition of a holiday breakfast with the Hamiltons. Then, they hurried to Beau's mother's home to prepare a late afternoon Thanksgiving dinner for her. When they walked in the front door, Rose Jackson could tell something was different about her son and Autumn. They seemed much more at ease and comfortable with each other then they had previously. Beau had asked Autumn to take off the engagement ring and keep it hidden until after they had eaten. She gladly complied.

Beau, with Autumn at his side, cooked a full course Thanksgiving meal that day. Turkey, ham, stuffing, dressing, cranberry sauce, peas, yeast rolls, squash casserole, green beans, giblet gravy, and his mother's favorite dessert, pecan pie. Beau's mother forced down a considerable plate full of the delicious food, seeming to enjoy every bite. Autumn and Beau could see her getting progressively weaker, however. The cancer was gaining steam. Beau wondered how much longer it would be.

After the dishes were done, Autumn slid the engagement ring on her finger. Beau kissed her, whispered his appreciation for her help with the meal, told her he loved her very much and led her into the living room. As they sat down next to the hospital bed, Beau took his mother's faintly tembling hand and slowly began his announcement. "Mom," he said, clearing his throat, "we have got something to tell you." He suddenly reached and took hold of Autumn's left hand, placing it in his mother's. "Mom," he continued, "I have some great news for you...You are going to have a daughter."

Rose Jackson's hand suddenly stopped its shaking. With her thumb, she rubbed the stone in the engagement ring. She pulled Autumn Bell close to her, lifting her hand so she could see the ring. Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes. Her lips slowly curved upward into a smile that brightened the entire room. She stared into Autumn's eyes, and then back at Beau. "I don't know what to say," she said, "except that I am so happy for both of you...I just wish your father was here...He would be so proud...We both always wanted a daughter, just to balance out our two knuckleheaded sons." Rose managed a wink as she squeezed Autumn's hand.

Autumn hugged Mrs. Jackson, and promised her that she would try to be a good wife to Beau. Rose nodded in agreement and replied, "I am sure that you will be perfect for him, Autumn...And, I hope he makes you very happy as well...The life of a serviceman can be tough on his family...He will need you to stand by him, especially when he has to go away...Don't worry...He'll always come home to you...And, you'll both fall in love all over again."

Autumn could not hold back her own tears. She hugged Beau's mother again, and told her that she loved her. This was another first in Autumn's life. She had never before told anyone outside of her own family that she loved them. It just seemed like the natural thing to do with Rose Jackson.

Beau drove Autumn back home. They had taken her Jaguar that morning from her parents' house as they made the trip into Atlanta. Beau was very quiet on the ride back. Autumn kept looking at the ring, thinking of Mrs. Jackson, and hoping that she would still be around when their wedding day finally came.

Beau didn't stay long at Autumn's. He was anxious to get back to his mother. They hugged and kissed for a few minutes on the stately front porch. Autumn watched until Beau's motorcycle lights faded in the distance. As she turned to walk in the house, she suddenly felt a warmth in her heart that had never been there before. Her future as a married person was beginning to fit her like a comfortable pair of shoes. She felt whole. She loved Beau. She felt so close to his mother. She thought about how she would respond to her own children one day as they announced their own engagement to her.

On this chilly November night, Autumn Belle Hamilton felt truly thankful. She had a blessed life, wonderful people and family all around her, and now - love. She had found a love more true than any she had ever imagined.

This truly seemed to be, "her time."

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 21"

2010-08-31T17:26:00.000-07:00

"I'm not a smart man..."

Those words from "Forrest Gump" echo through the halls of male-dom more often than most men would ever admit. Seldom is this more apparent than right after he has uttered THE question to end all questions. A man is often clueless regarding the power of certain words, especially when they are strung together in a proposal of marriage. Naturally, he is then quite amazed when a firestorm of emotion and energy come back in his direction after he has uttered those four simple words...

"Will you marry me?"

To most males, popping the question is an elementary thing - nothing more than an inquiry involving two people. A process that should evoke one of two potential answers - "yes" or "no." He does not foresee, once the proposal is made and accepted, the endless chain of phone calls that must be made announcing the event. He cannot fathom how and why every living relative on planet earth must be informed within forty-eight hours after the question and answer have been spoken.

The man also has no hint of the formidable stream of plans and decisions that wash over the bride and her gaggle of familial females in the wake of the engagement. Further, he does not stop to think of the enormous amounts of money he is about to cost at least one other man, who is equally as clueless regarding the financial black hole that is gathering in his path. No male is capable of anticipating the parade of shopping malls, bridal stores, trying on, taking back, taking up, and letting out that proposing to a female sets into motion.

If a man did know all of these things in advance, he might very well elect to remain unattached. Or at the very least, he might restrict his proposal to nothing more than a, "whatcha' doing Saturday night, baby?"

Captain Beauregard Jackson, USN, was certainly no exception to any of these truths.

Asking a "normal" woman to meet one at the altar is risky enough. Proposing matrimony to one who is a rich, spoiled, daddy's girl, socialite, is quite another matter. Before Beau could accomplish telling his mother and George Decker about the engagement, Autumn Belle and her family were already well into the early planning stages of this production of a wedding. With all of the activity in the Hamilton home, one would have thought that the sequel to "Gone With The Wind" was being filmed there.

The "Autumn Belle Dictionary of Wedding Etiquette" included the following concerns: the number of folks in the wedding party, the venue, the caterers, the rehearsal, the reception, the food, the music, the cakes, the number of people on the guest list, the colors, the flowers, the candles, the ribbons, the wedding dress, the bride's maid dresses, the color of the groom's tuxedo, the announcements, the invitations, the pictures, the minister, the flower girl and ring bearer, the bridal tea, the gifts for the wedding party, the honeymoon, the wardrobe for the honeymoon, the showers, the thank you notes, and the limousines.

When Beau saw Autumn's list, he was totally overwhelmed. Surprise and disbelief best describe his reaction. "Why would anyone want to go through all of that?," he mused. Autumn replied, "Because, sweetie, this girl only gets married once...And, in Atlanta, a high society wedding like ours just HAS to be one humdinger of a party...I am certain you can appreciate that my family could never show its collective face again if ours was not THE most elegant wedding this old town has ever seen."

Beau did not understand. All he had done was to ask the girl of his dreams to become the love of his life. A simple ten minute ceremony in front of a Justice of the Peace would have been perfectly fine with him. He reminded Autumn of his Navy commitment, and of his mother's failing health. He had no idea when he would be available for a royal occasion like Autumn was planning. He was a little perturbed that she seemed to be thinking more of this is a social event, and less as a sacred time of their becoming husband and wife. More than once, he thought of sitting down with her and attempting to persuade her to run off with him and elope.

But, he loved Autumn. And, he wanted her to be happy. "It's just one day," he told himself, "and it's HER day...I can put up with ANYTHING for one day...In the end, I'll have her, and that is worth anything I have to go through!"

What a guy!

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 20"

2010-08-29T20:57:00.000-07:00

It was just past 11:30 PM when the Southern Belle pulled quietly back into Pier #2. The tired but happy guests moved slowly down the gangway and into their waiting cars. Autumn and Beau were the last ones off the boat. Jeffrey was waiting with the limo - all cranked and warmed. Autumn brushed by Jeffrey, waving her ring finger in the air like the motion of a butterfly. She murmured under her breath, "Tonight, I don't care if you DID write me a ticket, Buster...You are NOT going to watch us in the rear view mirror all the way home."

As she slid into the back seat, Autumn pushed a button on the control panel and closed the window between the driver and his passengers. Her man was going to be "all hers" on the way back to Alpharetta. Beau and Jeffrey exchanged a handshake and a back slap or two. Beau was grinning from ear to ear as he climbed in and sat down next to Autumn. He popped in, "Bread's Greatest Hit," cassette and lowered the interior lights in the rear of the limo. The mood was set for the ride home.

With barely five words passing between them during the two hour ride, Beau and Autumn spent their time "speaking" to one another in other ways. By the time the limo reached Autumn's house, the physical attraction that had been so strong between them since the first time they met at Autumn's party came to its inevitable fruition. They said a long, passionate goodnight at the door, and Beau and Jeffrey drove away into the night.

Autumn Belle watched the red tail lights of the limousine until they disappeared around the bend of the highway. She then floated up the stairs to her room, humming one of the Bread tunes from the ride home. After a quick shower, and some time spent lying on her bed - gazing at the ring, she fell fast asleep. The ring stayed on her finger, and the smile on her face - long after her pretty eyes had finally closed at around 2:30 AM.

Good night, Missy. Sweet dreams!

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 19"

2010-08-27T16:12:00.001-07:00

Autumn kissed Beau, patted his chest, and said, "You stay right here, Mister." She hurried down the stairs, through the main dining area entrance, and into the ladies' room. Leaning on the vanity sink, she stared at herself in the mirror. "I can't BELIEVE he did it!," she said. She looked at the ring, then at herself, then at the ring once again. "What am I gonna' do now?," she asked - shrugging her shoulders as she paced back and forth. "He's up there right now waiting for me to come out of this bathroom," she said. Stopping and looking at her image in the mirror, she lectured herself, "Just an hour ago, you couldn't WAIT for him to ask you - and now that he has, YOU don't know what to say!...Run, Beau, run like the wind," she said, shaking her head and wringing her hands.

It was getting cold on top of the riverboat. The chilly November wind was now blowing stiffly off the Tennessee River. Beau paced back and forth, rubbing his shirt sleeves. "Where IS that girl?, " he mused. After what seemed to be an eternity, Autumn finally returned. She reached up, slid her arms around Beau's neck, and held him close for several minutes. She then asked him to sit down.

As he positioned himself in the chair, Autumn began to pace, and to talk. "I am a piece of work, my dear man...I really AM!...High maintenance all the way...I'm WAY too dramatic...I lose my temper a LOT...My Daddy has spoiled me rotten...I'm impatient, hard to please, and I HATE getting up early...I like getting my way...I'm loud...I like to party, flirt, listen to the Stones and Lynyrd Skynyrd - sometimes as loud as the stereo will go," she said. "I like to shop...I get physically sick at the sight of blood...I DON'T clean house, iron, or do anything a good housewife SHOULD do...And, I am an absolute SUCKER for a sappy, romantic movie," she continued.

She stopped for a moment, turned toward Beau, and tried desperately to gauge his reaction to this serial confession. "Are you finished?," he asked. Autumn shoved her hands into the pockets of Beau's coat - that she was still wearing, and declared, "I am JUST getting started!"

"I love to write...I keep a diary...And, I put EVERYTHING that happens to me in it...You're in it," she smiled and said. "I LOVE Christmas and Springtime...They are my favorite two seasons...I can't stand to touch or even get near worms, snakes, snails, or grasshoppers...I HATE mayonnaise...And, I can't remember the last time I went to church," she announced, now waving her arms like she was preaching a sermon.

"I know all this seems like petty stuff, but I wanted you to know all about me," she cautioned.

"And now," she said, looking down at the riverboat deck, "here's some things that might matter to you, a LOT," she offered. "I am NOT a virgin...I wish now that I was...But, I'm not...Please don't misunderstand, I am not a whore or slut or anything like that...I just never thought of THAT in the same way that you have...I hope this is not a problem for you...I also hope that it doesn't change any of the things you said to me...I am grateful to know that you have waited...Again, I wish I had...But now, I cannot undo what's done...I can only tell you that my solemn promise to myself and to whoever I marry is that they will be the NEXT one, AND the LAST one...None of those other guys mean anything to me...None of what happened before had anything to do with you and me, and with the kind of relationship that we have," she said, unable to fight back tears. It was easy to see the regret in Autumn's heart.

Changing gears, Autumn sat down on Beau's lap. She gently laid her head on his chest, and stroked his face with her hand. She took a deep breath and whispered, "I love it when you call me, 'Missy,'...I didn't at first, but now I do...And, I really like it, for some reason, when you don't let me run the show...I love it when you surprise me like you did tonight...You've surprised me a hundred times since we met...And, I really respect what you have done with your life..."

Beau wrapped his arm tightly around her waist. He loved the feel of her body against his, even if she was only sitting across his lap.

"I think you are THE greatest...And, you deserve a woman who is going to stand by you, support you, help you, and make you deliriously happy...She is going to have to be a special woman...One that isn't threatened by your love for your mother...And, one that can deal with you being gone, and can also handle the dangers you face in what you do," she said. "I am sure," she continued, "that your wife will be well taken care of, shown the ultimate love and respect, and will experience THE most mind-blowing, earth-shaking, love-making on the planet." With this, she slid her hand across his chest and along his waist and belt line.

Suddenly, Autumn stood up, threw one leg and then the other on either side of Beau, and sat astride him, facing him in much the same fashion as their first encounter at her debutante ball.

"I guess what I am trying to say...Captain Beauregard Jackson...Is...'Yes!'...My answer is "yes"...I would be proud, honored, and blissfully happy to marry you...I love you more than any person I have ever known...I want to have your babies, as well as to be beside you as we spoil our grandchildren...I want us to grow old together...And, I want the world to know that the great big smile you are gonna wear on your face for the next fifty years comes to you courtesy of Mrs. Autumn Belle Missy Hamilton Jackson!", she concluded.

Beau jumped up from the chair with Autumn still wrapped around him. He spun around and around, almost to the point of falling down from the dizziness. He shouted to the top of his lungs, "She said Y-E-S!...She said Y-E-S!...I can't believe it!...She said Y-E-S!"

They say, that on a really still night out on the Tennessee River - where it bends around the foot of Lookout Mountain, if the moon is just right in the sky, if two lovers locked in an embrace out on the top of the Southern Belle listen very closely, they can still hear that happy young man's voice echoing across the water.

Love is a very powerful thing! As the Good Book says, "...love never fails." It certainly didn't on this night. Two great young people began a wonderful journey - a lifetime of loving one another.

There is a sweetness in the heart when dreams finally do come true. Neither Beau nor Autumn would forget this magical evening. They each spoke of it often during their many years together.

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 18"

2010-08-26T17:51:00.000-07:00

"I still remember the first time I saw you," Beau began, "in fact, I will never forget it."

In total harmony with what George Decker had shared with her, Beau recounted for Autumn the night at the Woodward football game. To the last detail, Beau recited what she wore that night, recalling her every move at the game. He then called to mind the events surrounding her debutante ball and their first "meeting." He spoke of that first morning she came to the Silver Skillet, and then everything thereafter. Just as Mr. Decker and Beau's mother had said, this young man had Autumn Belle in his sights long before she had known that he was even alive. Autumn's occasional hissy fits about Beau's being a mad stalker had all been pure foolishness. Listening to him, she could tell he had been in love with her for a very long time. Hearing him talk about all of these things touched her.

Beau took her hand in his, and launched into a long series of declarations. He began with the disclaimer, "I've got some serious things I want to say, so please don't stop me."

"You are a rich girl...Your family has more money than Davy Crockett...But, that really doesn't matter to me...Your parents seem like nice, down to earth people...I really like them...And, they seem to like me...I really enjoyed being at your house the other day," he said.

"Autumn," he continued, "as the song says, my life is not the kind that gives a woman peace of mind, nor does it provide the settled, nine-to-five world that I know can be a really important thing to a female...Too, I may never make a million dollars...And, I don't know that I would ever fit in with high society folks," he said, taking a deep breath. "My life is crazy most of the time, with occasional periods of it being almost nuts...Not many people are cut out for that," he added.

"Too, I have known a lot of women in my time...And I've had lots of 'opportunities'...Some of those women wanted to own me...And, some wanted to change me...That's one of the reasons why I am still single today...I have never found a woman that wanted me for who I really was...Some days I am very tough to deal with...I am a very hard worker...And, I have some screwy quirks that some women have found a little difficult to tolerate...Such as," Beau dropped his head as though he was too embarrassed to continue. Autumn kissed the back of his strong hand and said, "You don't have to say anymore."

"No, that's OK," he said, "I need to get this stuff off my chest." He continued, "I have been raised in a pretty conservative home, Autumn...Both of my parents came from strict moral and religious upbringing...And, that's the kind of environment they maintained in our home while I was growing up...So, as a result...Boy, are you going to think this is really far out there...What I'm trying to say is that I have never been with a woman before...I am a 26 year old virgin, my dear...And, no I am not a funny boy...I have just always been taught to wait on THAT until marriage."

Autumn was blown away.

She was about to say something when he stopped her. "Let me finish, please...Don't get me wrong...I have had more than my share of chances...And, I really DO like girls, a LOT...As a matter of fact, the dress you're wearing tonight makes my decision to be a monk seem all the more ridiculous and stupid...But, whenever I make a promise to myself I usually try my dead level best to keep it...I guess, too, I never really met anybody that I thought I wanted to have that kind of relationship with...Until now," he said, looking up at her and nodding his head as he spoke.

Beau slid out of his chair and down on one knee. He took Autumn's hands in his. He was trembling. "Autumn...What I am trying to say is...I guess I really love you...As corny as it sounds, I love you with all my heart...I have for a very long time...I know we haven't been together all that long...And, I know that there are lots of things we still have to learn about each other...I don't know everything there is to know about how to treat a lady...Sometimes I am very backward about knowing what to say or do," he said, taking a deep breath and reaching for one of the glasses of grape juice. He drained it dry, wiped his mouth, and continued.

"I don't know where the Navy is going to send me when I go back...My goal, up to now, has been to serve my twenty and get out...You know, settle down, get married, open my own restaurant, and have a regular life," he said. "But, until that finally happens, I could be deployed just about anywhere in the world, sometimes for months at a time...I could easily get wounded and spend the rest of my life without an arm or leg, literally...Or, I could be killed," he admitted, pausing for a long moment. Looking down again, he patted Autumn's hands and resumed, "My wife, if I ever have one, might very well have to spend long stretches of time without me...She might even wind up a widow...She will have to be a very understanding and brave woman..Like my mother has always been."

Autumn's eyes filled with tears. She pressed her lips together, forcing a smile, and nodding her head in affirmation. "I understand.," she said.

Beau interrupted her, " I hope you do...I really hope you do...Because...Autumn Belle Hamilton...I guess what I am saying, or asking...Is that I want you to be my wife...Will you wait for me?," Beau paused, swallowing hard, "Autumn, will you marry me?"

As he spoke, Beau reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring box. He opened it, revealing a large, center cut diamond in a shiny yellow gold setting. It sparkled brightly in the Tennessee moonlight. He handed it to Autumn. Now her hands were shaking. Though she had dreamed of this day since she was a little girl, and though she had fully expected Beau to do exactly this, she was now at a total loss for knowing what to say or do. She simply sat there, staring at the ring, then at Beau, then back at the ring. Tears were running down her cheeks. She took the ring out of the box. Beau slid it on her finger and kissed her.

Autumn Belle extended her arm out straight, tilting her hand back and forth as she admired the ring. It looked marvelous on her hand. And, it felt perfect on her finger - like it had always been there.

She got up from the chair and wrapped her arms around Beau. They began to sway back and forth - as though they were dancing. After several minutes, she gently pushed away from him and said, "I also have a lot to say too, but before I do, I have GOT to go to the bathroom again...Can you give me a few minutes?...I'll meet you right back here...Promise!"

Beau nodded in agreement, and assured her that he was not going anywhere.

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 17"

2010-08-25T19:27:00.000-07:00

As the limousine slowly pulled in at Pier #2 on Riverfront Parkway in Chattanooga, in a childlike manner Autumn pressed her entire face against the car window glass. "What's this place, Mister?," she asked Beau. He replied, "Well, Miss Hamilton, we are going on a dinner cruise tonight on the famous 'Southern Belle' - the granddaddy of all Tennessee riverboats." Autumn shrieked with excitement. She had heard about these cruises. Loving the water as she did, this seemed like the perfect surprise - and a very romantic setting for Beau's inevitable popping of the question. "He's gonna' DO it," she whispered. "He's gonna do what?," Beau asked, as he climbed out of the limousine and reached for her hand. "Just you never mind," she playfully mocked - using his same words from earlier.

As Jeffrey conferred with Beau about the ETA for his return with the limousine, Autumn suddenly remembered from where she knew him. This "Jeffrey" was none other than THE State Trooper who had stopped her on the interstate and ticketed her on that first morning visit to the Silver Skillet. "So THAT'S who drove us up here," she murmured sarcastically, "must be moonlighting as a limo driver." She was in no mood to be "Miss Nice Girl" to this hateful specimen of a lawman.

She did not like it one bit that he and Beau were friends. In lieu of having "Jeffrey" return for them in the limo, Autumn came very close to suggesting that they walk all the way back from Chattanooga, or maybe take a cab. "Hang on, girl," she told herself, "no sense in ruining tonight over this." Once she had that engagement ring on her finger, Satan himself could be driving her home and it wouldn't matter.

The "Southern Belle" was wonderful. Beau had reserved a corner table toward the stern of the riverboat. The well-appointed interior featured chandeliers, romantic, candle-lit tables, linen tablecloths, and paintings by well-known, regional artists. Walking aboard the "Southern Belle" was like stepping back in time. Autumn Belle loved it! As the head waiter escorted them to their table, she clutched Beau's coat sleeve - smiling, looking around at the interior of the boat in wide-eyed wonder, and beaming like a little girl in a toy store.

In making the reservations, Beau had taken the liberty of choosing their menu for the evening. After an appetizer course of Mozarella Sticks and fresh, hot, melt-in-your-mouth Yeast Rolls, the main course consisted of Lemon Rosemary Roasted Rock Cornish Game Hen With Applewood Smoked Bacon Lardons, Caramelized Apples, Roasted Vegetable Cous Cous, Marinated Roasted Squash, Mushrooms, Artichokes and Sweet Peppers in a Moroccan Grain Pilaf. The food was hot, well-served, and very elegant. Autumn commented several times that she never would have believed that such fine dining could be found on a riverboat. "How did you know about this?," she asked Beau. He grinned and replied, "I am sailor, remember?"

For dessert they feasted on gigantic slices of White Chocolate Carrot Layer Cake, along with THE best Colombian coffee that Autumn had ever tasted. As they were enjoying the coffee, Autumn sank back in her chair, patted her overly full tummy, and said, "I feel just like Emily Pig...If I keep hanging out with you, Sailor, I just might have to change my wardrobe to all fat-girl sizes." Beau shook his head and said, "Not a chance, Sis,...As a matter of fact, next week we start P.T. every day after work...Three miles a day, plus stretches and free weights." Autumn groaned and said, "It's gonna take me until next week to digest all the food we just ate."

Beau called the head waiter over and whispered something in his ear. Autumn sat up in her chair. "What?," she asked, "what, what WHAT?" As the waiter walked away Beau patted her hand, "Nothing, babe, I just asked him to bring us a bottle of that sparkling, non-alcoholic grape juice...It's good, you'll really like it." Beau reasoned that they had already had enough champagne. He was not a drinker at all. Throughout his young life, and especially during his time in the Navy, he had witnessed the harm that alcohol can do. He vowed never to allow it to get the best of him. "Best way to never become an alcoholic is to never take that first drink," he reasoned. Autumn had never tried the grape juice before. But, on this incredible night, she was ready to sample just about anything her Beau suggested.

When the grape juice came, and Beau had poured them both a glass, he proposed yet another toast. "To the prettiest girl in all the world...To this scrumptious meal...To this grand old riverboat...And, to many more nights like this in the future," Beau said. Autumn nodded in agreement and said, "Hear, hear." They took the first sip of grape juice. Then, it was Autumn's turn. She wanted to make a toast. As she raised her glass, Beau slid his chair closer to the table, and leaned in her direction. "To the man I thought I'd never find...To these gloriously happy days we have spent together...To this incredible night...And, to a hot little princess in a blue dinner dress that is gonna' bust if she doesn't hurry up and go to the bathroom!" They both laughed, clicked their glasses in agreement, and took another sip of the juice.

Autumn got up and went to the bathroom. Her mind was racing. "I wonder if he'll do it when I get back to the table?," she thought. When she did return, Beau was nowhere to be found. As she looked around for him, the head waiter approached and said, "Please follow me, Miss." Autumn reached for her glass of grape juice, but it was gone, along with Beau's and the ice bucket with the bottle in it. The waiter led her along the inner starboard wall of the riverboat, and up a long flight of stairs. Opening the door, they walked out onto the upper deck of the riverboat. The moon was bright over the Tennessee River that night. She could see Beau standing by one of two lounge chairs toward the bow of the boat. There was a small table between the two chairs, upon which the grape juice and glasses had been placed.

The November night air was much cooler than Autumn had expected, so Beau quickly offered her his jacket. They sat down together and took another few sips of the juice. The moonlight on the river was beautiful. The sound of the water splashing over the paddle wheels was very relaxing. "What a beautiful evening," Autumn said, as she reached across the table and gently kissed Beau. "Thank you for thinking of this," she said, squeezing his hand, "I love it."

They were all alone, and the time was finally right.

Beau leaned toward her and said, "There is something I have wanted to say to you for a long time now, Autumn...There will probably never be a better chance for me to say it than tonight ... Truthfully, this moment, up here on top of this old riverboat, is one of the very reasons why I brought you here tonight." Clearing his throat and tugging at his collar, Autumn could sense almost a boyish nervousness in him. "I've never done this before," he said, "so you're gonna' have to bear with me."

Autumn smiled, winked, and said, "Take your time, Mister."

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 16"

2010-08-25T08:10:00.000-07:00

It was just after 12:45 PM when Beau dropped Autumn off at home. As they said goodbye, he asked her to be ready at 6:00 PM. "Ready for what?," she asked. "Just you never mind," he said, "I have a surprise for you...But, I need you to be dressed for dinner when I pick you up...6:00 PM sharp." Autumn replied, "Why don't I pick you up?...A dinner outfit is not exactly the kind of thing to wear on the back of a motorcycle." As he buckled the chin strap on the helmet, Beau grinned and said, "Who said I was coming to get you on a motorcycle, Missy?"

He winked, put on his sunglasses, and turned the big bike down the long driveway. Swinging out onto the highway, he gunned the Harley's big engine. It sounded like a jet plane taking off. Autumn, watching him disappear down the road, wondered what he had in store for her. "I bet he's going to ask me tonight..." she whispered, throwing her head back, laughing to herself, and swinging around and around on the large white columns of the house.

Autumn spent the afternoon doing her fingernails and toenails, taking a long, hot shower, rolling and styling her hair, and choosing just the right outfit. As she stood in front of the mirror a final time, her mother came into the room. "Wow!", she said, "you are certainly dressed to the nines!" Autumn had chosen a light blue dinner dress that sported an extremely revealing neck line. Though she accented it with a gold necklace, the dress still showed far more cleavage than she or her mother were accustomed to. Her tanned skin was extremely striking, especially in contrast to a head so full of thick, beautifully golden hair.

"Where are you two going?, " Bea Hamilton asked, trying not to gawk at her daughter's abundant cleavage. "I don't really know...The only thing he would tell me was to wear a dinner dress," Autumn replied. Turning to leave the room, her mother murmured, "The only dinner he'll be hungry for tonight won't be on a plate!"

It was 5:45 PM when Autumn strolled out onto the front porch where her daddy was sitting. He was rocking in one of the big white rocking chairs, and reading a folded newspaper of some sort. When Autumn walked out the front door, he gave a long, admiring whistle. "My, my, daughter of mine...Where in the world are you off to?," he asked, rising from the chair. "Beau is coming, Daddy," she replied, "he told me to be ready to go to dinner." Her father looked her up and down, cocked his head toward the dress and remarked, "I am glad he' s a Navy SEAL...Looks like to me he is going to have to fight off half the young men of Atlanta tonight." "Oh Daddy!," she giggled, patting him on he chest.

They sat down in the rocking chairs and were talking when suddenly a car pulled into the driveway.

Neither of them could make out what kind of car it was at first. The network of magnolia limbs that lined the driveway were a source of camouflague for any automobile entering the Hamilton property. The closer, however, it inched toward the house the more obvious its shape became. Whoever this was, they were riding in one of the longest black limousines Autumn or her father had ever seen. "Would you look at that!," Rhett Hamilton exclaimed. The limousine pulled up into the circular part of the driveway in front of the house and stopped. The driver got out and walked to the rear limousine door. He opened the door and Beau got out - dressed in a black suit, a starched white shirt, and navy blue tie. At first, Autumn thought he was dressed in a tuxedo. He looked really sharp!

As she walked down the front steps with her father, Beau and the driver both bowed, almost on cue, and Beau said mockingly, "Your car, madame." He was grinning from ear to ear. "Please allow me to introduce you to our driver for the evening," he said, gesturing toward the chauffeur. "Autumn, meet my dear friend, Jeffrey," he said. When Autumn shook Jeffrey's hand, a strange feeling came over her. This guy looked VERY familiar. She couldn't exactly place him, but she KNEW she had seen that face before. Her curiosity began to mount.

Her father shook hands with Beau and Jeffrey and kissed Autumn's cheek, "Have a good time now, and you kids be careful," he said. She and Beau climbed in the back of limo, and Jeffrey proceeded to the front door. As they drove out of the driveway, Autumn's questions began. They came as rapid fire as the rounds from any machine gun that Beau had ever operated.

"WHERE did you get this limousine?...Where ARE you taking me?...Who IS this Jeffrey guy?...Where did you get THAT suit?...Is your mother OK?...How can you AFFORD this?...Come on, mister, OUT with it!," she chattered. Beau just laughed and said, "Missy, just sit back, have some champagne, and enjoy the ride." He poured them both a glass of champagne and toasted their evening, "To us, and to this evening, and to all things good in this world," Beau said.

As they sipped the campagne, Autumn continued to look around the inside of the limo, playing with the phone, the small refrigerator, and the power windows. She didn't even notice where they were going. She hadn't ridden in a limousine since she was a little girl. Her bubbly excitement and rabid curiousity were in a heated competition with each other. She could not sit still, and she could not stop talking. It was all so amusing to Beau.

When Autumn finally did settle down, she looked out the limousine window. "Where ARE we going, Beau?," she asked. It seemed to her that this chauffeur guy, Jeffrey, whom she still hadn't placed in her mind, sure was taking a long time in getting them to the restaurant. "Does this friend of yours know where he's going?," she blurted.

The champagne was starting to generate a slight buzz in Autumn's head. She seemed just a little too happy and a little too loud. Beau decided that they had better put the champagne away. He wanted his beautiful companion to be on her best behavior, and in the very best possible frame of mind, on this special night.

Sliding his powerful arm around her shoulder and pulling her close, Beau reassured Autumn, "Jeffrey knows exactly where he is going." He suggested that she put her head on his shoulder, close her eyes, and enjoy the ride. Beau put a cassette of the Eagles album, "Hotel California," in the limo's sound system player. It was his favorite, and Autumn's too. They sang along to, "New Kid In Town," "Life In The Fast Lane," and the other familiar cuts from that phenomenal album as the limo rolled along up I-75 toward the Tennessee line.

Beau kissed Autumn, held her tightly, and looked out the window - feeling so good about the surprise he had planned for the two of them once they finally got to Chattanooga.

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 15"

2010-08-24T10:16:00.000-07:00

The weeks that followed the afternoon with Beau went by like a whirlwind for Autumn Belle.

She finished the feature on George Decker and met Mrs. Sibley's deadline. Like any rookie journalist, she did not consider all the aspects of how the article would be received by her audience, nor how it would affect those mentioned in it. In the first draft, she had included Beau - highlighting his military service. Mrs. Sibley called her in and rebuked her for it. Her argument was two-fold.

First, this was a story about George Decker - not Autumn Belle's handsome new boyfriend. Second, publishing facts regarding the service record and M.O.S. (Military Occupational Specialty) of active duty personnel was strictly forbidden by the Atlanta newspapers, not to mention the Department of Defense. Mrs. Sibley explained the possibility of foreign agents being in America - and how they would delight in finding a Navy SEAL in their midst. Beau could easily be targeted by such people for covert acts of revenge or sabotage against the military. Autumn was quite shaken from hearing this. She had no idea how dangerous a military person's life could be, even when they were not on the battlefield.

Autumn and Beau spent almost every weekend together during that Fall. They did many different things which would later become cherished memories. There were motorcyle rides through the north Georgia mountains, Saturday afternoons at Stone Mountain, Friday nights riding the Great American Scream Machine at Six Flags Over Georgia, high school football games, a hot fudge sundae at the Miss Georgia Ice Cream store in West End, and Sunday afternoon picnics at Piedmont Park.

Autumn found almost any excuse to go for breakfast or lunch at the Silver Skillet. Beau frequently sent out her order with a flower on the tray. In turn, he found perfumed notes and trinkets in his motorcycle helmet at the end of a day's work. It was during these special days that Autumn Belle Hamilton and Beau Jackson fell deeply in love with each other.

On Halloween, Beau and Autumn attended a costume party at her uncle's stately home in Social Circle. They went dressed as a married couple. Wearing oversized formal attire, Beau stuffed four pillows into the seat of his pants. Autumn wore an old fashioned dress with a bussell - complete with two large sofa pillows strapped to her derrier. They each wore a sign around their neck announcing themselves as, "The Butt-ners." The outfits won them first prize for Most-Original-Couple-Costume at the party. They were showered with laughs from their fellow party-goers.

By early November, the time came for the formal introductions to family.

The Hamilton's went first.

They hosted a Saturday afternoon barbecue, complete with a jazz ensemble and a big screen television. The TV was set up on the veranda and tuned to the annual Georgia-Florida football game. Between touchdowns, Beau charmed Autumn's parents - answering their many questions about his family and his Naval service. By day's end, Bea and Rhett Hamilton were greatly impressed with Beau, and he with them. They had money, true enough. But, the Hamilton's seemed very down to earth and easy to talk to. Beau felt very comfortable with them. They invited him to come back and visit their home any time.

Following dinner, he and Autumn spent the last few hours of daylight strolling through the sixty-plus acres of rolling pasture on the estate. Beau remarked to Autumn, as he looked around at the beauty she had grown up in, that one of his dreams was to own a place like this one day. She stopped short of suggesting that if they ever got married, a home and a farm like her family's was not totally out of the question. Autumn knew that one of her future wedding gifts would be a considerable trust fund established for her during infancy by her grandfather.

The very thought of "hearing" herself imagine such a thing caused Autumn to take yet another long look at her relationship with Beau. Was she ready for marriage? Only a few short weeks before, the answer to such a question would have been a resounding "no." She had previously been the epitome of a free-spirit, good-time, party girl. It was not at all like the Autumn Belle Hamilton of old to be thinking in terms of marriage.

However, that is exactly how she felt about this special man. And, the more she thought about it, the less it scared her.

On the following Saturday morning, Autumn climbed on the back of Beau's Harley and rode into downtown Atlanta with him. It was time to meet Beau's mother. His parents, James and Rosemary Jackson, met in elementary school. As childhood sweethearts, neither of them ever dated, or even kissed, another person. They married right out of high school, and spent most of the rest of their forty-five years of marriage traveling the world. As a Rear-Admiral's wife, Rose Jackson lived in many places. Her house was filled with pictures reflecting the years of her husband's distinguished Naval career. They had moved back to Atlanta when James retired. She was now bed-ridden in the same house where Beau's father had died just a few years before.

When Autumn shook Rose Jackson's hand for the first time, it felt so small and frail. She had just eaten breakfast. Beau sat on one side of the bed and Autumn on the other. Beau's mother was filled with questions about Autumn and her family. She seemed delighted to hear the details of Autumn's exciting life. Her eyes sparkeled with excitement as she listened.

When Autumn finished, Rose Jackson, pointing at the pictures surrounding them in the room, told Autumn the story of her own life. She humbly shared the names of the many foreign ports and Naval bases where she had lived. She told of all the foreign dignitaries she had met, and of all the women in other cultures she had known. With great sadness in her voice, she told of her elder son, Ron, and his death in a Vietnam ambush. She squeezed Autumn's hand tightly as she wiped the tears. The more Rose Jackson talked, the more Autumn came to realize what a great woman this was.

She had been a dedicated servant of her country and her family.

Autumn loved her almost immediately.

Toward the end of their visit, Beau walked out in the back yard to pick up some large limbs that had fallen off a pecan tree that towered over the back patio of his mother's home. When the back door closed and she was sure that Beau was beyond hearing distance, Mrs. Jackson pulled Autumn close and began to speak in a slow, hushed tone. "Please don't think I am trying to pry, or nose my way into your business...I always made it a rule not to interfere in my boy's lives unless they invited me to...I don't know how you feel about Beau...But, I can tell you that he has never talked to me about another girl the way he talks about you," she whispered.

"From the day he first saw you, I have heard about little else," Mrs. Jackson said, smiling at Autumn. "I don't know how you feel about my son...But, I need to tell you...He is a really good boy...He always has been...He is the strong, silent type in some ways, but very mischevious in others...He has been raised to tell the truth, to work hard, and to do right by everybody," she declared.

"It is going to be really hard on him when my time comes...He will be lost, at least at first...He has family, but only cousins, and they are not close at all...I know he will want to follow in his father's footsteps and make a career in the Navy...He will make a good husband...And, a great father...", she said, her voice trailing off.

It was obvious that she was running out of steam, and needed to rest. Autumn was about to release her hand and move to a nearby chair when Mrs. Jackson pulled her close a final time and said, "Be good to him...Stand by him and help him when I am gone, please..."

With tears in her own eyes, Autumn promised that she would honor Mrs. Jackson's request. Beau suddenly came back in the door and saw Autumn's tears. He went over to his mother's bedside and kissed her on the cheek. "Mama," he said, "I will be back in a little while...I am going to take Autumn home."

When Autumn reached to shake her hand and say good-bye, Mrs. Jackson winked at her, kissed her on the hand, and told her to come back and see her anytime - with or without a Navy SEAL as her escort. Autumn smiled and nodded, wiped away another tear, and walked out of the house in front of Beau.

"Your mother is one great lady," she said, squeezing Beau's hand. She glanced at him in time to see him wiping tears from his own eyes. "She's a peach," he said, trying to disguise his own sadness.

Beau's heart for his mother was so obvious. Beau was everything his mother had said he was, and much more.

Autumn loved him more than ever.

And, she knew, perhaps for the first time, that if Captain Beauregard Jackson did ever ask her to marry him, there was only one answer she would be able to give.

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 14"

2010-08-19T04:02:00.000-07:00

Autumn Belle had kept a diary since the third grade. An entire section of her closet was stacked to the ceiling with the books from each year. Her love for writing compelled her to make an entry at the end of each and every day. No matter the length of the entry, the lateness of the hour, or even how tired she might have been, Autumn wrote something in her diary before pillowing her head every single night.

As a holiday ritual, she would spend the days around Christmas reading her entries for the year. It was great fun to go back and re-live the previous months, and years, of her life. She secretly hoped that one day her writings, and her life, would become the subject of a novel or movie.

When she got home from the ride with Beau, Autumn sat with her family for a while in the living room. They watched a few minutes of television together, exchanging stories about the day's activities and small talk during the commercials. Afterward, she got up and walked into the kitchen, opened a small stack of mail and then headed upstairs. She showered, washed and dried her hair, and collapsed on the bed. As she lay there thinking about the day and her new "relationship" with Beau, she marveled at how everything had seemingly gone so fast between them.

Autumn wondered about their future together.

How long would his leave from the Navy last? How bad was his mother's cancer? When he finally went back to active duty, how long would he be gone, and where would the Navy send him?

Autumn had never cared this deeply for any guy. It was pretty scary. They were from such different backgrounds. The only "seals" she had ever known were housed at the Atlanta zoo. She had never personally known anyone serving in the military. Though she had learned a lot about Beau from her talk with George Decker, and from their one, brief, afternoon together, there was still a truckload of things about him that she didn't know.

"Whoa, girl," she thought, "this is not like you at all...No one is going to rush you into anything...Take your time...Find out everything you can before you give your heart to this guy...You've got plenty of time."

Nodding self-approval to such level-headedness, Autumn reached for her diary. She was SO tired, but also determined to write something about this important day.

She began the entry with the date and normal greeting, but the rest of the words did not come so easily. She lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to decide how to best express all that was in her head and heart. She thought of the flowers, the Silver Skillet, the things Mr. Decker told her, the night at her party when they first met, spilling the drink in his face, the motorcycle ride, the first kiss, and then the second kiss.

She thought about how good he looked in just a t-shirt and jeans. She thought about how good he felt next to her, and about what their first intimate encounter would be like.

There are some nights when sleep comes suddenly. It is easy to be oblivious to the moment when the body and mind succumb. Such was the case with Autumn on this unforgettable night.

When Rhett Hamilton walked by his daughter's room on his way to bed it was a few minutes past 1:00 AM. He saw Autumn's light still on through the partially opened door. He called to her but there was no answer. He went to check on her, and found Autumn still in her housecoat, lying on top of the covers. Her diary and pen still cradled in her hands.

He tip-toed over to the bed, just as he had done many times when she was a little girl, and covered Autumn's feet and legs with a blanket. He gently slipped the diary and pen from her hands. As he was closing it, he tried to resist the temptation to peek at what she had written. As he was about to place the diary on the desk beside her bed, Mr. Hamilton could not help but notice the entry...

"Wednesday, September 14th, 1977: Dear Diary...I think I am in love."

Though her entry surprised him, he managed to muffle an amused chuckle. He shook his head, smiled, closed the diary and quietly placed it on the desk. Rhett Hamilton took a long look at his beautiful, grown-up daughter. He was thankful that she was still living in their home. But, he sensed that her time there was quickly coming to an end. She was a woman now. Life had a lot in store for her.

In many ways, Autumn Belle would always be his little girl. She always had been. As he stood there by her bed, Rhett Hamilton's mind drifted back across the years. Father-Daughter picnics and dates, watching her cheer at high school football games, and just lying on the floor with her when she was three or four years old, on lazy Sunday afternoons - playing dolls and putting puzzles together.

Where had all the years gone?

All fathers face this moment in time. Life erases the sweet, precious days of childhood, and replaces them with other days. Days when a younger man appears on the doorstep - asking for a beloved daughter's life and heart. Fathers must adjust and get accustomed to this reality. No one ever asks if a father likes it, or if they are ever ready for it.

It just happens.

Rhett Hamilton was curious and anxious to know more about this new love interest of Autumn's.
Who was he? Who were his parents, and what about his upbringing? What were this young man's intentions? How had they met? How long had they known one another?

There would time enough for questions in the morning, he thought.

With that, Rhett Hamilton wiped the tears that had gathered in his eyes, turned off the lamp, and gently kissed Autumn on the forehead.

"Good night, sweetie," he whispered, "Your old daddy loves you."

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 13"

2010-08-18T11:37:00.000-07:00

The wind had a gentle hint of Fall as it whipped Beau's and Autumn's clothing. The big motorcycle engine felt powerful between their legs. Traffic was picking up in the afternoon rush hour. Autumn did not know where Beau was taking her, but it really didn't matter. Her Jaguar was safely at home in the garage. She had gotten one of her college friends from Agnes Scott to drop her at the Silver Skillet. Mrs. Sibley had been told that she was out pursuing the feature on George Decker. She was pursuing something, alright - and it did, at least, have something to do with Mr. Decker and his restaurant.

Beau got off I-85 near Duluth, and headed west toward Alpharetta on one of the many roads that jutted back and forth among the farms and still-rural areas of Gwinnett County. "I wonder if he knows where I live," Autumn whispered to herself. No matter. It was a beautiful day, and she was having a ball. Several miles off the interstate, Beau guided the motorcycle to a stop in the gravel parking lot of a small barbecue place known as, "The Pig & Jig." As he cut the engine off he turned and said, "I hope you're hungry, and I hope you like barbecue." "Yes to both," Autumn replied, taking off her helmet and straightening her hair. "I guess we have have some talking to do," he said, "this place makes great barbecue...They also have screened in picnic areas...Maybe we can get one of those all to ourselves." She smiled, took off her sunglasses, and replied, "Sounds great to me!"

The food was as good. They sat and ate, and talked, and ate, and talked until the dusk of evening had settled in. She told him about her life as a rich man's daughter. He shared his many experiences as a Navy SEAL. They finally got around to talking about the debutante ball, their initial meeting, and all the things that had transpired since. They each laughed as they shared their respective assumptions about one another.

Neither of them had ever felt this comfortable with a member of the opposite sex.

As the conversation wound down, Beau's countenance took on a seriousness.

"I don't know how much longer my mother has...Maybe weeks, maybe longer...Other than some distant relatives, she is all I have left in this world...I am here, unless something unforeseen comes up, until she...," Beau could not finish the sentence. Autumn could sense the emotion building up inside him. "When I do finally leave, I don't know where they'll send me or when I'll be back...But, until I go...I would really like it if we could see one another...Get to know one another...Have some fun...And see where this goes."

"Where DOES this go?," Autumn gushed, as she wiped her mouth with a paper towel. "Well," he continued, "maybe we'll develop a 'friendship'...I have never had a female friend before...To tell the truth, I have never really even had much of a real, what you would call, 'G-I-R-L-F-R-I-E-N-D,' before...Guess what I'm trying to say is that...I would really kind of like it if maybe you became my girlfriend somewhere down the line."

Autumn blushed. She had never blushed this much before. Through all the guys who had chased her in school, and even in her many romantic encounters in college, she had never allowed a guy to have this kind of effect on her. Beau Jackson seemed to know where all her buttons were - good and bad.

"Well," she said, "let's just concentrate on the, 'getting to know,' part, and the fun part, and the other part will take care of itself - IF this is meant to be." Beau smiled and affirmed, "Deal!" They shook hands. But, instead of ending the handshake, Beau held on, pulling Autumn's hand toward him, and lightly kissed it. Autumn blushed again. She had experienced many different guys, trying to kiss her many different times. One guy had even bitten her on the behind one night as a prank during a fraternity-sorority party. But, no one had ever kissed her so innocently and tenderly before. She could feel her heart pounding.

But, just as surprisingly, Beau did something to break the mood of the moment that she never dreamed he would do. As he released her hand, he playfully threw the remainder of his fountain Coke at her. "THAT'S what you get for spilling your drink in my face, Missy!," he said, jumping up from the table and running away from her - laughing heartily.

Autumn, dripping wet in the face and neck, suddenly flew mad. "Ooooooooh," she yelled. She jumped up from the table and began chasing Beau toward front door of the restaurant. "I am going to GET you for that, Beau Jackson," she screamed. They ran across the parking lot like two kids playing tag. Slipping several times on the loose gravel, Autumn finally gave up trying to catch him. She turned and walked back to the motorcycle, perching sideways on the seat. Beau came back waving a white handerchief. "I come in peace," he mockingly said. Autumn jerked the handerchief out of his hand and wiped the residue of the drink from her face, neck and tank top.

Beau patted her head and apologized for the mean prank. "I'm sorry, Miss Hamilton," he said, in a half-serious tone, "I just couldn't help myself...I've never thrown a drink in a girl's face before...I was OVERCOME with temptation...Can you ever forgive me?"

Autumn tried not to show the grin on her face, as she looked down at her feet. She threw the handkerchief back at Beau, pulled the helmet over her hair, slung her leg over the seat and said, "I'm ready to go home now." Beau, thinking that she was pouting, said nothing. He stuffed the wet handerchief in his jeans pocket, strapped on his helmet, fired up the Harley, and scratched out of the parking lot - slinging gravel everywhere.

They hadn't gone far down the road when Autumn saw an opportunity. Time to exact her revenge! Without warning, she dug her wiry fingernails into Beau's ribs and began tickling him for all she was worth. Beau almost wrecked the motorcycle. He flinched and turned hard to the right, crossing a shallow ditch and ending up in the yard of a farm house. He skillfully laid the Harley down on its side, killing the ignition at the same time. He and Autumn rolled off the big bike and onto the soft grass. Neither was hurt, and neither could suppress their laughter. Beau rolled toward her, took off his helmet, unbuckled hers, and tossed it away. The laughter ceased, their eyes met, and Beau kissed her. He brushed her long blonde hair away from her face and kissed her a second time.

It was THE most erotic moment of her life.

Beau got up and pulled Autumn to her feet. He picked up her helmet. Handing it to her he asked, "Are we even now?" She grabbed his hand, held it for a moment, kissed it and said, "NOW we are."

They both smiled, put on their helmets and got back on the motorcycle. The rest of the ride home was like the finale to a gooey love story. She hugged him tightly, laying her head, helmet and all, against his back. Beau kept the Harley at a very slow pace. Finally, they reached the long magnolia-lined driveway to Autumn's house. He DID know where she lived!

What a day! What a week!

Neither of them wanted it to end.

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 12"

2010-08-16T12:05:00.000-07:00

It had been a long day.

Beau was dog-tired from a day behind the grill at the Silver Skillet. It was one of those days in the food service industry that makes even those who love it long for a way out. Tons of orders, impossible-to-please patrons, utensils falling on the floor, the crashing sound of plates and dishes breaking, phone ringing off the hook, and everyone behind the counter screaming, rushing around, and in general lunch-rush tizzy.

To top it off, George Decker had been quiet as a church mouse all day, and seemed to be avoiding him. Not a word about the long, closed-door session with Autumn Hamilton the day before. When Beau asked him how it had gone, Mr. Decker just shrugged his shoulders and said, "How well could an afternoon with a reporter go?"

Beau Jackson smelled a rat, and it wasn't on the kitchen floor under his grill.

He had never given a woman flowers before - other than his mother. He had never gone so out-of-his-way to impress a female with his cooking. And, he had never asked of others the concessions and favors he had in trying to meet Autumn the night of her debutante ball. And yet, not a word from her. Then, she shows up at his place of employment twice in one day. The first time she drives off like a wild woman, and the second she bull-headedly resists him when he was just trying to do her a favor so she wouldn't have to stand in the lunch line.

He was tired, hot, aggravated, and talking to himself. "Well, if SHE thinks that I am going to crawl, that snotty little brat has another thing coming, " he murmured. As he cleaned the grill and prepared to leave for the day, he looked up at the large clock on the kitchen wall. It was just after 4:00 PM.

When Beau had finished his last round of cleaning, he strolled by George Decker's office and said that he was going to take a shower before heading out. In the early days of his ownership, Mr. Decker had renovated the Silver Skillet and had included the addition of a small efficiency "apartment" - complete with a full bath and shower. He sometimes spent the night there when the crush of business kept him late or required him to come in at an ungodly early hour. Beau sometimes used the shower before climbing on his Harley for the trip home. It always felt good to be clean and have one's body and clothes free of the smells that cooking over a hot grill all day would bring.

"Sounds like a plan," Mr. Decker replied.

The hot shower felt good to his tired body. He could not wait to get on that motorcycle and feel the breeze blowing hard against him. He slipped on a fresh t-shirt and jeans, tugged at his boots until they slid snugly against his aching feet, and grabbed his backpack and helmet. "See ya' tomorrow, boss," he said as he walked toward the back door of the restaurant. "Take it easy," Mr. Decker said, looking up from his money-counting long enough to wink at Beau, "good job today...See you in the morning." Beau locked the back door of the restaurant behind him, slid on his sunglasses and turned toward his motorcycle.

"Say mister, you know where a girl can bum a motorcycle ride?," a female voice asked. Beau looked up to see Autumn Belle sitting astride his giant Harley-Davidson. She was facing the back wheel of the bike, wearing a dark blue tank top, jeans, boots, and holding a motorcycle helmet in her hands.

Beau stopped dead in his tracks. "What the...?," he said. "Do you mean, sir, what am I doing sitting here on this big old bike, asking you for a ride?," she playfully asked. "Something like that," he replied, unable to hide the monstrous smile on his face. "Yesterday you couldn't stand me...Now, today you are sitting here on my motorcycle wanting to ride with me...I guess I am wondering why...What has changed?" he asked.

"Well," she continued, "a little bird told me that you were much better at driving a motorcycle than you are behind a grill...As an investigative journalist I just thought it might be good to find out if that little birdie was right." Grinning, she stood up, turned around toward the front of the bike, strapped on her helmet, and said, "Are you coming?"

Beau just shook his head.

He stuck the key in the ignition, put on his helmet, mounted the seat in front of Autumn, and cranked the motorcycle's mighty engine. As he revved it several times and backed out of the parking space, Autumn slid her arms around his rock-hard waist. She scooted up close to him and snuggled in for the ride. Beau deposited the kick-stand, put the bike in gear, and roared past the windows of the Silver Skillet toward the street.

As they waited for an opening in traffic, Autumn happened to glance toward the front door of the restaurant. There stood George Decker, beaming like an expectant father in a delivery room. He gave Autumn the "thumbs-up," which she quickly returned. Just then, above the roar of the engine, Beau loudly declared, "Hang on, Missy!" With that, he turned right on Fourteenth Street, punched the Harley into second gear, and headed toward the I-75/I-85 North on-ramp.

Autumn Bell took a deep breath and held on tight - thinking that she was in the for the ride of her life.

Captain Beauregard Jackson KNEW that he was already in the middle of his.

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 11"

2010-08-14T18:16:00.000-07:00

George Decker scratched his head and said to Autumn Belle, "Well, I have already told you WAY more about Beau than I have about anybody else who works here...If you want to know anything else about him, maybe you are talking to the wrong man." Autumn protested, "Oh no, Mr. Decker, I don't think he would ever tell me as much about himself as you would." Shaking his head, George replied, "Miss Hamilton, I am beginning to think that I was right about you." Autumn leaned forward and asked, "Exactly what does THAT mean?" "Well," he said, "I thought this interview was about ME...MY life...MY business...MY family...But now, all you seem interested in is Beau...Tell me that I am wrong!"

The jig was up. It was time to come clean. Autumn put her pen and pad down on the table and explained in detail her reasons for wanting to know so much about Mr. Decker's cook. Why was this decorated war hero a cook in a restaurant? Why wasn't he in the Secret Service or something? How does he account for his sudden and uninvited appearance at her debutante party? Why would he send her the bouquet of flowers? How did he know about the traffic ticket she was given by the State Trooper? How could he have so embarrassingly pulled her out of line when she came back to the Silver Skillet for lunch that day? And, where did he get off continuing to refer to her as, "Missy?"

Autumn strongly pleaded her case. She felt deserving of answers and explanations to these questions. This mysterious young man had suddenly marched into her life, made overtures that no stranger should make, and yet seemed to know much more about her than she did about him. Autumn pleaded, "If you were in my shoes, Mr. Decker, or if you were my father, wouldn't you be more than a little curious about all of this?"

George Decker smiled, slid his hands across the table and clasped Autumn's hands in his own. "OK," he said, "I will tell you what I know, but you CANNOT share with him that I told you these things...He is a very private person...I am only doing it because I think that you two kids might just need a little shove in each other's direction...So, here goes."

Mr. Decker explained that Beau worked for him because he loved to cook. He loved it so much, in fact, that owning his own gourmet restaurant at some point in the future was one of his life's dreams. He planned to come home to Atlanta and begin that process just as soon as his Navy days were done. When Beau came home on extended leave to be his Mom's caregiver, she would not allow him to sit every day at the foot of her bed - waiting for her to die. She insisted that he find something else to do during the day. She was being cared for by an in-home nurse, and argued that she did not need Beau in the house all day long.

He then came to Mr. Decker and asked if he could work for him, as an opportunity to gain restaurant experience and sharpen his culinary skills. "That's why he is my cook," affirmed Mr. Decker, "he is outstanding." "Why, he singlehandedly prepared the meal that you just enjoyed...And the dessert too...The rose on the platter was his touch as well" he said.

Autumn was suddenly VERY impressed.

Mr. Decker then revealed that Beau had actually been part of the staff of chefs that prepared the food for Autumn Belle's debutante ball. He had personally been in charge of several items on the menu including dessert. Autumn stopped him abruptly and declared, "But I SAW him as he was leaving the party...He was dressed in a dinner jacket...He wasn't dressed in a chef's outfit...How do you explain that?"

George Decker paused, took a long swallow of coffee, sat his cup down on the table and continued.

Beau had wanted to meet Autumn for a very long time. On one of his early trips home on break from the Naval Academy, he had attended a Woodward Academy football game with a childhood buddy of his. He saw Autumn that night for the first time, and was immediately taken with her. "He told me later that he couldn't take his eyes off of you the whole night," said Mr. Decker. The next day Beau began trying to find out more about her. He never approached Autumn directly, however, because he knew she was much younger than him. He suspected that her parents would not approve.

After graduation, his Naval service took him far away from Atlanta for a long period of time. He never forgot her, though. His leave to come home for his mother's care just happened to coincide with the time of Autumn's debutante ball. One morning at the Silver Skillet he read a short article in the newspaper about Autumn's party. He immediately went to Mr. Decker - asking if he knew Autumn's family.

One thing led to another.

George Decker began his match-making effort by calling Autumn's father and asking if Beau could accompany him as a guest at the ball. When Rhett Hamilton agreed, Beau then asked permission to help do some of the cooking as well. It was arranged that Beau would work with the culinary staff during the early stages of the ball, then shower and change in time to mingle with the guests. His hope was that somehow, someway he could be introduced to Autumn. He was fresh out of the kitchen and the showers, and on his way to find Mr. Decker to try and arrange that introduction, when Autumn accidentally stumbled into him and spilled her drink in his face.

As Mr. Decker was revealing these things, Autumn's mouth flew open wide with amazement. She looked like a young child on Christmas morning. She could not believe that all of this was going on behind the scenes. Beau was no longer offensive to her, but now seemed so very sweet and genuine. She patted her chest and took several deep breaths - trying desperately not to show signs of being totally overcome with shock and surprise.

Mr. Decker, however, was not through.

"When Beau saw you here in the parking lot this morning, he came in the door as excited as I have ever seen a young man in all my days, " Decker said, "and he immediately began preparing you a special breakfast....Then when you left so abruptly, he was heartbroken...He thought that maybe he had been the cause of you leaving...That's why he sent the flowers...That, and a call from one of his best friends who is a State Trooper...The one who stopped you on the interstate this morning...When Beau found out that you had gotten a ticket, he went across the street and ordered you those flowers...He felt SO bad!"

Autumn could not believe what she was hearing. It was almost like a fairy tale.

"Then, when he saw you out there in the lunch line, he couldn't bear to let you get away again...That's why he had me bring you in here...So he could cook lunch for you...Including the lemon icebox pie dessert...Which he found out from someone in your family was your all-time favorite...I'm telling you, Miss Hamilton...This young man has it bad for you...He has for a long time now...Reminds me of me and my Louise when we first met...Beau is an exceptional young fellow...He's going to make a name for himself in this town someday...And he'll make a darn fine husband too...If I were you, Miss Hamilton, I would go home tonight and think seriously about all of this," Mr. Decker concluded.

Autumn Belle could barely muster the words to reply. She thanked George Decker for his time, the interview, and all the revelations about Beau. As he walked her to her car, he repeated something he had said earlier. "Miss Hamilton," he advised, as he opened her car door, "please don't let on to him that I told you all of this...He's like a son to me...But, doggone it, he's just so shy...I knew that he would never tell you all of this himself...I knew I would have to step in and be the one..."

As the Jaguar door closed shut, Autumn cranked the engine and lowered the driver side window. "By the way," he said, "before you go, you need to know one more thing." Mr. Decker squeezed her arm and said, "The reason he calls you, 'Missy'...Well, that was his father's pet name for Beau's mother...Maybe he says that to you because you remind him of her...Or, maybe you remind him of how much his Daddy always loved his Mama...I don't know...Just guessing."

George Decker grinned and advised, "Don't be afraid of him, honey...You could do a lot worse."

With those words, George Decker patted her arm said goodbye. He turned and went back inside the Silver Skillet. Autumn took a handkerchief from her purse and boo-hooed. She had completely misjudged Beau Jackson. She sat with her car running for a long time as she stared teary-eyed into the instrument panel. What was she going to do now? Nothing like this had ever happened to her before. Should she go to Beau and tell him what she knew? Or should she just play it cool and see if he would make the next move?

For the first time in her life, Autumn Belle Hamilton had been utterly swept off her feet. She was totally confused. So consumed was she in her thoughts that the drive back to Alpharetta never even registered in her consciousness. She and the Jaguar were on auto-pilot the entire way. In some ways she was as lost as a little girl in a crowded department store.

The only thing she was sure of was that no one could have EVER made her believe that something like this would happen in her life.

It had truly been a day to remember - one she would tell her grandchildren about in years to come.

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 10"

2010-08-14T04:48:00.000-07:00

"Beau Jackson is an outstanding young man!" With these words, George Decker began his description.

As he hung up the phone and sat back down, Mr. Decker slid his coffee cup to the side, folded his hands, and looked Autumn straight in the eye - almost as if he had taken the witness stand in a courtroom. "This is a young man like no other that I have personally known," he said. "He is the kind of young fellow that every father would want his daughter to find." Autumn could not help but smile.

George Decker told of Beau's heritage. His family had deep roots in the Old South, with an ancestral bloodline all the way back to the famous Confederate General, Stonewall Jackson. His father, who had been a classmate of George Decker's at Atlanta's O'Keefe High School, had been a Rear Admiral in the United States Navy. Beau, himself, was a graduate of Annapolis, and had served four years active duty in the Navy. "A sailor?," Autumn interrupted, with a condescending tone. "Miss Hamilton, we're talking about someone who has served his country with distinction and bravery...Beauregard Jackson is a decorated Navy SEAL...Look that up in your encyclopedia when you get back to the newspaper and you will see that this young man is FAR more than someone who merely swabbed the deck of a ship," Mr. Decker replied, in a fatherly tone.

Autumn held up a finger. "Just to clarify," she said, "if this guy is such a hot-shot Navy war hero, then what in Pete's name is he doing behind a grill?...I mean, if he was all that great as a Navy man, what IS he doing here?" "Just hang on," George Decker counseled, "I am getting to that."

Mr. Decker explained that Beau was one of two children - both were boys. His older brother, Ron, himself a United States Marine, was killed in action in the Tet Offensive in Vietnam. Beau had wanted to be a Navy SEAL since he was twelve years old. After finishing at the very top of his class at the Naval Academy, Beau went directly into SEAL training school, once again finishing as an honor graduate. "Please understand that this is THE most demanding and rigorous training in all of the United States military," Mr. Decker emphasized. Upon completion of SEAL training, Beau had been commissioned as a Captain and assigned to a SEAL detachment. He spent the next three years in highly classified operations off the coast of Southeast Asia and elsewhere. "The war in Vietnam did not end with the last Marine on that helicopter that flew off the top of the U.S. Embassy," Mr. Decker said, taking another sip of coffee.

"I won't bore you with a lot of details," he said, "but you do need to know that this young man was awarded two Navy Crosses for bravery and acts of valor in combat, and for performance of his duties as a Navy SEAL above and beyond the call of duty." Some servicemen, he explained, spend a career in the Navy or Marine Corps without achieving this sort of rcognition. "Beau Jackson is a true hero in every sense of that term," Mr. Decker affirmed.

Autumn had stopped making notes. She was now fully caught up in the story she was hearing. It was almost as if she was in a theater watching a Hollywood premier - hanging on every word and image.

Mr. Decker then shared that Beau's father retired from the Navy while Beau was still deployed overseas, and that he and Beau's mother moved back to the same Atlanta neighborhood where they had grown up. Beau's father became a breakfast regular at The Silver Skillet. Mr. Decker and Admiral Jackson spent many mornings solving the world's problems over coffee. Renewing their old high school friendship, they enjoyed just sitting, talking, and laughing in the back booth of the Silver Skillet.

Until, that is, Admiral Jackson died suddenly of a massive heart attack one cold November morning. Though Beau's mother was financially well off and didn't need to worry about getting a job, she eventually went to work as one of the waitresses at the Silver Skillet. Without a husband or sons at home for her to fuss over anymore, she enjoyed the atmosphere, as well as the interaction with the great patrons of the restaurant. It became her home away from home, and her customers became her extended family. She absolutely lived for coming to work every day.

"Does she still work for you?," Autumn asked. George Decker dropped his head and was silent for several seconds. "About six months ago, she was diagnosed with cancer," he said, looking up from the table - his hazel eyes glazing over with tears. He continued, "She's been in treatment ever since...But now the cancer has spread...What we all feared and dreaded for her is coming to pass really fast now...Looks like it won't be much longer before she will have to go into hospice." Mr. Decker excused himself and stepped away to the restroom. While he was gone, Autumn sat and stared out the window. It occurred to her for the first time in her life how deeply people's lives touch others, and how powerful real-life stories can be. She could not wait to hear the rest of what Mr. Decker had to say.

He came back to the table much more composed. George shared with Autumn how Beau was able to persuade the Navy to grant him an extended shore leave so he could come home and care for his mother in her last days. Being a Rear Admiral's son, as well as a decorated war veteran, helped him with all the right strings that had to be pulled to get it done. Mr. Decker emphasized, however, "The ONLY reason Beau would ever use his privileged status would be for something monumental like this. He knew that his Mom needed him now - even more than his country."

It was dawning on Autumn that this was a young man supremely devoted to his country and his duty, and that the only thing that meant more to him was his family. "Miss Hamilton," he said, "please realize that Beau Jackson is not driven by his ego, nor is he inclined in any way to believe that he is deserving of any sort of special treatment or favor from anyone - for any reason."

"Wow!," was all that Autumn could say. She had never encountered people like this in her life - people who sacrificed and did things for others - merely for the sake of doing it. It was quite a departure from the self-centered "me" crowd that she had always ran with. But, in a strange sort of way, Beau's sacrificial life seemed greatly attractive and interesting to her.

"Please, tell me more, " she said.

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 9"

2010-08-13T12:55:00.000-07:00

Autumn's parents had remarked many times that whenever she was about to drop a bomb on someone, there were always warning signs. The sitting up straight, the clearing of the throat, and the coy smile were hints that something jaw-dropping was about to come forth.

Autumn explained to George Decker that her "orders" from Mrs. Sibley regarding this story required her to be as thorough and "investigative" as possible. This subtle aggression was also a sign of Autumn's nature. Whenever she was on the trail of something she wanted, she almost always managed to find a scapegoat. In this case, Mrs. Sibley would do just fine.

Flipping the pages of her notepad as though she was genuinely reviewing their conversation, Autumn said in a much-too-mater-of-fact tone, "Now let's see...Who is missing?...Oh yes, the employee of yours that was escorting me through the back door earlier...I don't think we discussed him yet...Did we?" Mr. Decker took a long, slow sip of his coffee and said, "No, I don't guess we did." With that there was a noticeable silence from his side of the table.

Autumn looked up from her pad, trying not to seem too anxious. "What do you want to know?," he asked. "Oh, the usual...His name...What he does around here...How long he's been with you...That sort of stuff," Autumn said, feigning innocence and readying her pen. Still, there was silence from George Decker. After a long second or two, he took yet another S-L-O-W sip of coffee.

"What IS he waiting on?," Autumn wondered to herself. Could it be THAT bad? Was there more to tell than Mr. Decker could reveal? Why was he hesitating? Maybe this fellow WAS a stalker or ex-convict of some kind. Maybe there was no good way of explaining who this Beau character truly was. Was he embarrassed? "Why doesn't he say SOMETHING?," she thought.

When Autumn looked up again, Mr. Decker had put his coffee cup on the table, and was sitting with his hands folded. He was grinning from ear to ear. "What?," Autumn asked.

"Miss Hamilton," he began, "before I answer, may I please ask YOU a question?" Autumn nodded - trying to hide the expression that she KNEW was on her face - that of a little girl who had just gotten caught stealing from the cookie jar. "Might it just be possible," he said - with a chuckle in his voice, "that HE is the fellow you came here to interview today instead of me?"

Autumn's face flushed. Was she THAT obvious and transparent? "Why, whatever do you mean by that?," she asked - in her best Scarlett O'Hara voice. Mr. Decker laughed heartily and shook his head. "Miss Hamilton," he began again, "if you want to meet my cook, why don't you just say so...I will go out and get him for you?"

Mr. Decker began sliding out of the booth as though he was headed for the kitchen. Autumn grabbed his arm and shook her head in a wildly animated fashion. "No, no, no," she said, "let's not bother him right now...I am sure he is busy cooking or cleaning up or something...I just need to know a couple of things about him anyway!"

George Decker got up and freshened his coffee, offered a refill of sweet tea for Autumn, and then sat back down. After another sip from his cup, Mr. Decker suggested to Autumn that she just sit back and relax. She got the distinct impression that whatever she was about to hear was going to take a while.

Her intuition was spot on.

After another brief period of silence, Mr. Decker said, "Hang on just a second," he said - winking and patting Autumn's hand, "I'll be right back." He got up, went over and opened the door, summoned one of his waitresses and said, "Miss Hamilton and I are going to be a while longer...Please make sure we are not disturbed." The waitress agreed and asked if they needed anything. Mr. Decker glanced toward Autumn. "No sir," she said, "I don't need anything except a quick trip to the ladies room." As she got up and walked through the kitchen toward the restroom, her pulsed quickened. She hoped that she wouldn't run into HIM.

The trip to the restroom was uneventful. Not many patrons were left in the outer dining room, and the workers in the kitchen were busily cleaning up. No sign of Beau Jackson. It was now a few minutes after 2:00 PM. As she came back into the room, Mr. Decker was on the phone. He motioned for Autumn to sit down. "I'll only be a minute," he whispered. She was certain that whatever she was about to hear was going to be significant. She swallowed a mouthful of the crushed ice left in her tea glass and anxiously waited.

The long-awaited revelation of the mystery that was Mr. Beauregard Jackson was about to unfold. As nervous as she was, the excitement she felt was a lot like one of many movie premieres she had attended during her teen years.

Except for the fact that this was no movie.

Autumn Belle Hamilton's life was about to change - forever.

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 8"

2010-08-11T10:12:00.001-07:00

As she sipped the tea and savored each butte-filled bite of the croissants, Autumn gazed out the window at an ever-growing Atlanta skyline. She thought of how much the city had changed since she was a little girl. She remembered going to Hurt Park at Five-Points at the age of five and dancing barefoot in the big fountain there. She thought of the day that her parents took her to the Atlanta Zoo for the first time, and of all the Friday night high school football games she used to enjoy so much.

Growing up in Atlanta had been a sweet life for Autumn Belle Hamilton. Now, here she was with a career and a new, exciting life in front of her. She slowly scanned the many pictures of the couples on the dining room wall and thought about the romantic times each must have shared in this quaint little dining area. And, she couldn't help but wonder if SHE would ever find, "Mr. Right." Those few solitary minutes were like the scene from a movie. Autumn's thoughts filled with so many sentimentally charged images. She felt the tears as they began to fill her eyes.

Just then, George Decker came through the door with a stainless steel platter of food. Each dish was covered with a silver domed lid. The napkin folded on the side was linen, and the silverware was obviously a cut above the standard restaurant grade. In the middle of the platter was a single rose, lying on its side. Mr. Decker carefully placed the platter on the table in front of Autumn. "Here we go," he said, "I apologize for this taking so long...I hope you are still hungry after the croissants." Excusing himself as he hurried back to help with the rest of the lunch rush, Mr. Decker said, "Someone will check on you in a few minutes to see if you need more tea...I hope you enjoy the meal...I'll be back in a little while." With that, he disappeared through the door.

Not knowing quite what to say or do, Autumn began lifting the silver lids from the plates. Her expression was a lot like a child's at Christmas. On those plates was a feast of all her favorite foods - fried chicken, mashed potatoes, okra, peas, fresh garden corn, sweet pickles, and a mixture of onion rings and fried green tomatoes. Just like any young lady her age, Autumn had consumed her share of hamburgers, french fries, and other fast food. But, her real love was "down-home" southern cuisine. Her extended family used to kid her about her passion for "soul food," as her college dorm mates often called it. Her uncle John used to say that she was going to come back in her next life as a share-cropper's wife.

Autumn dove into the meal like a death-row inmate's "last supper." Her petite figure hid well the fact that there was a ravenous piglet underneath. In no time she had cleaned her plate - everything except the chicken bones. She was about to pop, and wondering how she was ever going to get her bloated little body out of that booth, when Mr. Decker came back in. He was carrying a dish laden with THE largest piece of homemade lemon icebox pie she had ever seen.

"How did you know about all my favorite dishes?," she asked. "Just lucky, I guess," he replied. "Here's another one of our specialties," he said, as he sat the large dish of pie in front of her. "I couldn't eat another bite," she protested. George Decker shook his head, picked up the fork, and as he placed it in her hand he said, "Now, Miss Hamilton, kings and queens have crossed continents, actors and actresses have delayed their love scenes, and politicians have forfeited elections just to get a piece of George Decker's famous lemon icebox pie...I just happen to know that it's one of your favorites...Take just one or two little bites for old man Decker...Would you please?"

As gorged as she felt, Autumn couldn't turn down such a charming plea. She forced herself to take the first bite. It was by far THE most delicious bite of pie she had ever tasted. She wound up wolfing down the entire piece. With a last gulp of sweet tea, Autumn felt more like a "fattening hog" than a young, twenty-something, hard-body. Though she tried with all her might, her most strenuous effort to suppress a hearty burp was unsuccessful. She barely got her mouth covered in time.

"That-a-girl," Mr. Decker chided, patting her on the shoulder.

Pouring himself a cup of coffee, George Decker slid into the seat opposite Autumn. He offered her a cup. It smelled heavenly. But, coffee was her morning drink, exclusively. Autumn pulled out her notebook, and said, "No sir, I will pass on the coffee, but may I sit here with you and chat a while?" He readily agreed. "Fire away, Miss Atlanta Journal," he said, leaning back in the booth.

For the next hour, George Decker talked about buying the Silver Skillet, and about the twenty plus years he had spent running it. He told stories about the scores of famous people he had hosted for a meal. He reminisced about his kids growing up, and about how they had resisted being made to work in the restaurant. He revealed to Autumn that he had actually been friends with her father for many years, and that they had even partnered on a short-lived business venture during that time.

He complained about the rising costs of doing business in Atlanta, and about how he loathed having Jimmy Carter in the White House. He willingly answered Autumn's questions about his personal and business life, and about his staff at the Silver Skillet. Mr. Decker bragged about two of his waitresses and their long tenure with him at the restaurant. He almost came to tears as he shared some of the highly-personal family struggles of one of his busboys. And, he lovingly recounted stories about some of his former staff members who had either retired or left the Silver Skillet to start their own businesses.

The one person that George Decker didn't seem to want to talk about was his cook. Autumn hinted several times in Beau Jackson's direction. When the interview slowed, she wondered aloud if they were forgetting someone, or some other detail about the Silver Skillet. George Decker shook his head, "No, I think that about covers everything that folks would want to know about this place," as he playfully winked at Autumn and sipped from the thick, white coffee cup.

Autumn Belle's little body was not the only thing being fed during her afternoon with George Decker. His hesitancy to reveal any details about Beau set a flame under Autumn's curiosity. She grew, by the second, more and more determined to find out at least SOMETHING about him. If George Decker thought he was going to get by Autumn Bell Hamilton without giving her the information she craved, he was gravely mistaken.

In a final gesture to get to the bottom of her mystery man, Autumn sat up straight in the booth, dabbed the linen tablecloth to the corners of her mouth, and looked George Decker straight in the eye. "Mr. Decker," she said, "there's just one other thing I'd like to ask you."

The moment of truth had come.

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 7"

2010-08-03T05:13:00.000-07:00

Autumn had no idea the Silver Skillet did such a great lunch business. When she arrived shortly after noon, every booth was full and there was a line out the door and into the parking lot. Being a young lady of privilege, Autumn Belle Hamilton had never waited in line for anything - ever! She was not about to start now - and especially not to get close to a guy she really didn't even know or like. She kept looking toward the front of the line to see if she could spot anyone she knew. "Maybe I can get up there and get a seat without having to wait," she thought. Her spike heel shoes were absolutely killing her tanned, well-manicured, little feet. She kept swaying back and forth, lifting one foot off the pavement, then another.

After about ten minutes of this, Autumn was more than ready to go back to her car. Suddenly, she heard a shrill, high-pitched whistle coming from the back side of the restaurant. "Pssst...Pssst!" She dared not look. No telling who this was. She did not like male cat-calls. They were trashy gestures designed to get a female's attention . "The nerve!," she thought, as the whistles persisted. Finally, she glanced out of the corner of her eye and saw Beau - standing at the back door of the restaurant. He waved at her to come over. Autumn snapped her head back toward the front of the line. She was not about to respond. Nor was she about to go anywhere near the back door of a tacky, greasy-spoon, restaurant. A whole line full of Atlanta business people was watching. Her social standing would be ruined.

Just then she felt a powerful hand wrap around her tiny arm and pull her out of the line. "Missy, how in this world am I ever gonna' get you past yourself?," Beau asked as he pulled Autumn out of the line and quickly toward the back door of the restaurant. "Just WHAT do you think you're doing?," she demanded. "I am JUST trying to take you inside another way...Unless, of course, you would rather stand out here all day in this line," Beau shot back.

"How did YOU know I was out here?," Autumn asked. "Never mind that," Beau said, "just quit being so stubborn and come with me." With her arm firmly locked in his powerful grasp, she leaned away from him in an exaggerated pose, She felt like a donkey being led into a stall. Coincidentally, the sound of her spike heels on the parking lot pavement resembled the clip-clop of a horse in a surrey harness.

Despite her continued protests, and the stares she was getting from the restaurant patrons, Beau kept pulling her toward the back door. She was just about to club him with her purse when George Decker appeared at the back door. "What are you doing out here?," he asked Beau. "I'm trying to get her to come in this way, " Beau answered. George Decker brushed Beau aside and took Autumn's arm. In a far more gentlemanly fashion, Mr. Decker gently patted Autumn on the forearm. "Come on, Miss Hamilton," he said, "I promise I won't bite."

Beau went back to work behind the grill. Autumn obediently followed Mr. Decker through the back door, and hurriedly through the maze of tables and counters filled with pots, pans, and cooking utensils. She had never seen the galley area of a restaurant before. The look on her face resembled that of a frightened child, almost as if she was being herded into a haunted house for the first time.

As they emerged through the giant double doors that separated the kitchen from the dining area, Autumn was abruptly shoved to the side by a waitress carrying an armful of plates and plastic glasses. "Coming through!," the waitress said. Autumn had never been treated with such utter disregard. "I'm sorry," George Decker said, "it gets a little crazy in here sometimes." Autumn gave the waitress a look that would pierce molten steel. Mr. Decker opened a large door that led away from the main dining room. "Come this way," he said. As the door shut behind them, Autumn was thoroughly surprised by what she saw.

She and Mr. Decker were standing in a small, private dining area. The pastel colored walls and the hospital-clean tiled floor was a stark contrast to the atmosphere of the main Silver Skillet dining room. There was only one booth. It sat next to a large picture window overlooking the rear of the parking lot. "Please, Miss Hamilton, take a seat here and one of our servers will be back in just a minute with something for you to drink...Do you like sweet tea?," Mr. Decker asked. Before she could answer, a waitress came in with a large glass of sweet tea and a plate stacked high with three hot, buttered croissants. They smelled heavenly.

As Autumn sat down, Mr. Decker turned to leave. "I'll be back in a sec," he said, "you just enjoy the tea and croissants and we'll have the rest of your food ready in a jiffy." "But, I haven't even ordered anything yet, "she said. George Decker winked and said, "The folks who are privileged enough to eat back here get the Silver Skillet gourmet dish of the day...I am sure you will like it." Both Mr. Decker and the waitress disappeared through the door.

As her emotions began to calm, Autumn Belle slipped off her heels and took a long, slow sip of the ice-cold tea. She pulled apart one of the steaming croissants and shoved half of it into her mouth. "Mmmmmmm," she purred. She had heard about the Silver Skillet's food. Rumor was that George Decker's little hole-in-the-wall eatery served some of the best food in Atlanta. This would be her chance to see if that reputation was true. She could write about the food, the secret dining room, AND George Decker.

"This might not turn out so bad after all," she whispered to herself.

The croissants were delicious. As she savored each bite, Autumn began to look around the small, hidden enclave. The walls, much like the front of the main dining area, were decorated with celebrity pictures - Roy Roger and Dale Evans, Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, and John & Jackie Kennedy to name a few. Suddenly it dawned on her what this room was. Autumn Belle was sitting in a private dining area for celebrity couples. This dining room's purpose was to give privacy to celebrities who didn't want to be bothered by autograph-seeking patrons. "Wow!," she said out loud. She had been allowed access to this special place without even asking. But why? She was all alone. She wasn't with a boyfriend or family member. No one knew she was even coming that day. Or, did they?

Autumn's curiosity was working overtime. "Something's up!," she thought, as she looked around the room shaking her head at the pictures, "and I am JUST the one to find out what it is!"

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 6"

2010-07-30T12:35:00.000-07:00

It was well after 9:30 AM when Autumn finally got to the newspaper offices that morning. She was still a seething cauldron of anger, humiliation, and disappointment. Mrs. Sibley met her in the hall and asked how her initial interview with George Decker had gone. "It went fine," she lyingly replied. Plopping down at her cubicle, Autumn was NOT in the mood for work. She sat staring at her typewriter for most of the morning. She was still too mad to really care if anyone noticed that she was not really doing any work.

The phone suddenly rang at her desk at about 11:15 AM.

"Miss Hamilton," the switchboard operator said, "the receptionist in the front lobby says that you have a delivery." "A delivery?", she asked in a bewildered voice. "Yes, please come down right away and pick it up," the operator concluded. As she rode the elevator down from the 5th floor, Autumn could not imagine what had been delivered to her. When she turned the corner out of the elevator and saw what was sitting on the the receptionist's desk, she gasped with surprise. The largest vase she had ever seen, filled beautiful deep-red roses and cut flowers.

"Miss Hamilton," the receptionist said, "these just came for you."

Autumn could not believe it. On this terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day, who could have known that this was JUST what she needed? "Daddy must have sent them," she mumured to herself as she spun the vase around and around. Rhett Hamilton, she surmised, must have known that his little girl was in a state of turmoil. She had flown through the house that morning changing from the business suit she had ruined with the car door, and rushing back out she completely by-passed her parents without so much as a word of explanation. Daddy must have known that his little girl desperately needed this.

As she looked at the envelope with the card inside, she was surprised to see that the flowers did not come from their neighborhood florist in Alpharetta. To her further surprise, she noticed that they had, in fact, been delivered from a florist located just across Fourteenth Street from none other than the Silver Skillet. She curiously opened the card. It read, "Sorry for scaring you this morning. And, sorry about the speeding ticket. If you will come back tomorrow, breakfast is on me...Sincerely, BJ."

Autumn threw the card on the floor. "Of all the nerve!," she bellowed. "What's wrong?", asked the receptionist. "Of all the nerve!," she repeated. "Well, if HE thinks HE is going to get the best of ME with a few flowers, boy has HE got another thing coming!", she declared. Autumn picked up the card, grabbed the vase of flowers - causing its water to spill on the floor, and stomped back toward the elevator.

When she got back to her floor with the flowers, all the female staffers gathered around. They fired question after question at Autumn. "Who is he? How long have you two been dating? Is he THE one? What does he look like? Is he rich?," they asked. Autumn refused to answer any of the questions. She mumbled that someone was trying to play a smart-aleck joke on her, and that she was going to return them to him without delay.

When Mrs. Sibley heard the commotion, she came out of her office with some questions of her own.

"Why are we all gathered around Miss Hamilton's desk? Why aren't we all busy with our work? Have we forgotten our deadlines? Would we like to have an extended leave of absence from our duties through the issuance of an Editor's Pink Slip?," she curtly asked. As everyone went briskly back to their desks, Mrs. Sibley stared a long moment at the flowers, looked disapprovingly at Autumn Belle, and turned to go back to her office.

"No one ever did that for me," she whispered.

Autumn heard Mrs. Sibley's comment, and it instantly changed her whole perspective. In an instant, she began to re-think her attitude. Slowly, she began to see the gesture in a much different light. As she continued to gaze at and stroke the beautiful bouquet of flowers in front of her, the anger that had consumed her began to subside. In its place, a growing sense of curiosity took over.

Who is this man? Why had he taken such an interest in her? How did he even know her? How did he know where she worked? And, HOW did he know about the speeding ticket?

This was all too weird. Was he stalking her? Was she in danger? Maybe he was setting her up for some sort of kidnap and ransom ambush? Should she call the police? Should she notify security? Should she tell her daddy?

Autumn began to feel somewhat helpless to be able to make sense of all that was shooting through her brain - or to have the strength to stop it. She felt drawn to the Silver Skillet, and to this stranger. He was, after all, THE most genuinely gorgeous man she had ever seen. Her mind was made up. Whoever Beauregard Jackson was, and whatever he was, and for whatever reason he had suddenly come into her life, she now HAD to find out.

It was almost noon. Autumn went to Mrs. Sibley's office and made up a story about having an afternoon filled with appointments - including a sit-down interview with George Decker after the Silver Skillet had closed for the day.

With Mrs. Sibley's approval, Autumn went back to her cubicle, gathered her things, stroked and sniffed the flowers a final time, and then headed for the elevator. Fate seemed to be leading her back to the Silver Skillet. As she rode the elevator down to the newspaper lobby and hopped in the Jaguar, she planned her afternoon's work. Her number one goal - getting some answers to the puzzling questions confronting her.

"Look out Mr. Jackson," she said as she walked off the elevator, "here comes trouble."

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 5"

2010-07-28T19:33:00.000-07:00

4:30 came early that Wednesday morning. The night before, Autumn Belle had gone to bed one full hour earlier than normal, made sure her outfit for the day was carefully selected and laid out, and even prepared her towel, washcloth and make-up ensemble so that once she did get up, time would not slip away from her. As she sleepily went through the motions of readying herself for the Silver Skillet, Autumn wondered if anything was worth getting up this early. The steaming hot shower helped wake her enough to keep her on time and on schedule. She pulled out of the driveway at 4:55 AM, five minutes earlier than she had planned.

The roadways of the burgeoning metropolis that Atlanta, Georgia, became in the late 1970's were a daily challenge to negotiate - especially during morning rush hour. A 5:00 AM departure ensured that the commute from the Hamilton's Alpharetta estate would not be a problem. And, it wasn't - except for the fact that Autumn Belle didn't factor in the Georgia State Trooper that clocked her flying down Interstate 85 at 95 mph.

He pulled her over and began to write the speeding ticket.

Autumn began to feign a contrite wave of weeping and sobbing. She had always managed to escape, or talk her way out of, traffic citations. The batting of her pretty green eyes, the pouty curl of her lip, and the playful wink she learned in charm school had served her well in the avoidance of speeding tickets. This encounter was no exception. The young trooper eventually let her go with only a "stern" warning. Feeling more than a little like the cat that caught the canary, Autumn drove away "grinning-like-a-mule-eating-briars." She could not have known that this particular encounter with the law would have its own set of consequences.

As she pulled in and parked her shiny, new, powder blue Jaguar in the Silver Skillet parking lot, she looked at her watch. It was 5:25 AM. Five minutes to spare! Autumn was checking her make-up a final time in the Jaguar's lighted rear-view mirror when someone abruptly began pecking on the driver-side window. Autumn gave a frightened shriek - leaning quickly away from the door. With the light from the rear-view mirror reflecting off everything inside the car, she could not see to tell who this was tapping on her window. She was reaching for the glove box flashlight when she heard, just as she had twice before, THE voice. It was HIM!!! "What in blue blazes are YOU doing here at this time of the morning?," the voice asked. She could see a grinning silhouette of a face peering in the car window at her. "Are you lost?," Beau asked in a facetious tone. Before she could answer he said, "In case you don't know where you are, Missy, this is NOT your daddy's tennis club!"

Autumn Belle Hamilton had never in her life held a conversation with another human being through the window of a parked car - in a darkened parking lot - at such an insanely early hour. She barely knew Beau Jackson, but she was already developing an extreme dislike for him. She could see his muscularly defined form in the dark t-shirt and blue jeans he wore, as he stood up and walked in front of her Jaguar. He turned, mockingly waved to her and quickly bounded up the stairs and into the front door of the Silver Skillet. He kept looking back at her in the car, laughing to himself and shaking his head. He seemed quite amused that he had just scared the living daylights out of her.

She, however, was NOT amused!

Autumn Belle jumped out of the car in a huff, grabbed her legal pad folder and purse, and slammed the Jaguar door. The echo of the slamming car door rang out over the entire parking lot. As she turned to walk toward the restaurant, she heard an intensely sickening noise - the sound of fabric tearing like a paper bag in a shredder. Autumn looked down to see her brand new skirt, caught in the car door. It was now ripped, smeared with the black grease from the door, and looking more like a grease-monkey's coveralls than the finely-appointed business suit of a professional journalist.

With a frustrated gasp, Autumn repeatedly jerked the part of her skirt caught in the car door. After the third or fourth attempt to free it from the door, she heard THE voice once again. "Are you changing the oil, Missy, or are you coming in for breakfast?," Beau teased, as he leaned out the restaurant door. "If you ARE changing the oil, my Harley over there also needs a lube job," he said, giggling under his breath. Autumn stomped her foot and grunted, "Ooooooooh, just leave me alone!"

Finally, and with great force, she yanked the piece of her skirt from the door, hurriedly climbed back into the car and peeled wildly out of the parking lot. Now she would have to go all the way back home and change! Her brand new outfit was ruined! Her first assignment as a journalist - a complete disaster! And, to top all of this, Beau Jackson had found her out - and had made great fun of her in her most humiliating predicament. Her cover was blown! The whole world, no doubt, would soon know that she had not come to the Silver Skillet so early on that morning to see George Decker.

How could she ever go near that place again?

Autumn Belle was as flushed with anger. Having been totally embarrassed by a fry cook, and in perhaps the greatest hurry of her young life, she tightly gripped the steering wheel as she sped headlong down the ramp and onto I-85 North. Weaving in and out of the outbound lanes, she pushed her new Jaguar to the limit. Autumn Belle Hamilton was squarely in the middle of a four-alarm hissy fit. She was pushing to the max one of the most powerful cars in the world. Heaven help anyone in her way!

As fate would have it, the same young trooper who had stopped her earlier that morning clocked her at 120 mph as she flew past him. He quickly gave chase. This time, however, her grace and charm would not save her. The ticket she was handed a few minutes later read, "Charges: Felony Speeding, Wreckless Driving, and Insulting an Officer of the Law....Fine: $500 or 24 hours in jail."

Autumn thought to herself as she lowered her head to cry - and this time, her tears were very real - "Please, Lord, let me die now!"

Not yet, Autumn Belle.

Not just yet!

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 4"

2010-07-26T02:52:00.002-07:00

Autumn Bell Hamilton was now a career woman. After her first day at the paper, at dinner her daddy reminded her that the working world plays by its own set of rules. Even the aristocracy who walks amongst the commoners must observe standard practices of business etiquette. And sometimes, he was careful to point out, the upper crust must perform at an even higher level than the average Joe just to prove they do "belong" in the driver's seat. "One day, the paper and most everything I own will be yours, sweetie," her daddy explained, "but, until then you have to prove yourself. Once you have done that, then and only then can you run the paper with credibility and authority."

Such things had never been unfolded before Autumn Belle's eyes in this way. She didn't like hearing it. Everything had always come so easy for her. Why should she now have to go out just like any other young, college graduate and start all over again? Couldn't she just cash in her seven-figure trust fund and go lie on the beach in Kaua'i? Who did this Sibley woman think she was, anyway? She was not family - just a mere salaried employee. Autumn was not a happy girl on her second morning's commute. So out of sorts was she that, as she made her way through the busy Atlanta streets, the Silver Skillet never crossed her mind.

Later that morning, as she sat in her cubicle looking through the story assignments that lay before her, someone a few cubicles over unwrapped a hot sausage biscuit from the Silver Skillet. The aroma quickly filled the area. The work space was instantly in a ravenous state of hunger. As Autumn sat there, reading over the list of social events she was to begin covering, she was overcome with hunger. This also triggered her memory. She sat straight up in her chair and blurted out, "It was HIM!" One of her co-workers sitting a few cubicles over asked, "It was HIM, who?" "HIM!!", Autumn Belle declared again, with an air of disbelief in her voice. The young man at her debutante party, those arms, THAT voice, so strong, so erotic, so masculine, SO....It was HIM behind that grill at the Silver Skillet!

Autumn sat back in her chair as if one of life's great mysteries had been solved. She felt relieved. She also was suddenly filled with anger and incredulity. "But, what was HE doing at MY party?...A cook?...Somebody who works behind a grill at a greasy spoon?!...The NERVE of somebody like THAT crashing MY party!", Autumn muttered to herself - her temper growing hotter with each sentence.

How dare such a lower-class brute show up at her party, grab her around the waist, hoist her in the air, and then lecture her about her name. "I'm going back down to that little greasy hole-in-the-wall and give him a piece of my mind!", she said, banging her fist on the desk. Autumn's voice grew louder with each passing burst. Her co-workers stopped what they were doing to watch the bratty tantrum. In a moment, Jewell appeared from Mrs. Sibley's office and wanted to know what was going on. "Little Miss 'Sugar Britches' is pitching a fit," said one of the male staff writers from across the room. Evidently, Lewis Grizzard's inaugural greeting had caught on. From that day forward, Grizzard's off-color reference to Autumn Belle became her unofficial office nickname.

Jewell calmed the storm by suggesting that everyone had deadlines to meet. There was no time for anyone to be throwing a fit, or watching one. Everyone turned back to their typewriters and resumed their work. Everyone, that is, except, "Sugar Britches."

Her mind turning wildly, Autumn ran and re-ran the images over and over. How it felt being in his arms, the feel of his hands sliding down over the top of her hips, his body next to hers, the sound of his deep, mature voice. More than this, she was exasperated that this man had come to her exclusively private party, made himself out to be someone who socially and culturally belonged there, and then so brazenly proceeded to "handle" her as if she were his own private cupie-doll. Forgetting about the fact that SHE was the one who ran into him, and that SHE was the one who spilled her drink on his jacket and into his face, Autumn could see little else beyond the image of him sweating, laboring, and hiding behind that nasty, greasy grill at the Silver Skillet.

As she sat pondering these things, her vengeful side gained the upper hand. How could she repay this ogre for his violation of her dignity? What could she possibly do that would humiliate him in an even greater way than he had done to her? Her musings about this went on for the better part of the remainder of the morning. It was not until she got up to go to lunch that THE idea came to her. Marching up the hall to Mrs. Sibley's office, she asked Jewell if she could speak to Mrs. Sibley before going to lunch. "I've got a better idea, " Mrs. Sibley suggested - coming out of her office as Autumn was speaking with Jewell, "Why don't we go to lunch together?" Autumn reluctantly agreed. She did not relish having to spend an hour in the company of a hired employee, and especially one who had insulted her as Mrs. Sibley had done on her first day at work.

Their lunch at the Rich's Department Store lunch counter went much better than Autumn had anticipated. Mrs. Sibley was charming and friendly. They talked about family, the many ways Atlanta was changing, and other small talk. Toward the end of the lunch, Autumn brought up the Silver Skillet Grill. She mentioned George Decker, whom Mrs. Sibley knew, and spoke of his being an icon in the Atlanta business community. Then Autumn made her move. She suggested, for her first really big project, that she be allowed to do a feature story on George Decker and his famous restaurant. She would cover it from all angles - the historical significance of the Silver Skillet, the celebrities who had eaten there, its local popularity, and of course, she would include a behind-the-scenes look at George Decker and his "staff."

Autumn was passionate and animated as she made the sales pitch to Mrs. Sibley. Her effort was valiant and, surprisingly, successful. Celestine Sibley agreed on the spot that the idea was a good one, and that Autumn Belle should begin the project immediately. On their way back to the newspaper offices, Autumn felt very smug and satisfied. Not only had she been able to sway one of the toughest old birds in the Atlanta news community, but she had also found a way to even the score with Beauregard the fry cook.

She could not wait.

Her plan was to get up way before dawn and be standing at the door when the Silver Skillet opened for business the very next morning at 5:30 AM.

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 3"

2010-07-23T06:49:00.000-07:00

Scurrying off the elevator at the fifth floor, Autumn ran headlong into one of the most revered celebrities in the Atlanta newspaper world - humor columnist Lewis Grizzard. Almost spilling her coffee on his clean white shirt, Autumn brushed by Grizzard with no clue as to who he was. "Hold on there, sugar britches," Lewis barked in his thickly-southern, Georgia accent. As she pulled away he continued, "you don't crash into old Lewis like that without leaving yo' driver's license number and insurance information - not to mention yo' phone number!" Autumn muttered an apology of sorts as she resumed her torrid pace down the corridor and toward her Chief Editor's office door.

Celestine Sibley had been with the Atlanta newspapers seemingly since The Flood. She was a crusty old warhorse that first started writing for the Atlanta Constitution in 1941. The Managing Editor of the Atlanta newspapers, Ralph McGill, had once referred to her as the, "Matriarch of the Old South." Her over 10,000 columns, the vast majority written for the Atlanta news public, had earned her the pinnacle of reverence and power among her peers. Autumn Belle did not know these things about her new boss. All she knew was that she was hungry, in a hurry, and late. As she stumbled into the outer area of Mrs. Sibley's office, Autumn announced to the secretary who she was and asked to be shown to her new desk.

"So, you're Rhett Hamilton's girl, are you?", Sibley said as she walked out of her office and into the waiting area where Autumn was standing. "Yes I am," she said, "and if someone doesn't show me to my desk, I think I am going to faint!" She was out of breath, her golden blonde hair was tussled and falling wildly about her head, and her purse and breakfast were barely hanging from the tips of her fingers. Mrs. Sibley eyed her in a most unamused fashion, as her sunglasses kept sliding from the top of her head down toward her nose. Sibley pointed a long, skinny finger down an adjacent hall and said in a very stern voice, "third cubicle on the left." She sounded much like one of the old school "marms" that Autumn's granddaddy used to tell about at family gatherings when she was just a girl.

As Autumn plopped down at her desk, Mrs. Sibley's secretary, Jewell, followed her into the cubicle with an arm full of personnel documents for her to fill out. As she laid them on the desk, Autumn looked at her with a great expression of puzzlement. Jewell explained, "These are your employment papers...We will need them filled out before we can process you into the permanent records system." Autumn patted Jewell's hand and said, "That's alright, honey, I'll get to them later...Right now, this girl's gotta' find the john." Jewell Barnes had also worked for the Atlanta papers, and Mrs. Sibley almost exculsively, for the better part of twenty-five years. She did not appreciate this spoiled, little, rich girl referring to her as, "honey."

"I am old enough to be her mother," she thought.

Autumn came back from the bathroom, sat down at her desk and ate her now-cold breakfast. She got up just before her last bite of the cinnamon roll and began looking for the coffee pot. As she flitted out into the hallway, Mrs. Sibley met her and asked if she would come to her office. Autumn replied, "Sugar, I'll be right there, just as soon as I warm up my coffee cup, unless of course you would rather take care of that for me while I touch up my make-up...It has been a very hectic morning." Celestine Sibley's eyes began to dilate. She held her composure well considering the urges she felt. Her first instinct was to turn Autumn over her knee in an effort to teach this insolent "kid" respect for one's elders. She motioned to the opposite end of the bullpen where all the staff writers worked. "You'll find the coffee pot down there, " Mrs. Sibley said through clenched teeth, "when you are done, I would like to see you in my office."

When Autumn finally came back into Mrs. Sibley's office, she was offered a chair. As she slowly sipped her coffee, Mrs. Sibley gave her a brief overview of the Atlanta newspapers and their operating policies. She discussed the goals and weekly deadlines for the paper's Society Section, and informed Autumn of the variety of assignments she would be covering in her new position as Mrs. Sibley's Assistant Editor. Those assignments would include weddings, bah-mitzvahs, funerals and wakes, grand openings, election campaign meetings, and even beauty contests. If any society-related event happened within fifty miles of Atlanta, Autumn Belle was to cover it for the paper.

When Mrs. Sibley completed her explanation she asked if there were any questions. Autumn sat up in her seat, slid it over to the edge of Mrs. Sibley's desk, and said, "Now, sugar, you KNOW who I am, of course, and you KNOW that my daddy would want me to be involved in only the very top level of operations here at the paper...So, I was wondering if maybe there was something a little more glamorous and exciting that you might have for me to do while I am here?...We wouldn't want to get off on the wrong foot, now would we?"

Celestine Sibley slowly got up, walked around behind Autumn Belle and closed the heavy wooden door to her office. She sat back down, slid forward in her chair, folded her hands on her desk and looked at Autumn in the same fashion a bull looks at a rookie matador before he charges. "My dear Miss Hamilton," Mrs. Sibley said in very deliberate and measured phrases, "Your daddy owns this paper, that's true enough...But, you are just like the rest of us - an employee of your daddy's...He has instructed us NOT to give you any preferential treatment or undue consideration because of your lofty pedigree...Therefore, you will be shown the same courtesies and expressions of respect as anyone else in our offices...But, nothing more...You are NOT starting at the top of this paper...You are MY assistant...Therefore, you WILL do what I tell you to do, WHEN I tell you to do it...If that does not suit you, you may then go running back to daddy and suck on your privileged, spoiled-rotten thumb until it rots off the end of your pretty little hand...Either way, from now on, I am, 'Mrs. Sibley'...My name is NOT, 'S-U-G-A-R'...And, this office starts work promptly at 9:00 AM, Monday through Friday...Is that clear?"

Autumn blinked her eyes, shook her head, and tried to collect her emotions. No one had ever talked to her like this, ever! She was hurt, offended, angry, and extremely taken aback. The only words she could manage were a noticeably weak and timid, "Yes ma'am..." With this, Mrs. Sibley sent Autumn Belle back to her desk with the assignment of filling out her employment documents and returning them to Jewell's desk before lunch. Quite a rude awakening for a privileged southern princess like Autumn Belle Hamilton.

Following this very highly emotional exchange, the rest of Autumn's day passed as a blur. Five o'clock seemed like it would never come. She forgot all about going by the Silver Skillet, as well as the mystery about the cook's voice. All she wanted to do at the end of her first day was to go home and cry on daddy's shoulder.

Before her time at the Atlanta Journal was done, it would not be her last.

"Autumn Belle - Chapter 2"

2010-07-22T15:36:00.000-07:00

The days of that summer flew swiftly by. Autumn Belle divided her time between her daddy's four palatial homes - the horse plantation at Louisville, the Florida house at Clearwater Beach, the brand new condo at Princeville on the north shore of Kaua'i, and of course the family's home place near Alpharetta. When September rolled around, Autumn was NOT ready to assume her duties as the new Assistant to the Society Page Editor for her daddy's newspaper, the Atlanta Journal. "To be a socialite, sweetie pie," Rhett Hamilton had explained, "you gotta' pay some dues." Autumn's "dues" would be to write about the very people that she would one day take her place among. With Labor Day falling on that Monday, her start date was set for Tuesday, September 6th, 1977.

On her first day, Autumn Belle did what she had been accustomed to doing for most of her life - she overslept. Getting up far too late for breakfast, she breathlessly announced, "I'll find something on the way in," as she kissed her folks and made a mad dash for the new Jaguar waiting in the breezeway. As she fumbled for the keys, she remembered her father saying something about a local diner near the newspaper offices that served down-home, southern breakfasts. "Maybe they'll have a pastry or doughnut," she thought, "but what I really need is some coffee."

The parking lot was full that morning at the Silver Skillet on Fourteenth Street. All the locals went there. The owner, George Decker, had served the business community of Atlanta its breakfast and lunch in that little diner since the 1950's. He was a fixture behind the register, and greeted all the customers as if they were family. "Well, looky here," George smilingly said as Autumn walked through the door, "you must be the Hamilton girl that everybody has been talking about." He hurriedly began helping the busboy clean the dirty dishes off a nearby booth so Autumn could sit down. "Oh, no sir," she said, "it's my first day at work and I am really late already...Could I just get something to go?" Though Mr. Decker protested her haste, Autumn persisted. "Well then," he said, "you'll just have to start gettin' up a little earlier so you can come and sit a while and visit with old George in the mornings...Deal?" "Deal!", she nodded and smiled as they firmly shook hands.

Before Autumn could order from the to-go menu, Mr. Decker shouted back through the rectangular portal where the hot food was served by the cooking staff, "Gimme' a sausage biscuit, a cinnamon roll, and a cup of coffee with cream to go!" Before Autumn could say a word, a male voice came back through the portal, "Roger that...one sausage biscuit and one cinnamon roll to go." She could not see the actual faces of the workers behind the grill, but Autumn Belle KNEW she had heard that voice before. She was still a bit woozy from having overslept and very much in a hurry to get going - it was already past nine o'clock and this was, again, her very first day on the job. In just a few minutes a brown paper bag appeared on the portal shelf and THAT voice rang out again, "To-go order UP!" Autumn hadn't ordered the sausage biscuit and cinnamon roll - Mr. Decker had taken care of that for her. She didn't really care about the food as long as the coffee was hot! George Decker refused payment from her, saying that her first breakfast would be on the house. "We're also open for lunch, little lady," he said, winking, "come back and see me whenever you can."

As Autumn Belle turned to leave she happened to glance at the inside front wall of the old diner. It was covered with pictures. Autographed pictures of politicians, actors, musicians, celebrities from every corner of public life - Marilyn Monroe, Nipsey Russell, Dean Martin, Laurence Welk, Robert Redford, Billie Jean King, Lyndon Johnson, and even John Wayne. Autumn had no idea that she had been standing in a place where so many famous people had eaten. As she got in her new Jaguar and drove away, the image of those famous names and faces, though, was not as prominent in her prissy little mind as was the nagging question, "where HAVE I heard THAT voice before?"

With the morning Atlanta commute having subsided somewhat, Autumn was able to make it to the Journal parking lot in record time. As she gathered her purse, along with the hot cup of coffee and the brown paper sack full of food, Autumn Bell Hamilton locked her car, quickly checked her appearance in the reflection from the Jaguar's driver-side window, and hurriedly galloped through the front revolving door. Her focus should have been on the fact that she was a full half hour late on her first day in a new job, as well as on meeting and making a good impression on her new bosses and co-workers. However, all she could think of was the voice from behind the Silver Skillet grill. Her rabid curiosity was growing by the second. This little magnolia was GOING to figure out the mystery behind the identity of that voice if it was the last thing she did - even if it meant retracing her path back to the Silver Skillet before the sun went down.

As she got on the elevator, her focus shifted back to her appearance - she made one last check in the elevator's mirrored interior doors. She was finally ready to face the "real" world.

But, was it ready for her?

"Autumn Belle"

2010-07-16T22:54:00.000-07:00

Miss Autumn Belle Hamilton - a name was reminiscent of a character from Margaret Mitchell's classic, "Gone With The Wind." Her mother, Bea Hamilton, chose her little girl's name two days after learning of the pregnancy. For the next nine months the world readied itself for April 14, 1955. From birth, everything in little Autumn Belle's world was deeply and traditionally southern. Well before she fell into into the waiting arms of her delivery room physician, Dr. Robert Manget, this long-awaited baby girl was already bringing monumental change into her dominantly male, Southern family. She was the first girl born into the Hamilton family of North Fulton County, Georgia, in three generations.

Autumn Belle Hamilton was given every possible advantage in life. Showered with the finest clothes, accessories and appointments, food, schooling, and medical care, her father, Rhett Hamilton, used his considerable fortune to give her everything. He had come from, "old Atlanta money," and was not about to let his baby girl be out-dressed, out-charmed, or out-spent by anybody. If this wasn't enough, Autumn Belle was constantly bathed in attention and accolade. At Woodward Academy, her very exclusive private school, she was "Miss Everything" - Star Student, Homecoming Queen, President of the Student Body, Miss Woodward. You name it, she was it. Over time, as a result of these things, it became quite evident that humility, unselfishness, and concern for others were not this girl's crowning attributes. To the contrary, a Southern female version of "Frankenstein's Monster" was being fashioned - a bonafide, spoiled rotten, precocious, little, southern, aristocratic brat.

After her graduation from the prestigious Agnes Scott College for Women, she was given THE most unforgettably gawdy debutante ball that Atlanta had ever seen. Everyone that was anyone was there - movie stars, politicians, professional atheletes, bankers, and the elite of Atlanta's snooty society crowd. The Queen, herself, would have felt quite at home in the aire of such a royal event.

On that moonlit night, Autumn strolled through the multitude of guests who had come to the Atlanta Lawn & Tennis Club. Her senses were filled with everything, "me." She graced the arms of several of Atlanta's finest and most eligible young men during the course of the evening - as she danced, sipped occasionally from the slew of potently-alcoholic "Savannah Slings" that came her way.

During the evening's crowning moment, Autumn Belle delivered a nauseatingly self-ingratiating speech about her life, her accomplishments, her dreams, and her inevitable future as a wealthy Atlanta socialite. Afterward, in an almost-tipsy fashion, she laughingly sacheted her way through the sea of linen covered tables - making every effort to be charming and polished.

She was just about to offer the last of the obligatory thank-you's and good-bye's to her guests when it happened. As she chugged yet another Savannah Sling, not at all watching where she was going, Autumn staggered headfirst into what seemed to be a large wall. Only this wall had arms, muscles, and a deeply southern male voice. Autumn spilled her drink in the collision - with some splashing back into her face and eyes. She could not see what she had just hit, but could she ever hear and feel it. "Hey, watch where you're going!", she said as she wiped the liquor from her eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't see you," the male voice said. Autumn felt two strong forearms wrap around her, and strong male hands slide along the small of her back - a very erotic moment, indeed.

Her spike heeled shoes slipped from her tiny feet and fell to the tennis court beneath her. Dangling in the air and firmly in the grasp of her new acquaintance, Autumn could feel her lower body press closely against his. When she finally got her eyes cleared enough to see, this half-drunk little debutante found herself face to face with a living dream. He was a ruggedly handsome young man dressed in a white tux jacket.

"Hello there, Miss Hamilton," he said, "that IS your name isn't it?" For the first time since she first learned to talk, Autumn Belle Hamilton was totally speechless. Here she was, at the end of the most important day in her life, in the arms of THE most gorgeous man she had ever seen, having just spilled alcohol over the both of them. Yet, she could barely catch her breath, let alone say anything coherent or charming. Finally she gathered herself enough to respond. "Uh, yes, yes that's me alright," she replied - their two faces not more than a few inches apart.

As this brutally handsome specimen of manhood released her from his grasp, she felt her bare feet touch the tennis court. "Please allow me to introduce myself," he said, "I'm Beauregard Jackson...but YOU, little lady, can call me, Beau." He talked as smooth and sultry as Elvis sang. The alcohol having gained a foothold, Autumn mustered a reply that resembled something between a hiccup and a giggle.

"You're kidding, right?", she giddily answered, "B-E-A-U-R-E-G-A-R-D!?..WHY, nobody in this world is named 'B-E-A-U-R-E-G-A-R-D!" The words blurted out of her tiny mouth in a slurred and exaggerated tone, as she bent over backward in laughter. "Oh, I assure you, that IS my name," he said softly and calmly. He continued, "But, you know, if I had a name like, 'Autumn Belle,' I don't think I would be making fun of anybody else's name...Good night, Miss Hamilton." Beau smiled, playfully poked Autumn's face in the crevice of one of her dimples, and walked away - leaving Autumn breathless and speechless for a second time.

Little did she know that it would not be the last time.

“Romeo…Romeo…”

2008-10-01T11:37:00.000-07:00

A cherished high school friend recently shared that when she introduces herself to others, she frequently adds that she grew up in Atlanta, back when Atlanta was a small town. For the first twenty years of this writer’s life, from the middle 1950’s through the middle 1970’s, Atlanta had the authentic “feel” of a small, southern town. Crime was low, traffic was easy to maneuver through, and folks were neighborly to one another. It wasn’t until the avalanche of “immigrants” swarmed into Atlanta from all corners of the United States (and more than a few foreign countries) that she changed into the sprawling megalopolis she is today.

Perhaps the most loved small town that has ever been is not really a town at all. Andy Griffith has said many times that “Mayberry” is more of a state of mind than an actual place or dot on any map. Still, Mayberry has an infectious appeal. The friendliness of its people, the pace of its lifestyle, and the uncrowded streets and sidewalks make Griffith’s Mayberry a place that multitudes of people would love to find and live out their lives in.

One of the most endearing elements of a small town is the local General Store. Long before the retail monster known as Wal-Mart took America captive, “moms and pops” ran dry goods businesses in every small town and community in this nation. They sold canned goods, seed, hardware, flour and sugar by the bag, clothing, and an array of other items. The General Store was the local community one-stop-shop. It flourished during a time when America was smaller, people were nicer, and small communities were thriving.

In every General Store there was an area where rocking chairs were arranged, most times in a circle, around or near a pot-bellied coal or wood stove. Every morning, long before sunrise, farmers and retirees congregated in these places to discuss, argue, tell tall tales, laugh, and share an occasional off-color joke. The daily topics of discussion in this gathering included gossip, politics, the weather, sports, business deals, and, sometimes, even farming. In the warm summer months, this forum moved to the front porch of the General Store where whittling and spitting were also engaged in. The store’s proprietor encouraged these gatherings mainly because the men involved were his loyal customers and friends. And, on occasion, he would also join in the fun.

During this writer’s days as a full-time minister, there were no General Stores in our small, bedroom community to Atlanta. There was, however, a strong desire among certain men of our congregation to have a gathering like the ones enjoyed in small town General Stores. One of those great men, a retired pilot and county government official, “organized” the first of these meetings at a local McDonald’s. Their group was to be called the, “The Spit & Whittle Club.”

Spit & Whittle came to order at 10:00 AM on that first Tuesday morning with an attendance of a dozen or so. McDonald’s reserved them a group of tables and booths in the back of the dining area, most likely so that the noise expected from their lively repartee would not disturb the other dine-in patrons. It was decided that since none of the attendees had regular jobs or schedules, a daily meeting of the club would be impractical. After only a few minutes of deliberation the group decided to meet once a week, every Tuesday morning at 10:00 AM.

There was no agenda for the discussion that first morning. “What are we gonna’ talk about each week?,” was asked. “Are you kidding?”, the group’s organizer replied, “we’re all so ‘full of it’ that ain’t nobody afraid of this well ever running dry.” All agreed. So, they did the natural thing for a group of church members who are sitting and talking, they discussed the preacher’s sermon from the prior Sunday. A few were for it, and a few were “agin” it. Most agreed that it was generally good, but could have been at least ten minutes shorter. One of the participants suggested that somebody tell the preacher about the, “world’s shortest sermon,” and to try and persuade him to use it occasionally. By the way, the world’s shortest sermon is: “Turn or burn, while we stand and sing.”

“Spit and Whittle” was off and running.

In the weeks that followed, Spit & Whittle gained great popularity. It’s existence and meeting logistics were included in the church bulletin and even in the Sunday morning announcements. Personal invitations to attend and be a part of the group were extended to different ones. Even the preacher was invited to come. The old brother that asked him worded the invitation this way, “You ain’t exactly retired, but then you ain’t got no real job neither, so what’s the difference?”

The preacher was honored. He knew that his members didn’t think he did anything that could be classified as work anyway. However, little did they know that while he was with the Spit & Whittle crowd each week, the preacher was “taking notes” and collecting material for sermon illustrations and maybe even a book he intended to write someday. What better source than a group of guys like Spit & Whittle?

Spit & Whittle eventually outgrew McDonald’s. Fortunately, there was a Burger King right across the street with a much larger dining area. BK also gave free coffee to seniors with breakfast. It was a done deal. Same time, same day, but now it would be Burger King.

In time, the group’s organizer built a new home on some farmland he had purchased and moved away. Some of Spit & Whittle’s members lobbied for changing the name of the group, which had been originally chosen by the now departed (relocated, not deceased) organizer. One of the participants, himself a retired air traffic controller, came up with a new name that every guy in the group loved. They adopted it immediately and unanimously as the new “official” name of the old Spit and Whittle Club. From now on, their weekly gathering would be known as, “The Romeo Club.”

R-O-M-E-O as the title of their group had special significance. It stood for, “Retired Old Men Eating Out!” Later, their wives started a weekly group of their own and called it, “The Juliet Club.” J-U-L-I-E-T was an acrostic for, “Just Us Ladies Into Eating Together.” Who says church folks don’t have vivid and creative imaginations?

The Romeo Club was a wonderful throwback to the days of the daily General Store gathering. This outstanding group of men represented all walks of life, with each having a lifetime of differing experiences and viewpoints. There was more wisdom, common sense, and knowledge in the heads of those men than on the shelves of some libraries. Their names and faces, and the lessons learned from these wonderful guys, are both indelible and pricelessly invaluable to this writer.

First, there was Buddy, the group’s organizer. Buddy was a brilliant man. A retired pilot, Buddy knew a great deal about the airline industry, which was and is a staple in Atlanta’s economy. Buddy had also served in county government, and thus could answer questions about why local elected officials often acted so mindlessly. Buddy was a blunt, frank person who told it like it was. If you didn’t want the truth, don’t ask Buddy.

Second, looking around the Romeo table, there was Bill. Bill was a true mountain man from Blue Ridge, Georgia. He had retired from building automobiles at a local General Motors plant. Bill was a terrific money manager, and an artist when it came to story telling. Some of the stories in this book came from the heart, mind, and lips of Bill.

Third, there was John. John was a quiet and meek individual who had retired from the banking industry. During World War II, John served in the United States Army and fought the Germans in Europe. He had been awarded the Bronze Star for heroism and valor in battle. You would have never known John was in the room he was so quiet and unassuming. True heroes almost always are.

Next, there was Ray. Ray had also served in the U.S. Army, and was a successful building contractor and developer following his honorable discharge from the service. Ray loved to discuss the Bible and other topics related to religion and psychology. In his own mind, Ray was always "right" when it came to the opinions he held.

Coming on around the long table at Burger King there was Vern. Vern was an old Lineville, Alabama, boy who had made his fortune working for GM in Atlanta. He was a dead ringer for rock legend, Roy Orbison, and occasionally performed lip-sync routines in musical shows as an Orbison look-a-like. Vern often described his retirement hobby as being a, “junk trader.” Vern bought and sold all sorts of items. In some cases Vern would do minor repairs to a tiller or lawnmower and trade for something of greater value. Having worked in the auto industry, Vern’s forte was cars, but, he was never averse to making a dollar by buying and selling just about anything of value.

Next to Vern was Al. Al served in the United States Navy during the Korean War, and later retired as an Assistant Fire Chief for the city of East Point, Georgia. Al was a very quiet man, who walked bent over at the back with the help of a cane in his latter years. Al was an accomplished mechanic, carpenter, and one who could do anything with his hands. Most of the time at Romeo, Al would just sit and listen, smile and laugh, and then get up before anybody else to go home and get busy on his wife, Nita’s, honey-do list. When Nita passed away, Al kept on coming to Romeo. He said it helped him forget, at least for a little while, how much he missed Nita.

The group's "other" Bill often sat by Al. Bill #2 was a tremendously successful salesman during his career, and the retired CEO of the McGregor Company in Athens, Georgia. This writer has never known a more intelligent, capable, and successful businessman than Bill #2. He was, and still is, the epitome of excellence, organization, and efficiency. Bill served his country in the U.S. Navy during World War II, and was our church treasurer for many years. He was and is a man of great wisdom and knowledge, having traveled the world many times. Too, Bill was perhaps the most astute observer and analyst of political and government issues that this writer has ever encountered. At Romeo, Bill was always the "go-to-guy" in regard to knowing the cold hard facts of any given situation that was being discussed.

Another of the “charter members” of Romeo was Jack. Jack was a retired air traffic controller who worked the majority of his career at Atlanta’s Hartsfield airport. He was an avid photographer, and motor home enthusiast. Jack loved to travel, and therefore was frequently absent from Romeo Club meetings. He would always have magnificent pictures to show and stories to share with the group upon returning from one of his patented three or more week motor home trips. If the RV world ever gave out “frequent rider miles”, Jack would be the unrivaled champion recipient.

Seated next to Jack was Carlton. Carlton was a retired accountant and comptroller for the Otis Elevator Company. He had lived in Texas and Massachusetts during his career, and was one of the rare birds in the group that loved cold weather and snow. If Carlton’s wife’s family had not lived in Atlanta, he would have moved to the North Pole. Carlton’s laugh was one of the all-time greats. He was and is a man with a truly, “happy heart.” Too, he was an excellent Bible class teacher and self-taught e-mail guru. If you couldn’t love Carlton, there was obviously something terribly wrong with you.

There were many other men who came and went during Romeo Club meetings. Each one contributed something different and vital to the ongoing life of the group.

The Romeo Club always provided opportunities to learn. The men who were part of it used their forum to share and teach what they knew to the younger men who came as guests and observers. During the summer, when possible, the younger men who attended would bring their adolescent sons to these gatherings. When this took place, the youngster was usually treated as a guest of honor and given special treatment by the group.

Too, Romeo was the perfect time and place to let fly with that age-old product of male gatherings – namely, “horse-hockey.” This was especially the case when the material included things that wouldn’t be allowed around the dinner table at home. And fly it did. Each time a tall tale was told, Romeo regulars would lean back in their chairs and in unison lift their feet off the floor. This was their way of saying that the horse-hockey was getting a little deep. What a comical sight it was to see a dozen old men pulling their feet off the floor in unison in reaction to a tall Romeo tale.

Perhaps the tallest Romeo tale ever told came from an attendee that didn’t show up every week.

Bob was a retired metal shop teacher at Forest Park High School. His hair was snow white, and his voice was deeper than renowned gospel singers Tennessee Ernie Ford and bassist Richard Sterban (of Oak Ridge Boys fame). When Bob opened his mouth, it was of the depth and quality that one would imagine the voice of the archangel Gabriel to be. Bob was constantly recruited at church to lead a prayer or make the announcements. His booming, rich voice could keep even the sleepiest saint awake.

In his retirement, Bob worked part-time at a local funeral home where his wife also worked as an accountant. Like every part-timer, Bob was given jobs around the funeral home that no one else wanted. He helped the funeral director dress the bodies after the embalming was completed, secured the containers of fluids and other bodily residue collected at embalming, and shaved and groomed the faces of the male cadavers before family viewings took place. Doing these jobs convinced Bob to arrange for cremation at his own passing.

One other task of Bob’s as a part-time funeral home employee was to arrange for any out of the ordinary concessions requested by grieving families. Bob said he saw folks demand things at a beloved’s funeral that the average person would never dream of.

For instance, Bob told of grieving young mothers who brought baby beds to the funeral home. The mother would crawl into the baby bed and hold the deceased infant’s body both during visitation and the funeral service. There were families who brought in Harley-Davidson motorcycles and parked them by the coffin. Bob spoke of the dearly departed's kin who brought in full-blown bluegrass bands to play during visitation and the service. And, he sometimes related how hunting buddies of the deceased would bring in hunting dogs, shotguns, stuffed wild game, and even one live (but caged) raccoon to symbolize the dearly departed’s love for such.

The most bizarre of these experiences was shared with his Romeo buddies one fall morning after Bob had finished his sausage biscuit and coffee. "How's business down at the undertaker shop?", someone asked. “Fellas,” Bob said, “I thought I had seen it all in terms of outlandish last requests - until this past weekend.”

As he spoke, fourteen old gray heads slowly turned in unison toward Bob - like little boys watching a batter at home plate during a baseball game.

“We had a family in this weekend whose father and husband had passed away,” Bob continued. “When we asked them what kind of casket they wanted, they said that they didn’t want one,” Bob remarked – shaking his head in disbelief.

“When we asked them if there was anything special they wanted, the grown children of the deceased looked at me and said…'We want you to come to our house and pick up daddy’s favorite La-Z-Boy recliner…We want you to bring it here and put it in the visitation room…We want you to also bring his big-screen color TV here and put it in front of his recliner…We want you to hook it up to cable or else put daddy’s VCR on top of it…We want you to find any live or recorded Braves baseball game that you can find…We want you to show it on the TV during visitation…We want you to dress daddy up in his overhauls and his favorite Atlanta Braves t-shirt and cap…We want you to sit him in his recliner…We want you to adjust his arms and hands so that it appears as if he is sitting in his recliner….We want you to sit an end table next to him on which we want you to place a Budweiser coaster and a bag of Fritos barbecue chips…We want you to place in one of daddy’s hands a cold Budweiser beer…And, in the other hand we want you to place the TV remote control, and put daddy’s thumb on the channel selector button so that it appears he is changing channels between innings of the game…We want you to place an ashtray on the end table and keep a freshly lit Camel cigarette burning in that ashtray during the entire visitation period…Every now and then we want you to stop the game or mute the TV…When you do this, we want you to reach behind the TV and start a cassette recorder that will play tape recordings of daddy that we will provide…These tapes are the actual recordings that mama made of daddy sitting in front of the TV, shouting at the Braves players when they did something wrong, and ordering our mother to bring him another beer…This is the way we want everyone to remember our daddy.'”

When Bob finally took a breath from the telling of this unbelievable yarn, sure enough, there were twelve pairs of old men’s feet lifted in the air.

The only exceptions were Bob’s and those of Bill the mountain man.

Bob looked at Bill and said, “Well, brother, it looks like you’re the only one who believes me.”

“Well, it ain’t exactly that,” Bill said with a chuckle, “it’s just that I can’t believe that somebody stole my will out of the safety deposit box down at the bank and copy-catted my last requests.”

The Romeo crowd burst into laughter.

Bill the mountain man did not join in their frivolity. Once their guffaws had subsided, he continued.

“I can't believe that ya'll are a-makin' fun of that man...Why, the only difference between me and him is that I done told Shirley (his wife) to make sure and put my old coon dog on my lap while my corpse is a-sittin' there a-watchin' that TV…Ya’ll got to promise me that yuns will make sure she does it, ya’ heah?”

The Romeo Club took a solemn oath that morning. They vowed to observe their dear brother’s last request. Thankfully, that day has not yet come. But when it finally does, one wonders if the final salute for one of their own by the Retired-Old-Men-Eating-Out Club will be a lifting, in unison, of their feet as his casket rolls down the church aisle.

Glory!!!!!!!

-David Decker

“Miss Mattie & Her Cats”

2008-09-17T10:03:00.000-07:00

The bumper sticker reads, “The Only Good Cat Is a Dead Cat!” Another favorite of non-cat-lovers is, “Cat’s Flattened While You Wait!”

The Good Lord created all things. Genesis settles that issue. Since “all things” includes plant, animal and human life, then The Lord rightfully gets the credit for cats. One of the questions this writer wishes to ask God when and if he gets to heaven one day is, “why cats, Lord?” Their fur causes itching and sneezing, their claws are razor sharp, and their sickening “meow” sound is anything but friendly and comforting.

And, cats are hard headed, stubborn, and independent. The late Johnny Carson once said that he would not allow a cat to be brought into his house, nor would he allow his family to own one. His reasoning was that if he was going to spend money to buy something, house it, feed it, make sure it had the proper shots, and give it other forms of attention and affection, when he called “it”, he wanted “it” to, “come there.” Carson observed: “No cat in the world is going to come when you call it.”

For some reason, cats are associated with women. If two women get into a tussle it is called a, “cat fight.” If a woman is hard to get along with she is labeled as, “catty.” It seems that feline and female have much common ground between them. And, this commonality seems to begin early in life. The image of, “a boy and his cat,” somehow just doesn’t ring true. In fact, if there ever truly was such a thing as mortal enemies in this world, crossing human and animal lines, it is a boy and a cat.

Boys typically find great joy and fulfillment in tormenting cats. They tie pieces of paper on cat’s paws to make it difficult for them to walk. They tie cans onto cat’s tails just to see them run away in fear of the noise. Boys hold cats upside down so they can purposely drop them in order to test the theory that cats always land on their feet. And, more than one boy has tried unsuccessfully to bathe, baptize, or else drown a cat in a large container of body of water.

Sometimes, boys never grow out of the passion of their youth for giving cats a devil of a hard time.

This writer’s father worked for the Southern Railroad for over eleven years. For many years Inman Railroad Yard was the central staging ground for all freight train activity in and out of Atlanta. Inman was a huge facility covering many acres, and stretching to more than two miles in diameter in some places.

The main “call office” at Inman Yards was situated in the middle of that giant rail facility. It was connected with the different staging areas located throughout the yards by a network of vacuum tubes, similar to those used by banks in their drive-through windows. Orders and manifests would be placed in large cylindrical canisters and sent out through the vacuum tube to the engineering crews that were set to man a departing train, and vice versa. These canisters would travel at speeds in excess of thirty miles per hour, and sometimes traverse almost a mile’s worth of tube in order to reach crews working at the very edge of the rail yard.

On one occasion a stray cat had been milling around the yards prowling and panhandling for food, affection, or whatever else it could find. The cat evidently became a nuisance to someone. The anonymous rail worker grabbed the cat, stuffed it into the vacuum tube (without bothering to see if it would fit in the canister), and closed the door. One can only imagine the harrowing ride that poor animal endured on its way to the call office.

The clerical people (mostly females) working in the call office said they could hear something screaming its lungs out long before the cat came flying out of the vacuum tube. When it finally did, witnesses claimed it did not have a hair left on it’s shaking body, and was so frightened that it tore up stacks of files, office furnishings, and anything else in its path.

One of the ladies finally opened the entrance door to the call office, and that poor hairless cat flew out the door leaving a trail of destruction and bodily discharges behind. Legend has it that Southern Railroad management conducted extensive investigations in search of the cat culprit. No one, however, was ever willing to point the finger of blame at any specific person.

The perpetrator was mostly likely an overgrown boy in a man’s body. If those ladies in that call office could have ever gotten their hands on him, HE likely would have gone for a vacuum tube ride himself.

The cat was never seen nor heard from again at Inman Yards.

“Miss Mattie” Lennox was a dear sister in the Lord. She was in her eighties when this writer met, and immediately fell in love with, her. Miss Mattie had been a widow for several years. She lived in the mother-in-law suite of her son, Bob, and daughter-in-law, Sylvia’s, spacious home.

Her eyes were bad, and her body was slightly bent. Other than this, Miss Mattie was a “pistol” in every respect. She liked to talk. She liked to have company. And, she L-O-V-E-D her babies. She also loved her grown sons. But, they were not her “babies.” That role was reserved for her cats. Miss Mattie owned three great big Persian cats, with enough hair on their bodies to stuff the coffers of the, “Hair Club for Men,” for a hundred years.

When you went to see Miss Mattie, it was assumed that you were either going to have to sit next to on the couch, or step around and over, or else hold in your lap one of these overgrown fur balls. They would sit in the living room windows like sentries scouting the front walkway for visitors, as well as an occasional bird or squirrel.

Miss Mattie spoiled those ridiculous cats until they were rotten to the core. She fed them better food than she ate herself. They had their own beds to sleep in at night. And, Miss Mattie would even let them watch their favorite TV shows. That’s correct – these pathetic cats had “favorite” television shows they watched every day and night. This writer never figured out how Miss Mattie determined what shows her cats were so crazy about. She swore that the shows her cats preferred were not just shows that she liked, but were the real choices of her cats. Chalk this knowledge of Miss Mattie’s up to the aforementioned telepathy between female and feline. It was best that no one from the male species even attempt to make sense of this.

Miss Mattie's three cats were named: Penelope, Flower, and Bob. Like children, each of these animals was highly individualistic. Each cat being so unique from the other made it easier to hate all three - but for vastly different reasons.

Penelope was a deep, golden colored Persian cat, with light gold yellow streaks running through the hair on her “chin.” She was fatter than an expectant cow, and lazier than a redneck wino on welfare. This sorry cat would not even walk to her bowl to eat the gourmet food Miss Mattie put there for her. Penelope’s food had to be brought to the basket where she lay, especially if her favorite show, “As the World Turns,” was on. And too, her food was not to be served cold - right out of the can. No sirreee. It had to be heated for fifteen seconds in the microwave, and on a special setting, before this high and mighty bag of cat bones would even consider eating it.

Flower was the tramp of the household. She had been sexually active since her kitten days with every stray tom cat in the neighborhood. She was constantly scratching at the front storm door wanting out. Miss Mattie often said that Flower was her little, “whore.” She would let Flower out first thing in the morning, and sometimes would not see her again until almost 10:00 o’clock at night. “Walking the streets again, huh Flower?”, Miss Mattie would say as she let this promiscuous, gray Persian cat back in the door after a day of roaming and mating.

Flower brought more “children” into this world than Marcus Welby, M.D. Miss Mattie was constantly requesting announcements to be made at church that she had a litter of free, give-away cats at home. She would sometimes even give them for Christmas presents to little children at her church. The parents of these lucky children were always “thrilled” with her gesture.

Miss Mattie’s third “baby” was Bob (named in honor of her oldest son).

The best that anyone could figure, Bob the cat was actually, deep down inside, Bob the dog. In other words, Bob was a transvestite. “She” dressed like a cat, and in actuality had been a cat from birth, but had more of the mannerisms of a “Black Lab” or Dalmatian.

Bob also had a short tail (hence another reason for the name given “her,” “him,” or “it”). Bob did not have the catty-type “meeeeeeoooowww” of her species. When she made noise it was more of a deep, glottal, “mow” (pronounced – “how, now or brown cow”) sound. Miss Mattie always said that Bob “barked” at people. This was, evidently, “normal” behavior for a transvestite cat.

Bob also ran around playfully and animatedly when Miss Mattie would let her (him, it) go outdoors. He (she, it) would dig countless holes in the ground like a Lab. Bob’s thick, black coat of hair and pointed ears made him (her, it) look remarkably like a miniature Batman. Bob was an aggressive transvestite, sometimes chasing cars and picking fights with neighborhood dogs – again, like a Lab. And, to top it off, Bob didn’t like cat food. She (he, it) preferred table scraps and, no kidding, Purina dog chow. If Reality Shows had been the ticket in Miss Mattie’s (and Bob’s) day, Bob would have undoubtedly been featured on one of those “Animal Planet” strange but true telecasts.

Every time visitors came, Bob was always first at the front door to greet them with his memorable, “mow,” sound. He then would aggravate them until they played ball, chase, or some other annoying transvestite cat game with him. To say that Bob was worrisome would be like saying that Hillary Clinton’s voice is only slightly grating to the average male’s nervous system.

In addition to her cats, Miss Mattie loved church. She loved singing, swapping gossip with the other widows, playing with the toddlers and holding the newborns, and eating at the fellowship “covered dish” dinners. Miss Mattie was one of the most beloved matrons of her congregation, and was greatly honored by them when she left this life.

One of her most favorite things about church were the preachers. Miss Mattie was often heard to say, “I like women, and I adore cats and little children, but I L-O-V-E good looking men.” To the reader, please remember that when Miss Mattie made this revelation, she was already well into her eighties.

Her congregation had one young preacher that Miss Mattie really took a shine to. She was forever inviting him over to visit in her home. And, this young preacher really enjoyed being in Miss Mattie’s company. She was conversant, intellectually sharp, and very interesting to talk to. She had lived through two World Wars, the Great Depression, and, as she often said, had even survived Bill Clinton serving as president for eight years.

Miss Mattie was a “hoot!”

There was one problem with her young preacher’s visits. He was deathly allergic to, and thus had an intense dislike of, cats. This was especially so with thick-haired Persian cats. Their fur made his eyes water, and caused him to sneeze like a madman. With every visit to Miss Mattie’s, he would have to go straight to the nearby drug store for some Extra Super Strength Claritin D.

Even with his sudden onset of violent sneezing and watery eyes, Miss Mattie never put two and two together. She frequently wondered why her preacher waited until he got sick with sinus trouble before coming to see her.

The young preacher was always super careful not to let on to Miss Mattie, nor to say in any public way how much he hated cats. The last thing he wanted to do was offend this precious old sister that he loved so much. Letting the cat out of the bag (pun intended) regarding his sneeze-laden hatred and loathing of cats would have hurt Miss Mattie deeply, and harmed their relationship for years to come.

One Sunday, this young preacher stood up for the morning sermon. He had been told by Miss Mattie’s son, Bob, that their family (including Miss Mattie) would not be at services that day. Their family often went to Tennessee for family reunions. Bob called the church office the week before to let everyone know why they would be absent.

Thinking that Miss Mattie would not be in the crowd that day, her young preacher began his sermon by telling a cat-hater joke. His effort was well-received. The congregation laughed heartily. Building on this, the young preacher went on to mention the two bumper stickers referenced at the beginning of this story. Again the congregation responded with chuckles abounding. Rounding out his cat humor trilogy, the preacher quoted an old one liner and applied it to himself. “I actually like cats,” he said, “they taste just like chicken.” For a final time the audience gave him a “10” by laughing in appropriate measure.

After the service concluded, the preacher took his customary spot in the vestibule (lobby) for the shaking of hands and kissing of babies. Some preachers call this obligatory, church door meet and greet their weekly, “fleecing of the flock.” If your preacher seems to contract colds and other seasonal illnesses on a far too regular basis, remember that he has “the brethren” all over his hands each Sunday as he sits down to lunch.

Miss Mattie’s preacher never saw her coming that Sunday morning. Her family had changed the Tennessee family reunion plans at the last minute. Miss Mattie and her family stayed home and were at services after all. They came in late that morning, and thus were not sitting in their usual place – which was the far right side of the auditorium - fifth pew from the front.

Miss Mattie had heard every word of the cat trilogy, but not a word of the rest of that morning’s sermon. Now, she had some words of her own to say.

As she walked up to her young preacher, his heart sank. For once, he was at a total loss for words. Instead of her routine bear-hug, Miss Mattie crooked her gloved, right index finger repeatedly – gesturing for the preacher to come near and bend over so she could speak in close proximity to his face. He did so, but with a great deal of fear and trembling.

Miss Mattie was not a whisperer. Her hearing had begun to wane in her eighties. But, even before that, she was almost always one to, “mumble out loud.” Miss Mattie would have made an excellent auctioneer or hog-caller. She claimed that she got her resonant voice from years of calling her husband and sons in from plowing the fields to eat the noon meal.

Once, when her congregation was having a week-long revival, Miss Mattie’s talent for muttering at high decibels came to the surface in a big way. The preaching that week had NOT exactly been a riveting display of homiletical oratory. The guest preacher was long-winded, rather stuck on himself, bent on sharing “his experiences” rather than preaching the Word, and exceedingly boring. One old brother even remarked to the guest speaker’s face, “You did a pretty good job tonight, sonny – I just didn’t think you was ever gonna’ quit!”

It was Thursday night of the week-long revival. Miss Mattie and her family had attended every service. The congregation had patiently suffered through lesson after lesson of this exasperatingly dull and disappointing week. During the middle of the Thursday night sermon, the sound of someone snoring commenced. It rang through the pews softly at first, but grew more intense (and more obvious) with each inhale and exhale. Folks started laughing under their breath and looking around the auditorium to see where the mounting rumble of zzzzzzzzzzzzz’s was coming from.

Sure enough, it was Miss Mattie.

The more she snored, the more each snore sounded like the noises made by demon possessed folks in the Scriptures. With each of these apneatic utterances, the guest preacher was showing signs of increasing frustration and distraction.

Something had to be done.

Miss Mattie’s son, Bob, had already nudged her several times, but to no avail. Finally, Bob reached over and spatted Miss Mattie sharply on the back of her hand. She abruptly awoke and loudly scolded her son, “Why did you hit me?” He quietly whispered that he was just trying to stop her from snoring during the sermon. Miss Mattie replied in a “whisper” that could have been heard across the entire auditorium, “Well, I am SO tired of hearing this wearisome preacher…Whose idea was it to bring him here, anyway?...I bet his wife is sound asleep too!”

No one ever had to guess what Miss Mattie was thinking.

Miss Mattie’s “voice” as she spoke to her preacher on the Sunday morning of the cat jokes was anything but quiet, friendly and sister-like.

“Let me tell you something, young man,” she forcefully said, grabbing her young preacher’s tie and pulling him close. “I L-O-V-E my cats…As a matter of fact I love ALL cats…And what’s more…I would rather have my cats with me in my house than SOME preachers I know!”

Before the young preacher could interrupt and apologize, Miss Mattie pulled him even closer and continued her tirade.

“Cats are God’s creatures too…They’re quiet, they don’t cause a ruckus like a bunch of idiot dogs would, and one day they’ll be in heaven just like me and you!” “Well,” she paused for a moment, “just like me!...Afteer today I don’t know so much about you!”

With that, Miss Mattie released her death grip on the preacher’s tie, turned on her heel and marched out the front door of the church building in a huff. Bob tried to comfort the preacher by saying, “Mom’s not really mad at you…You see, her cats have been a lot of company to her since Daddy passed on…She’ll get over this by the time she gets home…You come on by to see her this week, and I bet she’ll hug your neck and welcome you like she always has.”

The young preacher felt better after Bob’s reassuring words. He DID want to go over to see Miss Mattie and try to make amends. But, he was afraid if he called first, she wouldn’t let him come. So, on Monday morning this self-avowed cat-hater swallowed hard, went by the florist for some forgive-me flowers, stopped at PetSmart and bought some cat toys and a bag of Purina Dog Chow for Bob (the cat, not the son), and went straight to Miss Mattie’s front door.

When he rang the doorbell, Miss Mattie appeared – holding Penelope, and with Flower switching in and around her legs like a boa constrictor. Bob the transvestite was nowhere to be found.

Miss Mattie stared at the preacher for a long time through her storm door before unlocking and opening it. “Come in,” she said, “what in the world is all that stuff you’ve got?” The preacher began to explain how deeply sorry he was for his insensitive remarks on Sunday. He handed her the vase of flowers, and held up the bag of goodies from PetSmart. “I brought some things for your babies,” he timidly said. Miss Mattie looked suspiciously at him, then at the flowers, then at the PetSmart bag, and then back at him. The patented Miss Mattie smile he had hoped to see was, however, still absent from her face.

“Well,” she said, “I guess maybe you have learned your lesson…You can sit down a while if you want to…That is, if you can tolerate my cats…Or, if THEY can tolerate YOU!” The young preacher laughed nervously at Miss Mattie’s biting words. She didn’t.

They sat down and exchanged small talk for a minute or two. Suddenly, as sure as the sun rises in the east, the flood gates opened. The young preacher’s eyes began to water, his nose began to run, and he began to sneeze violently. Penelope, Flower, and even Bob, who had sneakily come into the room, scampered away and hid under the dining room table and hutch. For several minutes the preacher wiped his eyes, held his finger under his nose to try and stem the flood of sneezes, and bravely tried to continue his apologies to Miss Mattie.

When he could take it no longer, the preacher said he had to leave but offered to have a short prayer with Miss Mattie first. He explained that he needed to go to the drug store for some allergy medicine. Miss Mattie agreed to the prayer, but insisted that she be allowed to say something before it commenced. Covering his nose with his handkerchief, the young, suffering preacher urged her to say on.

“Son,” she said, “I hope your spouse never dies and leaves you all alone in this old world…It’s a terrible thing to outlive the one who has been joined as one flesh with you over the course of a lifetime…I hope that never happens to you…But, if it does…THE best thing that COULD happen to you would be to find a good cat to keep you company…As a matter of fact, I have been looking for a good home for Bob…Three cats are just too much for a person to say grace over at my age…Every time you come over here, he seems to want to follow you everywhere you go in my house…So….If you really want to do something for me…You can take Bob with you and give him a good home…How about that?”

For a split second, this young preacher gained at least a partial appreciation for the, “weeping and gnashing of teeth,” commonly associated in the Bible with hell. And, for a second time in as many days, he was speechless. He didn’t want to offend Miss Mattie again, but he certainly didn’t want to have to cart this allergy-causing, transvestite, fur ball home with him.

Summoning every ounce of diplomacy in his young heart, the preacher declined Miss Mattie’s “gracious” offer. He told her (between sneezes), “Bob would not like it at my house…There is no one there like you to keep him company…He would get so homesick…I just couldn’t bear to know that Bob was sad and missing you, Miss Mattie…Do you understand?”

Miss Mattie Lennox looked down at Bob, stroked the top of his jet black head, and solemnly replied, “That’s ok…Bob said he didn’t like you all that much anyway…”

Bob the transvestite cat looked at the preacher as if he (Bob) had perfectly understood every word Miss Mattie said. Before the preacher could reply, that mangy, feline flea-trap affirmed Miss Mattie’s sentiments with a deep, dog-like, “mow.”

“Praise the Lord and pass the Claritin D!,” the young preacher thought to himself. He finished the prayer, kissed Miss Mattie on the cheek, told her he loved her and left - sneezing profusely with each step he took back to his car.

Never again did he tell a cat joke in the pulpit.

Miss Mattie went on to “Glory” at almost ninety years of age. She left her beloved cats behind. One day, if they have Claritin D in heaven, perhaps she will see both her young preacher and Penelope, Flower, and Bob once again.

Bob, of course, will have to repent of his transvestite ways for this to become a reality.

Glory!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

-David Decker

“Darrell The Phone Man”

2008-09-15T16:27:00.000-07:00

Prior to Al Gore’s inventing the internet, and even before the advent of cellular devices, there was another timeless entity that brought great blessing to American culture – the land-line telephone. Alexander Graham Bell could not have foreseen what his crude “wireless telegraph” would one day become.

In its early days, the common home telephone apparatus was a large box mounted on the kitchen wall. It was always located in the kitchen because of the perpetual presence of (stay-at-home) wives and mothers. These dear ladies spent the majority of their time in the kitchen preparing meals for their hard-working agrarian families. When the telephone rang, there would almost always be one of these great women at home and in the kitchen to answer it.

If she or someone in her family wanted to make a call, the receiver was lifted from its fork-shaped rest on the side of the box, a crank was turned several times to gain the attention of the central switchboard operator, and the caller would speak into the round speaker or transmitter. Early movies and television shows such as Lassie and the Andy Griffith Show featured this variety of telephone.

Later, during this writer’s childhood, the old Western Electric rotary telephones were widely used. These large, black monstrosities were heavy as lead, and would have made excellent boat anchors. They were connected to the wall by an extremely short and brittle telephone cord, and always sat on an end table or in the corner of the living room.

The bell on these now antique phones was loud enough to wake the dead. The receiver was powerful enough to allow anyone in the house to hear what the party on the other end was saying. The only “call waiting” there was occurred when three or four widow women were hotly engaged in a Sunday afternoon party-line conversation.

Not only was technology different in those days, telephone company personnel were as well.

In Andy Griffith’s timeless community of Mayberry, there was “Sarah” the telephone operator. Though not an actual person, Sarah was much more than a name and a segment of one-way dialogue in a script. Sarah was a busybody, a natural healing remedy consultant, a confidant, and a friend. Operators in Sarah’s day helped baby-sit kids, listened as lonely senior citizens shared their hearts, passed along grocery list items for husbands to pick up on their way home, gave romantic and marital advice to the lovelorn, and were generally good neighbors and friends to every voice they “met.” All while speaking American English without a trace or hint of a foreign accent. Oh, for those days to be back once again!

One other priceless commodity in the Bell Systems of old was the “phone man.” Dressed in work clothes and wearing a tool belt that would make any blue collar worker envious, the phone man did it all. He climbed poles with funny looking braces on his boots, strung wire from one high point to another, installed jacks and other cool, wire-driven accessories in homes and offices, and carried a big yellow handset that allowed him to hang on a telephone pole and talk to operators and all sorts of other technical phone company folks all over the place.

Little boys of this writer’s day often grew up dreaming of being phone men.

Darrell Copeland was a phone man’s phone man. He never thought of being anything else. Right out of high school Darrell hired on at, “Ma Bell,” and never looked back. Through his years as a phone man Darrell worked in residential service, drove a bucket truck doing “long lines” installation and repair, did a few years as a commercial “Communications Consultant,” and finally retired as a supervisor working out of a regional service center in metro Atlanta. Someone once asked Darrell that if reincarnation were really true what he would like to come back as. His answer – “Either a pimp or a phone man, there ain’t much difference between the two.”

Through his years of climbing poles and pulling cable, Darrell the phone man had many interesting phone man experiences.

Like the time he went to do an “install” at an upscale Atlanta apartment complex. Darrell had to show I.D. at the security gate and wait for the guard to phone the apartment resident for confirmation. When finally given the ok, Darrell pulled through the gate and parked his phone van crossways near the building he had been told to work on. Before beginning the wiring and connecting that would have to be done on the outside box, Darrell decided to go meet the customer. He would need to see the inside of the apartment and find the proper phone jack, if there was one, before starting his outside prep work for the install.

When Darrell rang the bell and knocked on the apartment door, he followed his Bell System training to the letter by loudly announcing, “phone man – here to hook up your phone.” Phone installers were taught this tactic to help prevent their being mistaken as a prowler. At least one phone man who had previously failed to properly announce his presence and intent had received a pattern of buckshot in his behind as he walked away from the front door of a house filled with drunken car thieves. Darrell often said that both his wife and his girlfriend were much too partial to his behind for anything like this to happen to it.

Several minutes passed before anyone finally answered the door. Not being an especially patient person, the longer he stood there the more agitated he became. Darrell was about to walk away when he heard the locks turning inside the front door of that apartment. What he saw when the door finally did open made him most glad that he decided to wait.

“Hi, come on in,” the sleepy female voice said as the door cracked open. Darrell stepped inside and was treated to one of the greatest surprises of his phone man life. Standing in front of him was a tall, blonde, blue-eyed, well-proportioned, and completely stark naked, female flight attendant. “I’ve been flying all night, and was so sound asleep I almost didn’t hear the door,” she said, yawning and stretching her beautiful “arms” out wide. “Make yourself at home, I’m just gonna’ go jump in the shower,” she continued – as Darrell struggled to catch his breath and reply, “no problemo, ma'am.”

He sat down on the edge of the living room couch and offered a brief, silent prayer of thanks for being allowed to work in such a great job. “She’s GOT to have a boyfriend,” he thought, as he looked around for a phone jack. “And, I bet he’s hiding around the corner in the bedroom with a loaded shotgun,” he whispered. After all, someone HAD spoken to the security guard earlier and granted Darrell entrance to the complex. “If she was asleep, then who did the guard talk to?”, he wondered.

No matter, Darrell the phone man (not Darrell the pimp) had a job to do. Find the jack, connect the wires, write up the work order, and get out of there before, like his fellow phone man, his butt became the target of an angry roommate’s shotgun.

As he looked around the apartment for a phone jack, Darrell heard the shower being turned off. Before he could raise his voice to ask this beauty where she wanted the phone installed, she appeared again - fresh out of the shower, dripping wet, drying her hair, and still totally unclothed from her eyelids to her toenails. She was smiling like a Cheshire cat, and talking as matter-of-factly to Darrell as if he was her husband.

“What’s YOUR name?...How long have YOU been a phone man?...Where do YOU live?...What color phone am I going to get?...What kind of service are YOU going to give me?” She was throwing questions at Darrell like darts at a dartboard. As he tried to calmly answer each one, his unbelieving eyes couldn’t help but follow that lone bath towel as it crossed every inch of her tanned, perfectly sculptured body. She made absolutely no effort whatsoever to cover any part of herself. And, Darrell made absolutely no pretense whatsoever of even trying to look away. “Come in here,” she said – beckoning Darrell toward the bedroom, “I’ll show you where I want MY phone.”

When he reached the bedroom door, this bold and beautiful flight attendant had perched herself on the corner of her water bed. Crossing each leg alternately, she was drying her feet, and in between each of her lovely toes with the towel. At that moment Darrell remembered the co-worker's question about reincarnation, and decided that he really would like to come back as that towel.

She motioned toward her bedside table and said that she would like Darrell to put her new phone there. “No problemo,” he assured her.

“While you are getting that done, I am going to get dressed and run down to Dunkin' Donuts for some breakfast,” she said, “do you want me to bring you back something?” Darrell’s mind, heart, and lower extremities were still racing, beating, and well, enjoying themselves immensely. He replied, “Nothing for me, thanks.” What he meant to say was, “Why don’t you stay here on the bed, just like you are,…I will run out and get the coffee and doughnuts…Then I will come back, crumble them all over your beautiful body, and then eat breakfast, lunch, and supper all in one meal…I can always come back tomorrow and hook up your stupid phone.”

The flight attendant got dressed. The faded cut-offs and t-shirt she chose to wear showed off her gorgeous body almost as much as the towel had. She left within a few minutes. “By the way,” she said, winking at Darrell as she left, “my name is Chantal, and I just L-O-V-E men who work with their hands.” Again, Darrell said a prayer of thanks for his wisdom in choosing this incredible profession.

Darrell eventually completed his work in and around the apartment and, in accordance with proper phone company procedure, sat in his truck to finish the paperwork. He waited much longer than normal for Chantal to return from breakfast. Sadly, she never did.

The dispatcher rang Darrell up as he sat in his phone truck. Dispatch needed him to work a “trouble” at an address several miles away from the apartments. Dang it!!!! He left a copy of the work order on the bed where Chantal had “posed” for him with the towel in her hand. He also left his business card with a personal note on the back saying: “Let me know if you need anything.”

What he really meant was, “I can be back here in a matter of minutes if you need help drying off after your next shower.” It has now been well over twenty years since that unforgettable day, and Chantal the naked flight attendant has never called. Dang it!!!!

Phone men don’t always get to “service” beautiful women. Sometimes they get caught with their pants down in other, less desirable, ways.

During part of Darrell’s tenure as a phone man he was transferred to a “long lines” sector of the Atlanta telephone market. The service center for this job was located about 50 miles due east of Atlanta, out in the middle of the boonies. Darrell was assigned to a bucket truck group which specialized in installing and maintaining long distance lines. Theirs was a remotely rural area consisting of nothing but horse farms, wooded hunting land, and an occasional mobile home or two. Darrell, however, couldn’t help but wonder if there were any flight attendants living in the area.

It was summertime and hot as blue blazes in rural northeast Georgia. Darrell and his group were working lots of overtime. The Bell System was upgrading its long lines cable to accommodate fiber-optic services planned for the future. Six, twelve hour work days each week were providing some rather handsome time-and-a-half take-home pay for Darrell and Mrs. Darrell.

This crew of phone men was working so far out in the country, brown-bagging lunch every day was the only way they could have anything substantial to eat. One day, however, the lead tech on the crew, a Georgia Tech graduate named Dewey Oglesby, said he was tired of eating cold sandwiches for lunch every day. The rest of his men agreed wholeheartedly. They took up a collection and sent the grunt of the crew to the closest nearby town to for any sort of hot fast food he could find.

Rutledge, Georgia, was over ten miles away and didn’t have a lot of fast-food options available. Still, the grunt was told not to bring back anything unless it was hot. No sub sandwiches or cold convenience store fried chicken would do. It absolutely, positively had to be H-O-T.

One must understand the discriminating palate of the garden variety phone man. He won’t eat just anything. But, he will eat at Waffle House. In fact, every phone man alive hires in with the understanding that for him to advance in his career as a phone man, he MUST eat at Waffle House – at least five times per week.

One of the reasons phone men favor Waffle House are the waitresses. Waffle House waitresses aren’t Miss America candidates. This is not to suggest that all Waffle House waitresses are unattractive. Some are downright ugly. But, some are quiet, petite women who need the tips they make in order to support their single family homes. And, some are divorcees who work at Waffle House just so they can pour cold coffee and serve greasy food to men who remind them of their ex-husbands. The following joke has long circulated regarding these hard-working women: What has six breasts and three teeth? Answer: Third shift at Waffle House.

Phone men are attracted to Waffle House waitresses because they are “real.” They don’t smile at you while taking your order and then curse you to the cooks and restaurant management once they are back in the kitchen. The kitchen is the dining room at Waffle House.

Waffle House waitresses don’t try to dazzle their clientele with how well they’ve memorized the menu, the soup of the day, or the orders they take. They carry their order pads in their aprons, their pencils behind their ears, and they shout orders to the cook at the top of their lungs as soon as they’re taken. It is the cook’s responsibility to remember the order.

Phone men are also drawn to Waffle House waitresses because they don’t try to sell you dessert after you have had a plate full of, “Scattered and Smothered.” They know full well that if a customer had wanted dessert, they would have said so when the order was taken. Waffle House waitresses don’t dish out crap to their patrons, nor do they take any crap from anybody. If you order it, you are gonna’ get it. If you don’t want it or like it, they will rake it in the trash can, wash the plate, and go on to the customer sitting in the next booth. Phone men understand this work ethic completely, and appreciate it wholeheartedly.

The other reason phone men flock to Waffle House is the food. Barney Fife once observed regarding the food at the Mayberry Diner, “they ‘gar-an-tee’ their food to STAY hot, hours after you’ve eaten it.” The food at Waffle House is the same way. It has kept many a cardiologist in practice, and a whole legion of phone men fed to the gills for many years. Their menu is simple - “Scattered, Smothered and Covered.” Their coffee is strong, hot, and served 24/7. And their waffles are thick, heavy, super sweet, and loaded with MSG and cholesterol.

Phone men know when they come to Waffle House, if they leave hungry or thirsty, it is their own fault.

Alas, there was no Waffle House out in the country where Darrell and his fellow phone men were working. There was only a long, winding, two-lane country road to a town that was ten miles away. Where was that boy with the food, anyway?

It was over an hour when the phone company grunt finally returned with lunch. He was grinning from ear to ear. “Well, boss,” he said, “I found something hot!” This young food ferret opened the five plastic restaurant bags he held, each filled to the brim with assorted entrees from, you guessed it, TACO BELL!

Inside those five bags were assorted burritos, enchiladas, tacos, chalupas, chimichangas, refried beans, guacamole, and salsa. In other words, if it was Mexican, and it was hot, it was in one of those Taco Bell bags.

“Good boy!,” chimed a couple of the crew members. Those five sweaty, dirty, deeply tanned phone men sat down in the shade of a thicket of pin oak trees, bowed heir heads and gave thanks, and proceeded to devour their hot, greasy feast from south of the border.

The food disappeared quickly. Before going back to their trucks and the hot, afternoon Georgia sun, some of the phone men crawled off in the shade to take a short siesta. “Better watch out for snakes,” Dewey warned. Their group had already killed a handful of copperheads and chicken snakes during that summer in the sticks. Snakes hunt shade in the hot summer sun just like humans do. Dewey Oglesby didn’t want to have to try and find a hospital for a snake bit phone company lineman this far out in the country.

The crew eventually went back to work – dragging along like all blue collar crews do after a big lunch.

About two hours after lunch the infamous affliction known as, “Taco Bell Revenge,” began to take its toll. One by one the phone crew scrambled for any private, secluded spot they could find to purge their digestive tracts of the Taco Bell residue churning inside. Most carried a spare roll of toilet paper in their trucks. There was no time to look for proper facilities and amenities in the country – these phone men faced much the same predicament as does a pregnant woman whose water has broken. When it is time to “go”, phone men go – regardless of their surroundings.

When Darrell’s “time” finally came, he was parked next to a telephone pole, in the middle of an open pasture, strapped securely in his phone truck bucket, suspended at least thirty feet in the air, with his hands full of heavy telephone cable. Still, he knew, it WAS time! Darrell scrambled down out of the bucket and began to frantically search his truck for his personal roll of White Cloud. No luck! He looked under the seat, in the glove box, in the tool box, and even in his lunch box. No White Cloud! His nearest co-worker was about five hundred yards away, perched high his in his own bucket, with his own hands full of heavy telephone cable. It was clear – Darrell was on his own. And, with a hot, spicy Hispanic-influenced intestinal storm raging inside, he knew he had to act quickly.

Reaching under the passenger seat of his phone truck, Darrell found some old soiled paper towels. “They’re gonna’ get ruined anyway,” he reasoned. Time was running out – these greasy, oily paper towels would have to do!

Darrell began to look around for a “place.” He was, again, in the middle of wide open pasture land. There were no trees, no brush cover, and no mounds or hills to hide behind. And, while there wasn’t a human in sight, Darrell reasoned, “As sure as I do it here, a funeral or brass band parade will appear out of nowhere.”

Suddenly, Darrell saw the answer to his dilemma. An old tractor was sitting in the adjacent pasture, looking as if it had not been cranked, let alone used, in a long, long time. If he could just get to that tractor, he could then squat between its back wheels and take care of business.

Darrell took off running.

The closer he got to the tractor the more it became apparent to him that the barbed wire fence separating him from his haven of blessed relief was almost impenetrable. The barbed wire was strung tightly close together, with the bottom and top strands closely resembling the dangerously sharp-edged razor wire seen around jails and prisons. It was obvious that the landowner was trying to keep deer from crawling over the top and smaller varmints from crawling under the bottom.

This razor-wire booby trap did not dissuade Darrell, however. He kept in his tool belt a pair of fence cutters for just such emergencies. And, if what was about to happen to him was not an emergency, there had never been one.

Darrell yanked out the fence cutters, nipped the top two strands of wire, climbed hurriedly over the remaining fence, flung off his tool belt, dropped his pants, crammed his paper towels underneath the tractor seat, knelt between the two tractor tires, and let nature have its way. “Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh,” he sighed, “made it just in time.”

When he felt as if he had accomplished his mission, Darrell reached for his wad of paper towels. For hygienic reasons Darrell dared not turn around nor move excessively. He was attempting to “feel” his way along the hydraulic lines and hitching mechanism of the tractor. As his hand was nearing the place under the tractor seat where he was sure he had secured the paper towels, Darrell Copeland heard a sound he swore later that he would never, ever forget.

“Rack-Rack,” echoed the unmistakable sound of a pump shotgun being cocked and readied for firing. “You looking for these?”, a gruff old voice asked. Darrell, trembling in fear, turned to see the shiny barrel of a Remington twelve gauge shotgun being pointed at his head. On the other end of that shotgun was an old farmer (who looked to be in his late 60’s), dressed in overhauls and a long sleeved shirt, with a three day growth of white stubble on his face, a floppy hat on his head, and Darrell’s wad of paper towels in his left hand. “Yes sir,” Darrell said sheepishly, “and I sure would appreciate it if you would let me have them.”

Here Darrell Copeland was, standing in the middle of an open pasture, his pants down around his ankles, in broad-open daylight, with a dirty behind, and a shotgun barrel stuck in his face. At that moment, his entire phone man career flashed before his eyes. How he wished he could be back once again in that apartment bedroom with Chantal.

“All right,” said the old farmer – after holding Darrell frozen in that position for several minutes, “you can have the towels back, but you are NOT leaving that pile in MY pasture…Smells like somebody’s been eatin’ Mexican.” Darrell complimented the farmer on his discerning nasal ability, while hurriedly cleaning himself with the paper towels.

That old farmer kept his shotgun trained on Darrell until he could pull his pants back up, put his tool belt back on, climb back over the fence, stuff the paper towels into the “phone man garbage bag” that he kept on the back of his bucket truck, and climb back across the fence with a small spade shovel to retrieve from the pasture the remnants of his Taco Bell lunch.

With poop in hand Darrell was crossing back over the fence a final time when he heard the farmer say, “wait just a minute, son – who’s gonna’ fix my fence?” Phone men carried lots of extra emergency-type things on their phone trucks, but barbed wire was not one of them. “How should I know,” Darrell sarcastically said, “surely you don’t expect me to do it.”

The old farmer indignantly hopped over the gap in his fence, and stuck the shotgun nearly inside one of Darrell’s nostrils. “Boy, you got a smart mouth for somebody in your situation…You’re either gonna’ fix my fence, pay for my fence to BE fixed, or else git a backside full of buckshot,” the angry old farmer shouted. "Your choice!"

At that point, the image of the aforementioned phone man who was shot in the derriere by the drunken car thieves flashed through Darrell’s mind. He certainly didn’t want to go down in Bell System history as the only phone man ever shot over taking a bathroom break.

Darrell grudgingly paid the old man for his fence, secured the garbage bag full of feces, got in his bucket truck, and drove over to join his co-workers. He explained what had just happened to him, and asked for the rest of the afternoon off. Without question he got it.

On the way back to the service center to park his bucket truck for the night, Darrell vowed that if he ever got the chance to go to work doing something other than being a phone man, he would jump at the opportunity. After all, he reasoned, Chantal’s airline could always use another pilot or baggage handler, and Waffle House always seemed to be looking for hard-working cooks and waitresses. Either way, Darrell Copeland decided that day that if he was ever again stuck out in the middle of a wide open pasture, he would sooner go hungry than touch one solitary bite of a greasy Taco Bell chimichanga.

Ci?

- David Decker

“Drum & Drummer”

2008-09-13T17:25:00.000-07:00

Musicians are a curious lot. They practice with great passion, play their hearts out hoping that someone will listen and approve, and do it all at great personal expense to themselves. They spend money they don’t have on instruments they don’t need so they can make syncopated, melodic noise they can’t sell to an audience that won’t listen. Like their audience, musicians will ruin their own hearing from listening habitually to music that is way too loud, long before they discover that there is also great beauty and pleasure in the world of pianissimo.

Why does a musician do these things? The answer is very simple.

Music is their drug, their “fix,” and often (in the case of male musicians) their “woman.” It is in their blood, and their DNA. To a musician, their craft is perhaps the one defining force in their lives. It is far more than something they do, it is something they ARE.

Another oddity regarding musicians has to do with their choice of instrument(s). Musicians wind up playing the instruments that seem to match their individual psychological make-up. Piano players are almost always more effeminate, guitar players more egotistical, bass players more introverted, and drummers – well, drummers are just plain nuts. Seriously. When a person derives pleasure from beating the living daylights out of an expensive collection of wooden canisters, with pieces of leather and/or plastic draped across them, what you actually have is a significant psychological disorder manifesting itself in 4/4 time.

This writer has played music professionally for roughly forty years. Though his dominant instrument of passion and proficiency is not the drums, yours truly did spend five years of his young life playing drums in high school band. Switching from trumpet to drums after elementary school just made sense. After all, beating the snot out of an instrument with two sticks allowed the lips to be reserved exclusively for romantic endeavors. Becoming a drummer seemed a much wiser musicial path to follow than intentionally and religiously placing one’s mouth on an icy piece of steel, especially during the bitter cold of late season football games and parades. Too, playing cadences was extremely cool, and the chicks always seemed to dig the guys in the drum line.

In the various bands that have come and gone in this writer’s musical life, it is the drummers that bring back the most graphic and comical memories - and, none more so than one, Gary “Bird” Millwood.

Gary was from Lebanon, Tennessee. We both attended the same small college in west Tennessee, and were introduced by a mutual musical friend. Gary was a superb drummer and a fine singer, but also a perplexing combination of personality contrasts. He could be, at times, exceptionally quiet and reserved – someone you would never know was in the room. But then, almost instantaneously, he could morph into being “crazy loud” and outrageously funny. Gary was forever coming up with slapstick routines and side-splitting one-liners, much in the same mold as Robins Williams, Jim Carey, and/or early Steve Martin.

On one occasion, our six piece band was practicing at a little cabin owned by our rhythm guitarist’s mom and dad. This small log home was a half mile back off a farm road, in the middle of the woods, and about seven miles from the nearest town. It was the perfect place for amplifiers to be cranked to their absolute max, and for a fanatical drummer to be free to pummel his nine piece drum kit into a deafening submission. What an absolutely ideal setting for the development of permanent hearing loss.

It was getting late on a Saturday afternoon and everyone was hungry. Too, our ears need a break. Our bass player, "Kandy," one of THE greatest female singers this writer has ever known, went into the kitchen to whip up some hamburgers and fries for the band. It was the middle of fall in West Tennessee, and a nip was in the air. Gary had worn a “wind suit” to practice. The layered synthetic material in the wind suit kept his drumming muscles warm during breaks. The burgers and fries really hit the spot, giving each of us a second wind. Someone suggested that we run over a number or two one final time before calling it a day.

The band was tuning up one last time when Gary announced that he had to use the bathroom. Whenever Gary Millwood made a public announcement of something that was about to happen, even if it was only a trip to the tiolet, a great hush would come over the room. It was certain that something bizarre or hilarious was about to take place.

Gary stayed a long time in the bathroom. Though the rest of the band was tuning and warming up, noises could still be heard coming from inside that tiny bathroom. “I wonder what he’s doing in there,” our keyboard player said. “I am sure I don’t want to know,” someone else replied. About that time, the bathroom door opened and we heard Gary’s voice. “Man, those burgers and fries really filled me up!,” he exclaimed loudly. Stepping out of the bathroom, he moved quickly and deftly into full view of the rest of the band.

Gary had zipped all the zippers in his wind suit (i.e., jacket front, ankles, and wrists) as tightly as they could possibly be closed. He had then taken a hair dryer he found in the bathroom, turned it on the highest setting, and inserted it in every possible elastic opening of that wind suit. When he finally stepped out of that bathroom, Gary had inflated that entire wind suit full of air, enlarging it to three times its normal size. He looked like a grossly bloated version of the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

As he stepped down the hall toward us, he again repeated the line, “Boy, those burgers and fries really filled me up!” It must have taken a full fifteen minutes for the rest of group to stop laughing, crying, and rolling on the floor. We never did fully regain our composure that night. Every five years or so, when our group has a reunion, this story always tops the list of our most cherished recollections of Gary.

Drummers not only pull things on others. Sometimes their sins find them out and they become the victim of someone else’s prank or vengeance. And, as in Gary Millwood’s case, sometimes even Mother Nature can get in on the fun.

Vann Gardens was a magnificent old antebellum mansion in a city about fifteen miles due north of our college campus. The house itself was something to behold. The architecture and décor were right out of the pages of, “Gone with the Wind.” In addition, as the name indicates, there was an extensive network of floral gardens just to the rear of the house. This beautiful series of gardens covered several acres, and was dissected by a decorative stone path that wound its way through every section. The path was dimly lit at night by miniature liquid propane lanterns, which bathed the entire area in a soft, golden hue. This romantic setting was perfect for a leisurely stroll under the stars with one’s sweetie.

The good folks at Vann Gardens had heard of our band. They signed us without an audition to play for a formal, junior-senior, collegiate banquet/dance on a Saturday night in late April of 1982. We were quite the popular musical act in that region of Tennessee, staying booked almost every weekend. We played gigs for an array of different occasions and in many types of venues – the most bizarre being a blisteringly hot, middle of July, “Hog Festival.”

Our musical preference and forte was rock and roll, but our versatility as a group allowed us to do a variety of genres of music. Vann Gardens had requested that we begin the evening with soft ballads and other slower paced styles that couples could dance to, and then later switch to the louder, heavier stuff. As long as they paid us when we were through, it didn’t matter if we had to play four hours of bubblegum tunes by Donnie Osmond (gag).

We arrived at Vann Gardens around noon to set up our equipment. The curator showed us to their back patio. The brick and stone work on the Vann Gardens mansion was impeccable and striking. This patio was a mixture of stone and brick, was approximately twenty feet across by eleven feet deep, and was elevated a good twelve feet above the gardens. There were two brick and stone staircases leading away from it and out into the gardens, each at forty-five degree angles to the patio. The whole area was encased by a stone knee wall, which was perfect for positioning our P.A. The main dining room of the home opened onto the patio through two impressive sets of double French doors.

The patio area was just barely large enough to accommodate a six piece band and its equipment. No problemo. We had played in much smaller surroundings - flat-bed trailers being the worst.

The “old standard” stage set-up for rock bands has almost always centered around the drummer. The drum kit, with all of its pieces and parts, is the first item that is set up - usually in the middle of the stage. The rest of the band is then arranged symmetrically on either side. One look at the size of the Vann Gardens patio made it clear that the normal stage configuration would not work. Therefore, Gary had to set up his drums at one end of the patio, with the keyboard player stationed at the other. The rest of us jammed our amplifiers in between.

The only other rock band member with as much equipment as the typical drummer is the keyboard player. Allowing for multiple keyboards, foot pedals, keyboard amp, and Leslie unit,
keys require a substantial chunk of the stage. One of the pieces in a professional keyboardist's "rig" is a Leslie. A Leslie is a large, wooden, rotary speaker cabinet resembling in size and appearance an old console style television set. It alone takes up about as much room onstage as a moderately sized refrigerator. However, given the vintage rock organ sound that can only be gotten from a Leslie speaker cabinet, no band in its right mind would ever complain about its bulky size.

As Gary began setting up his drums, several band members noticed two large, circular, decorative iron bird cages. These cages were mounted on the outside rear wall of the mansion approximately ten feet above the patio floor. They were positioned symmetrically at each end of the patio, and were large enough (at least six feet tall and three feet in diameter) to hold a small-to-moderate sized person inside their bars. One of our female singers remarked, “I wonder what they keep in those things?” “I don’t know,” Gary replied, “if we’re lucky, maybe some female strippers.” Little did Gary know that one of those two cages was going to play a significant role in his performance later that evening.

Once everything was set up we ran through a few numbers, tuned up a final time, made sure our equipment was secure, and left Vann Gardens at approximately 4:00 PM. We had three short hours to shower, change clothes, and get some dinner. The music was scheduled to begin at 7:00 PM sharp.

Doug, our keyboard player, lived in an apartment complex not far from Vann Gardens. It was decided that everyone would meet at Doug’s to get ready. For some bizarre reason, Gary misunderstood and thought that the two girl singers in our band would not be coming to Doug’s. Gary asked Doug for his spare key, and said he had an urgent reason to go on ahead of the rest of us. Something about, “dropping off the kids at the pool.” We should have known better.

When the rest of the band arrived at Doug’s apartment, with girls in tow, Gary was waiting for us. When we opened the door Gary was sitting behind Doug’s upright piano with an unlit stogie in his mouth. When he got up from behind the piano to greet us, it was immediately apparent that Gary was as utterly naked as the day he came into the world. He was obviously unaware that the girls were part of the entourage. He stood and walked toward the door exclaiming loudly, “Man, I thought ya’ll would never get here!” No sooner had he uttered these words that both girls appeared in the door of that apartment. Suddenly, and totally without warning, here were two unsuspecting young ladies, mouths gaping open in sheer disbelief, staring wild-eyed at this crazy, idiot drummer - in all his full-frontal male glory. Earlier in this account, this writer warned that drummers are nuts. This short peek into, “Gary’s World,” should be sufficient proof of this fact.

Gary fell backward as he tripped over the arm of the couch, groping and reaching for pictures, plant leaves, anything he could lay his hands on to try and cover his lower extremities. The girls ran aghast in the direction of one of the back bedrooms, screaming, laughing, and swearing that they had never in all their lives seen such a display of brainlessness. The bolder one of the two took a verbal shot at Gary before slamming the bedroom door, “Kinda’ reminded me of the little coffee stirrer I used this morning at Kermit's (an early proto-type of Starbucks)." Gary was at a total loss for words. He was knowingly deserving of whatever he got in return for his brazen "exhibition."

Gary was still as quiet as a church mouse at dinner. Some of the guys made subtle wise cracks about what had happened back at Doug’s, while the girls just stared at their food and whispered to each other. This writer wondered if our band was going to be able to forget what had taken place. We needed composure and focus in order to do a good job at the gig. “Maybe nothing else will happen with Gary tonight,” this writer remembers thinking and praying within himself - knowing all the while that there wasn't a snowball's chance of such a prayer being answered in the affirmative.

We got back to Vann Gardens about 6:30 PM. The sun was almost down, the moon was bright, and the night air was refreshingly cool. We checked our instruments for tuning, the P.A. system for microphone levels, and huddled for our customary group prayer at 6:56 PM. Just before bowing our heads, Gary asked if he could say something. Cringing in fear at the thought of what he might come up with now only minutes before we were supposed to perform, the rest of the band nervously nodded in agreement.

“Did ya’ll see those birds?”, Gary asked. Taken aback at the left-field nature of Gary’s question, we began looking in the direction of the aforementioned cages.

Prior to our leaving for dinner at 4:00 PM, the cages were empty. During our almost three hour absence, someone from the Vann Gardens staff had placed two large, rather unusual looking, birds in those massive, barred cages. Each of the birds stood in excess of three feet tall, and had large plumes of violet and dark blue feathers jutting from both the head and tail. They looked like something out of Stephen Spielberg's, "Jurassic Park."

The noise they constantly made back and forth to each another was a high-pitched screeching sound, similar to a frightened hawk or falcon. When the P.A. was turned on, their already loud "voices," now amplified over our powerful sound system, could be heard several blocks away. These birds were meant to add to the evening’s ambiance. That is exactly what they wound up doing, but in a much different way than the originally intended one.

As we looked intently and curiously at these birds, it occurred to this writer that perhaps these overgrown cat toys were not yet acquainted with the rocking sounds of Bob Seger, James Taylor, Aerosmith and AC/DC. By night’s end, it was certain they would be.

There was a look of fear and worry in Gary Millwood’s eyes as we bowed our heads to pray. One of those cages was located directly overhead of his brand new set of Pearl drums. The silly looking, miniature peacock in that cage would be "dancing" during every song right over Gary’s drum throne. There was no room to move, and no place to hide. Who says guitar players have all the fun?

When we turned our amplifiers on and began tuning the guitars, the birds did not like it one little bit. They thrashed around those cages like frightened animals do when a storm is coming. Gary looked worried. He had reason to be. He was going to have to drum for almost four hours with his head in a direct line of fire of one of these enormous, high-strung, creatures.

The first set of music began as planned at 7:00 PM. Slow and soft would be the pace for the first two hours of the show. The first tune we played was a then current chart topper by the Eagles, “I Can’t Tell You Why.” Gary’s bird flitted around uneasily in its cage during the first few bars of this song, but settled down for its remainder. The next few songs were equally as benign for the bird, but still unnerving for Gary. Every time he would have to crash a cymbal to accent a song’s crescendo, Gary would cover his head with his arm, lean to the side, and look up fearfully toward the giant bird.

Still, all went well for the first set.

After a five minute break, the second set began. The first song out of the chute was Linda Ronstadt’s, “You’re No Good!” This great song meanders along for the first two thirds of its duration at both a moderate pace and volume. However, it certainly doesn’t finish that way.

With every note we played the band got tighter, the crowd got looser, and Gary grew more forgetful of the danger that brewed over his head. During the dueling guitar solos of, “You’re No Good,” the dam finally burst. As the twin solos crescendoed and meshed together with loud, heavily accented high notes, the song exploded like a cruise missile hitting its target. Gary reared back on his drum throne, did a double cymbal crash, accented it with a mighty kick on the bass drum, followed it with a multiple flam and rolls on the snare and side tom-toms, and concluded with a crushing blow to the largest Paiste cymbal in his kit.

The bird had a coronary.

Well, not exactly a coronary. It was more like a ruptured aneurysm of the colon and digestive tract. Exotic bird fecal matter rained on Gary and his drums like a storm surge from hurricane Katrina. Two of his cymbals, his prized snare drum, and most of his left leg were bathed in exotic bird doo doo. The aftermath of every meal this neurotic bird had consumed that day, and maybe even the day before, came showering down on our zany drummer. As loud and hard as we had pushed that great old Ronstadt song, it was still neither loud nor hard enough to drown out the “plop, plop” splattering sound of the endless stream of exotic bird crap that was drenching Gary and his equipment.

This writer doesn’t remember which band member was first to turn and discover the messy, repulsive predicament our drummer was in. Regardless, to his credit Gary kept right on playing. We finished the song, and were finally able to regain control of ourselves and the crowd - but not until after several minutes of riotous laughter had subsided. Someone notified one of the coordinators inside the Vann Gardens mansion as to what had taken place on the patio. They, in turn, called maintenance. The maintenance guys, after they too had finished laughing, were very helpful.

Gary’s drums were soon as clean and shiny as new. One of our stellar roadies went to a nearby J.C. Penny's and bought Gary some fresh clothes. And, the birds were taken away for the rest of the evening. Gary suggested that they be shot and barbecued on the Vann Gardens grill. He even offered to help do the honors.

The main event coordinator for Vann Gardens was extremely apologetic and compassionate. She fed us, made sure we had non-stop liquid refreshment for the rest of the night, and even brought out some aromatic candles and potpourri to help with the “foul” (pun intended) stench that lingered for the remainder of the gig.

Thankfully, our band did not develop an embarrassing reputation because of this fiasco. Nor did we become known as, “Gary & The Crapping Birds.” We were blessed in that we never, ever encountered such a thing again in any paying gig we ever did. And, to boot, after that night, everyone in the band got a great kick out of the times when the audience would shout out a request for the classic rock anthem, "Free Bird." Everybody but Gary, that is.

The story of Gary Millwood and his encounter with the mortified, diarrhea-plagued bird still circulates from time to time through the hills and valleys of west Tennessee. Each time it does, just like the night it happened, thunderous laughter can be heard.

Thank you, Gary “Bird” Millwood, for making music, and life itself, so much fun to play, to remember, and to write about.

Rock on, brother!

- David Decker

"Bud and Neeter"

2008-09-10T10:54:00.000-07:00

Bud and Anita Gravely (pronounced with a short “a” - “Grav-Lee”) were the odd couple to end all odd couples. They were not odd from the standpoint of being different from one another. To the contrary, Bud and Anita (we always called her by the true southern pronunciation of her proper name - “Neeter”) fit together like hog jowls and turnip greens. They were simply different from anybody and everybody else this writer has ever known. This is their story (at least part of it) – and may the Lord be merciful to their departed souls.

Bud was a giant of a man. He stood over six feet tall, and tipped the scales at 275 if he weighed an ounce. His massive hands resembled slabs of thick, country ham. They would easily wrap around the average man’s hand almost double whenever Bud stuck one of them out for a hearty, masculine handshake.

By the time our family lived next door to him in northwest Atlanta he was in his forties and bald. Few were the times anyone saw him without an olive green cap on his head, and his “uniform” of work clothes on. And, few also were the times when Bud gave evidence of having recently bathed, showered, or otherwise groomed himself. Bud grew up on a sharecropper’s farm in the north Georgia mountains. There was little or no evidence of training on personal hygiene in his past.

Country folks of Bud’s era did not have inside plumbing. Therefore, any gesture toward cleanliness came either in the form of Saturday night baths in the river, or “spit baths” taken while standing beside an open fire and a scalding kettle of water. These spit baths were also known, particularly in the military, by the term, “P.T.A.” baths (i.e., peter, tits and armpits). Bud was not a card-carrying member of the P.T.A.

During his adult years someone in Bud’s family tried to get him to fly across country to see extended family in Texas. When he refused to even get aboard an aircraft his relative remarked, “Why, Bud, you can get killed quicker in a bathtub than a jet plane.” Bud’s answer: “I ain’t a-getting’ in one of them neither.”

Too, there were evidently no dentists in the hills of north Georgia during Bud’s formative years. “Toothbrushes,” when they were used in the country, were nothing more than a twig cut from a certain variety of tree. The end of the twig was frayed and fanned out in a circular “brush” design. With no toothpaste available, this twig was rubbed vigorously and dryly over each tooth. It is doubtful that Bud Gravely ever used one of these natural devices. He had only one tooth in his head. When he smiled or laughed, that lone, deeply yellowed, front tooth shined like a hood ornament on a new Rolls Royce.

Bud spent his young life plowing fields, felling giant hardwoods and splitting them with an old double bladed axe that belonged to his daddy, and/or working from sun-up to sundown in a north Georgia saw mill. He never once walked on a golf course, or played a round of tennis down at the country club. Bud’s recreation was work. It was all he had ever known. In the old Daniel Boone television series that was so popular when this writer was a boy, the show’s title song included a verse that said, “Daniel Boone was a man – a BIG man!” The same could have been sung about Bud Gravely. He was a throwback to a time when a man looked, behaved and smelled like a man. There was no such thing as G.Q., political correctness, or even cologne in Bud’s world. On his tombstone, just below his name, the inscription read, “Here Lies A Good Hard Working Man - Amen."

In the 1950’s, Bud moved to Atlanta from the mountains in search of a job. Farming and saw-milling didn’t pay much back in the hills. Bud had heard that Atlanta was growing, and there were lots of construction jobs open that paid good wages. While he did not particularly relish the thought of living in the city, if there was money to be had in Atlanta for a hard day’s work, Bud was determined to find it.

Bud knocked around at different things for a few months, but was not really satisfied with any of the jobs he hired into. Most of the “positions” he found at first were factory jobs, requiring him to pull long hours working in dark, dirty, dismal conditions. Since Bud had always worked outdoors back in the hills, these foundry-like surroundings were like a prison to him. He hated every minute of it.

One night he went into a little tavern just off Northside Drive near downtown to have a beer and rest his tired body. The name of the place was the, “Ease On Inn.” The music in that little beer joint was loud, and the clientele even louder. The bartender and one of the bar’s patrons soon struck up a conversation with him. Little did Bud realize that this conversation, as well as certain things associated with it, would soon change his life forever.

When a country boy comes to the city, the first thing that gives his heritage and pedigree away is his thick, rural accent. Bud was a mountain man, and a country boy through and through. When he spoke in his hillbilly drawl it resembled a conglomeration of Gomer Pyle, Briscoe Darling, and Ernest T. Bass all rolled into one. Too, Bud’s deep, barrel-chested voice was as big as he was. Even with the tavern jukebox going at full volume, practically everybody in that little place could hear him when he talked or laughed. He soon became the evening’s entertainment for the crowd of fish-eyed, half-drunk city folks that frequented the Ease On Inn.

The patron that took a liking to Bud and his humorous, country-boy ways happened to be the chief dispatcher for the old McDougal-Warren Concrete Company in Atlanta. McDougal-Warren had a large fleet of concrete trucks, and was a major player in the construction-related trades in Atlanta during the burgeoning growth of the 1960’s and beyond. As a result, their company was always on the lookout for good drivers. The dispatcher sensed that Bud was just the kind of hard-working, honest fellow that his company could use. “Come on down to the plant on Monday morning,” the dispatcher said, “I can put you right to work.” The pay was good, the work was outside, and Bud had plenty of experience driving big trucks during his saw mill days. He walked out of the bar that night thanking the Good Lord for answering his vocational prayers.

Bud loved two things in life – country music and beer. He could never get enough of Ernest Tubb, George Jones, or Hank Williams. Whenever their records played on the radio, Bud sang along with every word. “Does them concrete buggies I’m gonna’ be a-driving have a ‘radidio’ (mountain vernacular for ‘radio’) in ‘em?”, he asked the dispatcher on Monday morning. “Some do, some don’t,” said the dispatcher. “I’ll try to find you one that does.” Bud’s reaction to the dispatcher became his staple reply whenever something pleased him, “Boy-Howdy!”

Bud’s second love bore his name - Bud-weiser. He was perhaps the real-life, southern counterpart of the beloved TV character from Cheers, Norm Peterson. If beer was being served, Bud Gravely was there. There was more Bud in Bud’s refrigerator than food. His idea of a big Saturday night was to sit at the kitchen table by the radio listening to the Grand Ole Opry, while polishing off a six-pack of the “king of beers.” He often said that if they didn’t serve beer in heaven, he would have to think seriously about whether or not he wanted to go.

These two great loves in Bud’s life kept him going back to the Ease On Inn. He soon became a beloved regular in that little juke joint – again, much like Norm Peterson was at Cheers.

There was also another reason Bud kept going back. Her name was Neeter.

Anita (we never knew her maiden name) was not a beauty. Bless her heart (and her other vital organs). She was a little bitty skinny woman that stood just shy of five feet tall. Her complexion was rough as a catcher’s mitt from years of inhaling cartons of Pall Malls and Lucky Strikes. Her teeth were, well, not hers. And, they were also not their original color. Smoking ruins the enamel on the teeth (even false ones) just as it does the pores of the skin. Like Bud, Neeter had also never been acquainted with oral hygiene. When she smiled, it was a darkish brown and yellow train wreck. Bless her heart.

Too, Neeter was not one to bathe or wash her straight, jet black hair. It always seemed to hang just short of her shoulders in a matted, semi-tangled coiffe. Resembling the strings from an old mop that had been used to swab a cabin floor full of coal dust, Neeter’s hair needed serious help. This writer’s sister offered on many occasions to wash it and style it for her. Neeter’s reply was verbatim Larry-The-Cable-Guy material (and about thirty years ahead of its time): “We’ll git-‘er-done one day.” That day never came.

Neeter’s clothes were rarely clean, and reeked of the stench from cigarette smoke. This writer recalls only a handful of mix and match outfits in her entire wardrobe. Guesstimating Neeter’s sizes, my mother would occasionally sew or buy her a new outfit and give it to her for an early birthday or Christmas present. Neeter was always appreciative of Mama’s acts of kindness toward her in this way. She would tear up, hug my mother’s neck, and proceed to wear the outfit until it also reeked of cigarettes and alcohol.

Neeter was not a beer drinker like Bud. She said the very smell of it made her sick (go figure). Her potions of choice were either Ripple or MD 20-20 (i.e., cheap wine), with an occasional shot of Heaven Hill eighty proof whiskey as a chaser. Alcohol and nicotine is a powerful tandem. Neeter was held hostage by both of these demonic forces for as long as this writer knew her.

Neeter was also from the country, but not from north Georgia. Her lineage was in Carroll County, near the Alabama line. Neeter never talked about her childhood nor her family. As far as anyone knew, Bud was all the “family” she ever had.

The pronounced lisp that Neeter spoke with was almost a hair-lip type impediment. Sometimes she was difficult to understand, and often had to repeat sentences, especially for strangers. This writer and his sister grew to be able to understand almost everything Neeter said, and thus "translated" for her when others misunderstood. Despite the challenges she faced, Neeter was most always a happy person who laughed a lot and enjoyed it when company came to her house.

No one ever knew if Bud and Neeter were officially husband and wife. When this writer’s family moved next door to them in the early 1960’s they were already a couple. They, of course, had met at the Ease On Inn. Neeter was employed there serving beer and working the cash register. When Bud first started going there, it was love at first sight between them. Every night, Bud could be found down at the end of the bar with beer in hand. Neeter would park herself in front of him, leaning over the bar, smiling, smoking her Pall Mall or Lucky Strike, and refilling Bud’s Bud every few minutes. Theirs was truly a “marriage” made in Milwaukee.

Whenever they finally became a co-habiting couple, Neeter quit the beer joint. Bud evidently made enough at McDougal-Warren to support both their habits. She never worked outside the home after that, and rarely left it at all, during the years we were their neighbors.

Bud and Neeter’s house was a small, two bedroom, one bath, shotgun frame on about an acre of ground. Bud grew tomatoes and a few other vegetables in a garden each year on the back of their property. He always shared the excess from this garden with our family.

Neeter was not a Good Housekeeping kind of girl. Their house smelled of beer, wine, liquor, and cigarettes. It was always dimly lit on the inside, with the same bluish, black-light haze found in clubs, bars, and beer joints. Daddy observed once that when Bud and Neeter quit the Ease On Inn, it looked as if they brought its décor home with them. Visiting their house was the closest thing to going into a beer joint that this writer knew as a lad. No matter – Bud and Neeter’s place was always filled with a warm welcome for any visitor and was a haven for true southern hospitality, regardless of how it may have looked or smelled. This writer and his sister loved going over to Bud and Neeter’s, especially if it meant being able to escape their chores for a few hours. They always kept ice cold Cokes and snacks on hand just for us.

As seemingly unhealthy and unkempt as their surroundings and personal habits were, Bud and Neeter rarely got sick. Evidently, if enough alcohol is maintained in one’s bloodstream on a regular basis, germs, bacteria, and other infectious maladies have no place to take hold and blossom. When those occasions did come for one of them to be sick, the employment of mountain, home remedies, plus a little nip from the jug, was thought to be sufficient “doctoring.”

Bud did not trust easily. Mountain people are that way. Once they get to know you, there is no more loyal friend to be found than a true mountaineer. Country folks tend to look after their own, and do so remarkably well. However, until they decide to accept you, country folks (and particularly mountain folks) can be more than a little stand-offish.

Politicians, doctors, and TV preachers – these were the top three categories of folks that Bud Gravely had absolutely no use for. His stated belief was that all three of these were nothing more than liars, thieves, and untrustworthy scalawags. As a result, he refused to vote, allow anyone to examine him when he was sick, or even go to church on Sunday.

Bud was well into his fifties when his chest and stomach began hurting. He labored with the pain, putting off going to the doctor for as long as absolutely possible. “They’ll just poke me, stick me, cut me, and then charge me an arm and a leg for it,” he reasoned. Still, the pain worsened. Bud tried multiple home and mountain remedies with no relief. Stubbornly, he maintained that his plight would pass in time, and that he couldn’t afford to be off from work to go see a doctor. Still, the pain worsened. In desperation, Bud finally asked one of the other neighbors on our street who DID support one of those TV healing preachers to call in and ask for Bud to be healed. Still, the pain intensified.

Finally, Bud agreed to see a doctor – as long as my father or mother went along. The appointment was made, and on a Thursday afternoon, the Deckers and the Gravelys loaded up in Bud and Neeter's old station wagon and took off for Dr. John Manget’s office in downtown Atlanta.

Dr. John Manget (pronounced, “Mar-Jay”), was a G.P. with a medical practice located in a beautiful old, renovated civil war home near Ralph McGill Boulevard. Though this writer’s father was also averse to doctors, Dr, Manget had been able to help both him and my mother with various illnesses throughout their marriage. Daddy told Bud, “this doctor can probably help you – give him a chance.”

Bud and Neeter both seemed very nervous as our car full of folks piled into Dr. Manget’s waiting room. Neither Bud nor Neeter could read and write, so Mama and Daddy helped them fill out the medical forms and get everything in order before the nurse came for Bud. When she did, he asked Daddy to go back to the examining room with him. After much pleading, this writer got to go along too. Witnessing an examination in a doctor's office on someone other than yourself, especially without the fear of getting a shot, was a really cool thing for a young boy.

Before Dr. Manget came into the examining room, the nurse came in and asked Bud a long list of questions regarding his condition. She took his blood pressure, temperature, pulse, weighed him, and then told him to take off his clothes. Bud turned white as a sheet. His eyes bulged to the size of silver dollars. “I ain’t about to strip for nobody, especially no man!”, Bud proudly and defiantly declared. The nurse was calm but firm. “Mr. Gravely, you MUST take your clothes off, and put on this gown on for us to be able to examine you, is that clear?”, she said, in her own authoritative tone.

“G-O-W-N!!??", Bud sarcastically bellowed. "Ma’am, if yuns thanks for one sekkunt that I am gonna’ wear that there G-O-W-N, yuns is as crazy as ye look!”, Bud warned, crossing his arms and lowering even further the register of his already deep baritone voice.

The nurse shot back, “Mr. Gravely, we DON'T play games in this office, and we DON’T take orders from patients…If you want US to help you, you WILL take off your clothes and you WILL put on this gown, and you WILL do so immediately!!!” With that, the nurse turned and gruffly left the examination room, slamming the door behind her with enough force to rattle the various clear glass cotton ball and tongue depressor canisters on the shelves.

Bud looked at Daddy, then at me. He truly was at a loss for knowing what to do next. Mountain men did NOT take orders from women, and they certainly did not take off their clothes in front of other men. Daddy assured Bud that this was standard procedure, and that we would step out of the room long enough for him to change into the gown. As we left the room and stood in the hall, we could hear Bud talking to himself. “Weren't none of my idea to come up here in the first place…Stupid doctor can’t help me none no way…Good thang Daddy ain’t here to see this…How in the world do they 'spect me to git into this here ‘funny boy’ gown anyhow?”

When Bud finally opened the door for us to come back in, it was hard not to laugh. Here was this giant, Hercules of a man in that scant, thin hospital gown. It was certainly a sight to behold. “Ernest, can you help me snap this thing?”, Bud asked my father. In remembering what Bud’s backside looked like as Daddy helped him fasten the snaps on the back of that gown, this writer can’t help but laugh, and think of the old one-liner, “Now I know what they mean by I-C-U.” The experience of seeing a man like Bud Gravely in a gown like that was undoubtedly one of the reasons this writer chose music and the arts over medicine as a career.

Once the gown was in place and Bud’s adrenaline was settling down, the doctor came in. Dr. John Manget could have easily been a black-headed Dr. Kildare. He was, as the phrase goes, tall, dark, and handsome. Standing eye to eye with Bud, he introduced himself and sat down on his rolling stool to begin the session. After asking the same questions as the nurse, listening to Bud’s heart, and mashing on several places on and around Bud’s stomach, Dr. Manget said, “Mr. Gravely, I think your problem is with your gall bladder…We should do a couple of tests.” Bud, never having been to a doctor in his life, didn’t exactly connect with the kind of tests Dr. Manget was referring to. He thought that these tests were going to be similar to something taken in school, and Bud hadn’t seen the inside of a classroom since the 4th grade.

Dr. Manget explained, “No, Mr. Gravely, these tests aren’t something you have to study for and write a bunch of answers to…These tests are medical procedures we perform on you using tubes.” Again, Bud’s face turned ghostly white. “What kinda’ tubes, and ezzatly (mountain pronunciation of “exactly”) how will you use ‘em on me?”, Bud asked, in a visibly and audibly shaken tone. “Well,” explained Dr. Manget, “the two tests I think we should do are called a Colonoscopy and an Endoscopy.” Bud stopped him in mid-sentence, “Say what?”

Dr. Manget repeated the names of the two tests, and gently continued his explanation of what would take place. He explained to Bud how that both tests would be done back to back, and that he wouldn’t have to go to the hospital twice. Dr. Manget, as diplomatically as possible – and yet as accurately as possible, described how a tube would be placed in Bud’s rear end for one test and then in his mouth for the other.

This writer thought for a moment that Bud Gravely, this mammoth hunk of a man’s man, was going to cry. Here he was, sitting in a strange doctor’s examination room, with three other males present, clothed in nothing but a grossly undersized and paper-thin hospital gown, being told that tubes were going to be inserted in two of THE most important openings in his body, and that nothing could be done to ease his pain and suffering without these humiliating procedures being performed on him. Any man would have been at a loss for what to say in response.

After thinking about Dr. Manget’s explanation for a long minute or two, Bud slowly raised his head. “All right, doc,” he said, with a deep sense of resignation in his voice, “if that’s the way its gotta’ be…I jest got one favor to ask of yuns.” In a respectful and sympathetic tone, Dr. Manget asked him what the favor might be. Bud looked Dr. Manget square in the eye and earnestly pleaded, “All I ask, doc, is that yuns put that tube down my mouth before yuns put it up my a**!”

Both Dr. Manget and my father labored to choke back their strong, mutual desire to laugh out loud. “Mr. Gravely,” assured Dr. Manget, “you can count on it!” With that, Dr. Manget left the room. Daddy and I went back to the waiting room so Bud could get dressed. Bud took some extra time before coming back to the waiting room - likely to contemplate in private what was about to happen to him. When he finally did come out, none ansked him any questions. It was apparent that enough had been said for this day. On the way home, the only thing that was said came when Bud leaned over to my father and softly asked: "Ernest, does it hurt when they stick that there thang up in thar?" Daddy assured Bud that they would give him something to relax him, and that it would be so painless that Bud might even drift off into a nap while they were doing it. Bud trusted Daddy. His words of reassurance seemed to satisfy Bud and put him at ease. Though this writer wanted desperately to tell the women what Bud had looked like in that hospital gown, he did not dare open his mouth about. No need to further embarrass our good friend from the hills. Not another word was said the rest of the way home about what had transpired in Dr. Manget's office that day.

Bud came through the tests with flying colors. His pain was diagnosed as coming from both a stomach ulcer and a diseased gall bladder. He later had successful surgery to remove the infected gall bladder, and stayed faithfully on Dr. Manget’s prescribed medication until the ulcer completely healed. After Bud fully recovered, he was somewhat of a changed man where doctors were concerned. He passed Dr. Manget’s name and business card along to many of his friends. “He’s the best dang butt doctor in the country,” Bud would say, “but his hands are cold as a dead man’s.” This was , likely, as much of an endorsement as he would ever give the medical world.

Bud eventually retired from McDougal-Warren. He and Neeter moved away from Atlanta when the population crush of the late 1970’s and early 1980’s came. This writer regretfully heard in later years that Bud died in a nursing home, and Neeter also, while in hospice from complications associated with cirrhosis of the liver.

The memory of these two unique neighbors will never fade from this writer's mind. They bonded with our family, and in some ways became our family (and we theirs). Their home was never a castle, but it was a place where friends and neighbors were always welcome. Their “marriage” may not have been the subject of any movie or documentary, but their devotion to one another was genuine and lasting. Above it all, they were hard-working country people who found one another in the shadow of a city that was anything but country.

Bud and Neeter, thank you for giving a young neighborhood boy and his sister the multiple memories of your house, your yard, your life, and your humor-filled caricatures. This writer enjoyed growing up next door to you, and is grateful for such a joyous recollection of his days spent observing your life together.

May God be merciful to you both on His great Day of Judgment.

- David Decker

"She Spoke To Me!"

2008-09-09T17:32:00.000-07:00

Popularity at all costs is a lethal plague among high schoolers. The damnable practice of stepping on others as one climbs to the top in any pursuit is learned long before the corporate ladder is accessible. A high school education often includes an unspoken course on the “how to’s” of becoming a, “Mr. or Miss Whatever,” among one’s peers. The snotty, elitist attitudes sometimes exhibited by adults hungry for popularity and power are, in many cases, first learned during grades eight through twelve.

However, not everyone who reaches “popular” status in high school becomes an arrogant, unadulterated putz. Sometimes, one of the “good guys” wins it all, and, despite the temptation to become otherwise, stays the “good guy” through it all, and beyond. The following is a tale about one such, “good guy.” And, a bodaciously fine-looking one too, I might add.

This writer was a mere face in the crowd in high school. Until he reached the eleventh or twelfth grade, no one knew that there was actually someone living on the inside of his pudgy body. The only honors this southern boy knew until the age of seventeen included being a place kicker on the varsity football team, a bass drummer in marching band, and occasionally playing the rather embarrassing role of being a teacher’s pet in the classroom.

(Someone has said that it doesn’t matter WHEN a person blooms, just so long as they do. This writer blossomed in his later teens and through his mid-twenties. His “coming out” during those great days brought much joy, and a true sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. This is especially so now that mid-life has come, and the exciting era of growing Elvis-style sideburns and thick, black, chin stubble is but a sweet memory.)

While this writer labored through much of his early high school career as a relative nobody, just the opposite was true with “her.” Risa Clay was “Miss Everything” in our high school - majorette, homecoming queen, co-president of the student body, queen of the Red Rose Ball, etc., etc. The very sound of her name brings back vivid images of the days when she reigned over our downtown Atlanta campus. Everybody knew her, and everybody loved her. When Risa walked down the hall, a herd of budding young studs would trail after her like lawyers following an ambulance. If anyone ever had justification for contracting a sickening case of, “the big head,” it was Risa Clay.

However, none of what she accomplished ever went to her head. Risa was as “normal” and “real” a person then as she is today. She would speak to and befriend practically anyone and everyone. While other popular girls walked down the hall as if the archangel Gabriel himself had deposited them on our school’s doorstep, Risa never bought into her own “press.” Our school didn’t elect homely, booger-eating hags as queen of both the homecoming football game and our one big, gala, social event of a dance each year. Therefore, when it is said that Risa Clay was beautiful, popular, and well-loved, you can bet your 401k she was.

School age crushes are silly and laughable. Also known as, “puppy love”, so-called for its resemblance to the adoring, worshipful affection exhibited by a puppy, a crush is really nothing more than immature, shallow emotion gone to seed. Crushes know no respect of persons - male and female alike have known the pain and misery of this cruel phenomenon. From observation, it seems that most females suffer silently when the crush-carrying “love bug” has bitten them. Young males, however, are a far different story. Already prone toward acts of bravado by reason of their DNA, smitten adolescent boys frequently resort to open, comical demonstrations of strength, masculinity, and/or other efforts at exhibiting their virility - each designed to impress the object of their crush.

Too, when a young, high school age lad is struggling not only with a hopeless crush, but also with things such as a chunky waistline, chronic acne, and the inherent clumsiness and awkwardness of puberty (not to mention an ongoing war with his parents over their insistence that he maintain a United States Marine Corps-like, white-sidewall, haircut), unless he chooses to do something outlandish, it is highly unlikely that a true beauty queen would ever notice him. Picture an overweight Napoleon Dynamite without the frizzy hair and glasses, but a full, greasy head shorter. Further, imagine this person trying hopelessly to make a favorable visual impression on, let’s say, a young Elizabeth Taylor or perhaps a modern day Jennifer Garner. Hell would surely freeze over first.

The only other alternative to his doing something really obvious and really stupid to get her to notice him would be to arrange a timely phone call placed by a friend to the object of his crush (like this isn’t stupid and obvious enough). The gist of this call would go something like this: “I know somebody who likes you…He wanted me to call and ask if you like him back!”

Given such a profound level of utter idiocy, it is a pure wonder that males and females ever finally do get together for the replenishing of the earth. The Good Lord surely has to be in control of the process for it to ever succeed. Most of the time, these inane phone calls backfire. More times than not it is the caller that ends up getting the girl.

Risa walked by this writer’s locker almost every day. Check that – Risa “strutted” by this writer’s locker almost every day. Even when a female is as genuine and “real” as Risa was, they still know that boys are visually active long before they are sexually active. They learn this early in life.

If fortunate enough to have brothers, a girl first learns of the male’s visual obsession while helping her mother clean house on Saturday morning. Many a sister has belly-ached loud and long about having to pick up piles of comic books left scattered over the house by their brothers.

Later, puberty brings further affirmation of a young male’s obsession with ogling the female body. Copies of Playboy magazine are likely to be found tucked under beds, hidden in dresser drawers, or even taped behind the mirror on a young man’s bedroom wall. Did I mention that sometimes teenage boys do incredibly stupid things – like leaving copies of Playboy in the various nooks or crannies of their rooms – with the absolute certainty that no one will ever find them? Boys eventually learn that both mothers and sisters come equipped from the womb with highly sensitive, close-tracking, cranial, synapse driven, radar that enables them to effortlessly locate such paraphernalia - regardless of how well it is thought to be hidden.

Risa dressed in the popular styles of the day, but certainly never in clothing that implied a slutty, “come-and-get-me,” agenda. She was always well groomed, and impeccably carried herself with dignity and grace. Without being overly graphic, Risa’s body was wonderful. All the right places were just the right size. And, her face was, well, gorgeous. Risa could have easily been a model or an actress. She was the essence of femininity, true beauty, and a statement of how God meant a woman to look and present herself to others.

Risa Clay and this writer grew up in adjoining neighborhoods in northwest Atlanta. Their respective elementary schools played one another in the old, YMCA sponsored, “Gray – Y” football league. Their two families shopped at the same Big Star and Food Giant grocery stores, ate at the same Dairy Queen and Davis Brothers Cafeteria, bought plants and other yard-related items at the same Greene Brothers Nursery, and enjoyed movies at the same Marietta Boulevard drive-in theater. However, for some beyond-this-world reason, their paths never crossed. Until, that is, those glorious, unforgettable days of high school.

It was a Tuesday in the early fall. School hadn’t been in session but a few weeks. He was a lowly freshman (ninth grader) and she was an up and coming junior. This was before the days of “middle school” or “junior high” (at least in the Atlanta public school system). Elementary school was grades K-7, and high school was 8th-12th. While a ninth-grader was not as lowly as the dreaded “sub-freshman” (eighth grader), his was still an unenviable position - especially for making any sort of meaningful headway with a female upper-classman. This was particularly so when the girl was as popular, as beautiful, and as untouchable as Risa Clay.

This writer’s locker was on the second floor of their four story school building, not far from the end of the hall. The hundreds of old, sea-foam green lockers at our high school were full head-to-toe length, and just wide enough for a page from a magazine (if the sides were trimmed just right) to be taped inside the door. Our school had been built in 1922. Many of its original features from that era, including those old green lockers, were still in place well into the late 60’s and early ‘70’s. These lockers were not only places to store coats, lunches, books, and magazines you didn’t want your mother and sister to find, they were also “hang-outs.” They provided great places to meet girls, discuss the, “fight of the day,” or arrange other after-school plans such as going to the Varsity for a chili-steak, rings, and an “F.O.” (Frosted Orange).

Our high school’s daily schedule began at 8:15 AM with homeroom, and concluded at 3:00 PM after six, fifty-five minute “periods” of class, and a half-hour lunch in between. Separating each period, the crushing mob of 1,500 or so students was given five ridiculously short minutes to make it from one classroom to the next. To the uninformed reader five minutes might sound like plenty of time to make this journey. However, our school was, again, four stories tall. If you were on the basement floor during first period and had to make it to a second period science class on the third floor, there had better be some serious “giddy-up” in your step. No time for loitering around a locker – no matter how pretty she was.

The perfect time of day for these lockers to become gathering places was before homeroom. Buses full of students began arriving at our school as early as 7:20 AM. If you were lucky enough to be on one of these buses, their early arrival provided almost a whole hour to either finish a homework assignment, study for a test, or stand by an open locker hoping and praying for something earth shaking to happen. On one particular Tuesday, about fifteen minutes before the ringing of the homeroom bell, something did!

That morning, this writer was sporting some brand new “school clothes.” The outfit for that day was anchored with a $10.00 pair of extremely stylish, navy blue, gabardine, “baggie” pants. These pants had wide legs, were worn low on the hips, and came accented with a cuff at the bottom of the leg deep enough to hide a small bag of M&M’s in.
The pants were held in place by a wide, white leather belt.

Next was a rose colored (my sister and my rivals at school argued that it was actually more of a “hot pink” color) button down dress shirt, with the all-important IZOD alligator on the left chest pocket. The shirt could have been “puke green” or “baby doo-doo yellow” and it wouldn’t have mattered - just as long as that IZOD alligator symbol was present. The presence of that silly alligator garnered a ridiculously inflated price for a shirt that would today be sold at Wal-Mart for $7.99 or less.

Finally, the outfit for that unforgettable day was accented with a pair of shoes that, now almost forty years later, defy human description. Picture Bozo the Clown and his “brogan” clown shoes – these were far worse. Like his contemporaries, and much to his parents’ chagrin and protest, this writer bought a pair of shoes that Bozo wouldn’t have worn on camera, let alone off. They, too, were white, with red suede covering the area where the shoe laces were holed, as well as the toe and heel. Down each side of the shoe were two dark blue suede stripes with a multiple “star” cutout design. These shoes were visible from great distances without the aid of binoculars. They were infinitely more in vogue than anything offered at the time by either Florsheim or Tom McAnn.

This young, “decked-out,” girl watcher had taken his post about 7:35 AM that morning. For the next twenty-five minutes, he was treated to a voyeur’s parade of sweet, young things slowly passing his locker on their way to homeroom. Some of them spoke, some didn’t. No matter; being coy and snotty to members of the opposite sex was, and is still today, a “normal” head game played by the genders at this stage in life. The more aloof and detached one pretends to be – the better. It was almost expected. This was especially true if either of the people involved was one of the popular crowd.

This writer looked down at his watch. It was 8:00 AM sharp. Thinking that perhaps he should go in homeroom and study for a Geometry test coming up in third period, he was about to turn and close his locker when, all at once, the heavens opened. He was not ready for the mind-numbing experience that was about to happen. To this day, though, he remembers every heartbeat, every tingle up the spine, and every “frame” of the visualization – as though a classic, high definition movie was being filmed in glorious Technicolor right before his very eyes.

The door to the stairwell at the end of the hall swung open, and through it walked THE most gorgeous creature he had ever seen. Her dark brown hair and porcelain-skinned complexion made her appear almost angelic. Her smile was as bright as the morning sun, and her body was, well, a perfect “10.” Eat your heart out, Bo Derek.

He had seen her from a distance on many occasions. They were in marching band together, and shared at least one other class period in adjoining rooms. Her picture was plastered all over the school halls whenever there was an election, not to mention on seemingly every other page of his sub-freshman yearbook. In school assemblies he had noticed her sitting on stage. And, they even passed one another at a distance on rare occasions on their way to lunch in the school cafeteria. But, not until this moment had he seen Risa Clay up close and personal.

As Risa walked down the hall toward him, this writer froze. “What should I do?” he whispered to himself. “Should I look away, pretend I don’t see her, or turn around like I’m looking for something in my locker?... Or, should I just drop my head and look down at the floor?...If she looks at me what should I do?...Should I say something to her?...Maybe a subtle ‘hey there’ would be good…Should I compliment her?...’You’re looking mighty fine this morning, Risa.’…No way you twit, she doesn’t even know you!!!!!!”

Before this poor, freshman sap could decide what to do, Risa took the bull by the horns. She stopped, walked over to him – smiling really big, and said, “Hey there, handsome, you’re looking SHARP today!” She winked, smiled again even bigger than the first time, slung her pretty head of brown hair around, and continued down the hall toward her homeroom. “See ya’ later,” she said as she hurried on her way - the smell of her glorious perfume hanging in the air.

In less than twelve seconds it was all over! The most popular, most elegantly beautiful, most feminine, graceful woman that ever walked the halls of our high school had spoken to…ME! Not only had she spoken to me, she had also complimented my appearance! Not only had she complimented my appearance, she called me, “handsome!” WOW!!! FAR OUT!!! DADDY RABBIT!!!!

“Take me now, Lord,” this writer remembers thinking, “I will N-E-V-E-R know a sweeter moment than this - no matter how long you let me live on this earth.”

Yours truly slowly turned toward his locker, his heart beating so strongly in his chest that the little IZOD alligator on his shirt felt like it was dancing a jig. The sound of him trying catch his breath echoed off the thin metal walls of the inside of that old locker. He began to futilely search the locker for an extra pair of underwear – certain that he had just “ruined” the ones he was wearing. Suddenly, studying for that third period Geometry test held no urgency whatsoever. The grueling two-hour football practice scheduled for after school that day was no longer dreaded. And, the upcoming eight hour shift behind the white-hot grill at McDonald’s the following Saturday seemed an eternity away.

The world could have come to an end on that Tuesday morning and it honestly would not have mattered. Never mind that she didn’t know his name. Never mind that she did basically the same thing to at least three other guys standing in the hall before she reached her own locker. And, never mind that this was one of the only times she would ever stop and speak to him during their high school years. All that mattered was that she did it THIS TIME.

“She spoke to me…She spoke to me…She spoke to ME!” This thought raced crazily through his head throughout home room. When his homeroom teacher, Mrs. Martha Cornell, called his name during the taking of roll he heard not one decibel of her voice. It was not until her third attempt at, “MR. D-E-C-K-E-R!!!!!”, that this writer was able to respond affirmatively. Even then, he was really NOT “present.”

He saw Risa again that morning - in band during first period – but this time from marathon distance. Varsity band always practiced on the field at first period during football season. For some reason the drum line was never allowed within arm’s length of the majorettes. So, his reliving of “THE” moment from earlier in the hall had to be done from no less than sixty yards away.

Too, he was still so awed by what had happened that during marching practice he missed several beat patterns in cadences, and messed up at crucial points of pivot and turn in marching formations. In one instance, when the rest of the drum line made a right-face turn to march toward the home sidelines, he turned the wrong way and marched boldly toward – you guessed it – the majorettes, who were gathered on the other side of the field. They still talk about that move at band reunions to this day.

For the rest of that day and for the thirty-nine years that have now come and gone since that day, this writer has walked in the clouds every time the name, “Risa Clay,” is remembered. Every time the pages of the high school yearbooks that contain her picture are opened, that remarkable morning comes racing back. There were, likely, other days when she passed him in the hall and said hello, but none like “THAT” day.

As mentioned earlier, during her final two years at our high school, Risa was, among many other things, homecoming queen, co-president of the student body, and queen of the Red Rose Ball. She would never admit to it, nor allow anyone to say it in her presence, but in our school she truly was, “Miss Everything.” As beautiful as Risa was on the outside, it was her inner beauty that made everybody love her. Everybody including a tubby, greasy-headed, bass drummer who occasionally marched in the wrong direction, wore ridiculous looking shoes, and worked at McDonald’s on Saturdays.

Risa, wherever you are, thank you for being “you.” Thank you for being the precious object of a silly, school-boy crush that started on the second floor of that old high school. And, thank you for giving one old boy from Riverside a memory that grows sweeter with every year’s passing.

You were a “honey” way back in 1970. In this writer’s eyes, you still are!

- David Decker

"What Do They Call A Bachelor In Alabama?"

2008-09-03T06:21:00.000-07:00

In Alabama, the state of this writer’s birth, people have long been accused of all sorts of things. Anything from keeping a transmission in the bathtub to having a closer relationship with farm animals than The Good Book will allow. To set the record straight once and for all - most folks from Alabama CAN read and write, we DO wear shoes on weekdays, and only a few of us are married to our first cousins.

Speaking of marriage, Alabama folks treat marriage like they do their football allegiances. When you marry, it is for life. However, if one chooses to be a bachelor or old maid in Alabama, it is not a prison sentence, nor a sign that true happiness has passed them by. Rather, being single in Alabama is a deliberate life choice - like pulling for either the Tigers or the Crimson Tide. Remaining unmarried is something you do because you prefer it that way, and you don’t do it half-heartedly.

Meet Franklin Hardin – a soon-to-be-forty-something bachelor still living at home with his folks. When friends asked him why he never married, Franklin always gave the same answer: “I reckon I’d rather want something I don’t have, than have something I don’t want!” And people say that Alabama folks are dumb! Pshaw!

Like Forest Gump, another Alabamian, Franklin worked when he chose to, slept and ate when he chose to, bathed when he chose to, brushed his teeth when he chose to, and, well, visited the outhouse when he chose to. “No woman – no hurry – no worry!”, was Franklin’s life creed. There was no excessive anxiety over what to wear (or what NOT to wear) when Franklin went out in public. And, no one ever questioned his choice of what to watch on TV, or what stations should be programmed into his truck radio. Franklin led the life that most men only dream of.

Clearly, with women off Franklin’s radar (and he off theirs), there was more than enough room in his life for the pursuit of passions such as deer hunting, fishing, NASCAR, and an occasional foray into the exotic hobby of noodling.

Noodling is currently legal in eleven states, and is known by other names such as catfisting, grabbling, graveling, hogging, dogging, tickling and stumping. Noodling, however, is a predominantly southern sport (some Alabamians call it an “art”) involving the catching of massive flathead catfish (sometimes weighing in excess of 30-40 pounds) by sticking one’s arm under a felled tree or other “cover” in a muddy river, lake or pond. The noodler sticks his arm directly into the catfish’s mouth and down through one of its large gills. This way, the noodler is able to gain a sufficient grip for extracting the giant fish from its watery nest. Noodlers occasionally lose fingers, hands, or, in extreme cases, even arms, in the practice of their unique sport. They are deemed by many in the great state of Alabama to be the epitome of what it means to be a “real man.”

Franklin noodled, but only when necessity ruled. For instance, if he happened up on the slick banks of a freshly-muddied catfish pond, but without his trusty open-faced fishing tackle in tow, Franklin dove in head first and didn’t come out until he struck paydirt. Or, if he found himself fresh out of chicken livers or dough-balls while cat-fishing on the Little Warrior River, Franklin again let nature take its course.

Noodling requires the considerable expending of effort, vigorous exertion of the heart and lungs, and sometimes the loss of more than a little blood. None of these particularly appealed to Franklin – especially if there was an easier way. Regardless, if his heart and mouth were “set” on a catfish supper, even if he didn’t have the benefit of Bill Dance’s favorite Shimano technology conveniently at hand, Franklin was still “gone fishin’.” At least one slimy, flat-headed, bottom-feeding, whisker-faced goomer was GOING to come out of that muddy water – either at the end of a strand of twenty-five pound test line, or with Franklin’s right forearm sticking through its mouth.

Perhaps the greatest joy in Franklin’s life was his 20 foot Glastron Bass Boat. Complete with trolling motor, depth finder, live well, built in refrigerator, and 500 watt sound system, Franklin’s boat was a “mac-daddy.” Powered by a 200 horsepower (HP) Mercury outboard motor, Franklin’s Glastron would skeet across the water at cruising speeds well in excess of 60 mph. His Glastron would outrun almost anything with a propeller, and he was proud to demonstrate this fact without reservation or apology.

At least two points of interest should be mentioned regarding the power and speed of this boat.

First, Franklin kept tucked away in the back of his truck bed an alternate hood or cover for this monster engine. However, this second cover was not properly marked with the, “Mercury 200 HP” logo. Instead, it was a Mercury 115 HP outboard motor cover. When the fish weren’t biting but the lake weather was too good to go home, Franklin would swap engine covers so that it appeared he only had a 115 on the back of his boat. Then, he would go around challenging the other bass fisherman on the lake to a race. Thinking that their rigs could easily whip a lowly 115, they almost always accepted Franklin’s challenge. Without question, Franklin won every one of these races, and usually took home a sizeable payoff to boot. Not a bad sideline income stream for this dumb, old, Alabama redneck, bachelor.

Second, being the hospitable soul that he was, Franklin always liked to take folks for a ride on his “hoss” of a boat. He had a particular affinity for inviting folks to go along who didn’t get out on the water very much. Franklin was usually on his best behavior with older folks or young children. To keep from frightening these tender souls, he would gently push his boat along the water at speeds just fast enough for a fun ride. However, with someone from any other age group as his passenger, Franklin’s goal seemed to be nothing short of causing his unwitting rider a near myocardial infarction.

In fact, Franklin had a special routine he always went through before launching his speedy water craft with “new meat” on board. As the engine warmed, idling smoothly as the boat left the dock, Franklin would ask his first-time passenger to put on a life jacket, securely fasten their seat belt, and bow their head for a short prayer. Following this, Franklin would reach under his seat and pull out a motorcycle crash helmet. Strapping the helmet on, he would flip the darkly tinted safety visor down over his face – giving him the frightening look of an alien from outer space.

Franklin would then reach under his seat a second time. This time he would pull out a brand new roll of toilet paper and hand it to his unsuspecting guest. You, as the reader, are free to guess what he was implying the toilet paper would be for.

These gestures were intended to strike mortal fear into the heart of the passenger. But, before they could leap out of the boat and back to the safety of the dock, Franklin would gun that powerful boat to full throttle. This would flip its nose upward to a ninety-degree vertical angle almost drowning the passenger in a gigantic wave of water. Before the terrified rider could regain any level of composure, the boat would shoot forward “out-of-the-hole” at speeds that would make Dale Earnhardt Jr. jealous.

The toilet paper was often just what the doctor ordered. Too, a few of Franklin’s passengers would also need a “sick-sack” before he was through with them. But, one thing never failed – Franklin’s high-pitched squeal of laugher and delight at what he had caused could be heard far above the roar of that powerful motor as it cut through the water.

Franklin’s antics as a practical joker did not stop at the boat ramp. He was always on the lookout for any conceivable way of teasing or pulling pranks on friends, family, co-workers, and even fellow church members. Two of these stand out among all the rest.

First, in the early 1980’s a new preacher came to Franklin’s congregation. He, too, was a native Alabama boy, in his mid-twenties, with a young wife and baby daughter. During the first few weeks of his tenure at Franklin’s church, this young preacher fell prey to the joker of all jokers.

It was a Saturday. The men had been asked by the church elders to show up for a work day. The young preacher took advantage of the abundance of laborers by asking for help in moving his countless boxes of books into his new office/study. Franklin wasted no time making this new parson feel right at home.

As the stream of men carrying the boxes of books was moving along in fine order, Franklin spotted a six pack of beer in the church parking lot. This beer had most likely been abandoned by loiterers the night before. Two of the beers were missing. Choosing the right moment, he picked up the plastic ring of beers, concealed it carefully, carried it in the church building and left it in a conspicuous place on the new preacher’s desk.

Franklin then went to one of the elders present on that Saturday and solicited his participation in “initiating” this new preacher. Franklin had the elder time it so that when the new preacher walked into his office carrying another box of books, the elder would follow him in, point out the beer on his desk, and ask him if this was his idea of what a preacher should be doing.

Franklin’s prank worked perfectly. The elder played along to the hilt. The young preacher was embarrassed, duly razzed, and made to understand that he should never, ever take his eye off Franklin Hardin. That joke and its effect amused a whole congregation of God’s people for over twenty years.

The second of Franklin Hardin’s antics should rightfully go down as one of the all-time greats in practical joke history!

Jethro Wigder was Franklin’s childhood buddy. They grew up in the same area of Alabama - hunting, fishing, racing cars, and getting into trouble for the better part of their young lives together. Like Franklin, Jethro had a dump truck load of common sense, but was not about to be invited to Tuscaloosa any time soon on a full academic “ride”. They both worked at the same warehouse loading trucks for a living.

Regarding their respective recreational passions, Franklin was a fisherman to the core, whereas Jethro seemed to lean a little more toward deer hunting. On weekends during deer season, if the sun arose in the east, Jethro could be found somewhere in a deer stand watching the Lord bring it on. While Franklin normally accompanied his lifelong friend on these hunting trips, he was not quite as tolerant of bitter cold as was Jethro. There were times when Franklin opted to stay at home in a warm, cozy bed instead of braving the sub-freezing wind-chill of a highly perched deer stand.

On one occasion when Franklin chose slumber over frostbite, Jethro went ahead without him. As was his custom, he arrived in the woods at about 4:15 AM. It was a beautiful, clear, late fall morning in Alabama. As Jethro trudged through the brush to reach his tree of choice, he saw by the light of the full moon something that sent even colder chills up his neck than were already there. It was the silhouette of a rare, black bobcat. Both Franklin and Jethro had heard rumors about this bobcat roaming the woods and nearby farms, but they thought it was only a hunter’s tall tale. After all, fishermen aren’t the only ones adept at exaggerations and bald-faced lies regarding their exploits.

On that dark, frigid morning, Jethro saw the bobcat out of the corner of his eye. It growled at him then quickly darted away, rustling the heavy brush and causing Jethro’s heart to race. He suddenly felt something running down his leg. Since his lower extremities were numb from the bitter cold of that morning, he had to remove a glove to feel the crotch area of his pants. “Surely I didn’t pee on myself!”, he whispered. Jethro was known to be extremely skiddish and excitable, even though he did his best to hide it. “Nope, dry as a bone,” he thought with a deep sigh of relief, “I better git up that tree before that thang comes back.”

Jethro saw nary a deer the rest of that morning. At about 10:00 o’clock he left the stand and went straight to Franklin’s house. The story he told about that bobcat would have sold many a book! Embellishing it just as he had done many a fish story through the years, by the time Jethro finished that bobcat stood almost four feet tall at the shoulder and weighed over 300 pounds. Franklin greatly enjoyed his friend’s highly emotional and overblown account of the ordeal – mainly because it stirred his devious, prank-loving mind. If Franklin had anything to do with it, Jethro would be seeing that bobcat (or a reasonable facsimile of it) again very soon!

Franklin allowed a week or two to pass, waiting for the cold, late fall weather in Alabama to further set in, and for Jethro’s memory of the bobcat account to grow stale. As their next scheduled foray into the woods approached, Franklin told Jethro he had again decided to stay at home and in his warm bed. He strongly encouraged Jethro to go ahead without him. Franklin KNEW that his friend would go. And, he also knew that Jethro would not be alone in those woods come that Saturday morning.

Franklin’s mother, Margie Hardin, was a pack-rat, and the undisputed queen of trailer park bling. She bought every tacky thing she ever stumbled across in yard sales, flea markets, and auctions. Her house was the southern, residential equivalent of Fred Sanford’s junkyard. One of these pieces of useless clutter, however, was about to be worth its weight in gold.

Near the front door in Margie Hardin’s living room stood a life-sized, ceramic replica of a black panther. Its white paws and the white markings around its mouth strikingly accented its otherwise jet black form. The panther had a vicious scowl on its face - flashing its sizeable fangs in an ominous manner. This panther was so life-like it would have frightened even John Rambo. Franklin had knocked over this “worthless piece of crap” a thousand times in his frequent comings and goings. Each time he swore that one day he would once and for all get shed of it. And, each time Margie heard him make this oath, she threatened him within an inch of his life. “There better not nothing ever happen to my precious kitty, Franklin, or you are dead meat!”, she would advise. That day was about to come.

Franklin turned his alarm off at 3:05 AM on that Saturday. He hurriedly donned his winter hunting clothes, loaded the ceramic panther in his truck, and set out for the woods. Franklin drove into their hunting land a different way than he was accustomed to so Jethro would not see his tire tracks in the heavy frost. He tracked through the woods from a completely opposite angle than normal for the very same reason. Arriving at Jethro’s tree, Franklin positioned the ceramic panther so that it was facing the open trail Jethro was certain to use. He then hid himself out of sight in a nearby thicket, and, he assumed, well out of Jethro’s line of fire. Franklin nodded off several times as he anxiously waited for the fun to begin.

As sure as clockwork, the bouncing beam of Jethro’s flashlight appeared in the distance at about 4:15 AM. Franklin could hear Jethro coming several hundred yards away – tripping over roots, mumbling obscenities out loud whenever he fell, coughing and spitting from the overflowing pinch of Copenhagen in his lower lip, and softly humming to himself the University of Alabama fight song. One of the reasons Jethro never became a world class deer hunter was his inability to be quiet in the woods. Every white-tail deer in Walker County, Alabama, knew full well when Jethro Wigder was approaching.

Franklin could hardly contain himself as Jethro drew closer to the trap awaiting him. He muffled his mouth with his gloved hand more than once to keep from giggling. His only regret was that he didn’t have a camera.

When Jethro was about thirty yards from the stand, he stopped dead in his tracks. Standing deathly still, his shaking hand trained the flashlight on the base of his tree. He couldn’t believe it! “Good giggly-wiggly,” (edited for the sake of avoiding an NC17-Rating for this book) he said, “it’s that #@%&”$* bobcat!” Jethro’s fright-filled words echoed through those Alabama woods in a much more audible tone than he was aware. He dropped to his knees, still muttering a combination of obscenities and prayers, while fitfully struggling to load his deer rifle in the dark without shooting himself.

Franklin, almost suffocating from his own intense efforts at stifling his laughter, suddenly had an idea. Being widely renowned for his considerable, God-given, talent at mimicking just about any animal sound imaginable, Franklin reared his head and bellowed a bobcat imitation that would have made even the late Steve Irwin tremble. “Rrrrrrrrroooooowwwwww!!!”, “Rrrrrrrroooooowwwwww!!!”, again and again he screeched. Each time, as he collected his breath for the next growl, Franklin couldn’t help but snicker like a kid in Sunday School. He could hear Jethro scuffling around and cursing in reaction to each of these wild screams. Franklin Hardin was having the time of his mischievous life!

Suddenly, Jethro snapped. His wildly excitable, hair-trigger imagination convinced him that the woods were somehow at that moment filled with blood-thirsty bobcats (or maybe even cougars, lynxes, and mountain lions). Now completely over the edge, Franklin’s childhood buddy swung his bolt-action 30.06 caliber deer rifle into the air and began to fire – wildly, and in every possible direction. The almost thirty rounds of magnum, high velocity, ammunition Jethro brought with him that morning were being rapidly spent – almost as if his single shot deer rifle had been an M-60 machine gun. Deadly force was zinging randomly through those dark, cold Alabama woods – almost like it was the invasion of Normandy all over again.

Franklin’s master plan had been that his jumpy friend would see the ceramic panther, think it was real, and turn and run away in mortal fear. Franklin hadn’t factored in the reaction of a wild barrage of hot lead ricocheting through bushes, branches and tree limbs all around him. “That idiot is going to kill somebody!”, Franklin moaned, as he dodged bullet after bullet flying in his direction. Jethro couldn’t hit the side of a barn on most days. His pathetic shooting was similar to the futile effort at throwing strikes of mythical baseball pitcher Nick Lalooshe (in the movie “Bull Durham”). Almost everyone and everything except the target was in danger of being hit.

On this monumental morning, however, there was a more powerful force at work guiding the errant shells from Jethro’s gun. Something from above. The Good Book promises that everyone shall, “reap what they sow.” Franklin Hardin had played practical jokes on others for many years. He had gotten away with practically every outlandish thing he had ever pulled on unsuspecting victims. He seemed far too clever to ever get caught, and almost impervious to payback. On this morning, however, Franklin’s chickens came home to roost.

One of Jethro’s last remaining shells found its mark. The bullet hit the ceramic panther dead in the middle of its chest. It exploded with a sound similar to a detonated hand grenade. Shards of jagged ceramic glass flew through the air – with a few pieces hitting Jethro’s shirt sleeve. “What in Bear Bryant’s name?”, Jethro said. He crouched, edged slowly forward, shining his flashlight on the spot. The biggest remaining portion of the poor, demolished panther statue was a six square inch piece of the top of its head – now lying right side up, and coated with frost from having been in the woods for those few cold, morning hours.

Suddenly, Jethro the dummy became Jethro the rocket scientist – in an epiphanal instant he growled, “F-R-A-N-K-L-I-N!” Jethro recognized the remnant as being from Mrs. Margie Hardin’s black ceramic panther. He also remembered telling Franklin about seeing the real black bobcat a few weeks earlier. “No wonder he told me he wanted to stay in the bed this morning!”, Jethro affirmed to himself. “I’m going to K-I-L-L that sorry #$*&!+”!”

At that moment, Jethro heard something BIG running through the woods toward him. Before he could lift his rifle in self-defense, he heard a familiar voice. “Jethro!...Jethro!...Don’t shoot!...Don’t shoot!” It was, of course, Franklin. Having heard the panther explode, he frantically came running to inspect the damage to his mother’s cherished fixture.

“You idiot!”, Franklin shouted, “You mean to tell me you couldn’t tell that this weren’t a real bobcat?...Mama is gonna’ kill us both!…There ain’t NO way we can glue this dumb thing back together again!...What in the Sam Hill were you thinking???!!!!”

Jethro stood in the dim light of the now breaking Alabama dawn, breathing deeply and glaring at Franklin. In his eyes raged the fire and brimstone of utter disgust and vengeance. He furiously declared, “That #@%&”$* panther ain’t the only #@%&”$* thing that’s gonna’ tote a #@%&”$* bullet in its #@%&”$* hide!”, as he angrily shoved his last remaining bullet into the chamber of the hunting rifle.

“If I was yuns, I would git my #@%&”$* sorry butt in my #@%&”$* truck and haul my #@%&”$* sorry butt out of here as fast as yuns can…It jest might be the last time yuns is able to sit on that #@%&”$* sorry butt of yuns for a #@%&”$* long time!!!!!!!!!!!”, Jethro shouted (showing off both elements of his fine Alabama grammatical and spiritual training). “Now, G-I-T!!!!”, he lunged at Franklin.

The majority of Franklin’s glee quickly disappeared. As Jethro raised his rifle in Franklin’s direction, he realized that his harmless prank had crossed the line - it was time to start “backing up.” With repeated expressions of regret and pleas for forgiveness (mixed with snippets of intermittent laughter) Franklin tried to reason with Jethro. ‘Put down the gun, man, it were jest a joke!”, Franklin implored earnestly. Jethro, however, was having none of it. He pointed the rifle about two feet over Franklin’s head, fired his last remaining round and shouted, “I said, G-I-T!!”

Panicking, Franklin took off in a dead run in the direction of his truck. “That fool has done lost his mind!,” Franklin screamed as he leaped over dead trees and ran full throttle through the middle of neck deep briars. Though he had known and been friends with Jethro most of their lives together, Franklin had occasionally wondered if his friend was, “all there.” He had now found Jethro’s true breaking point.

Though his rifle ammo was spent, Jethro’s fury was far from depleted. He ran after Franklin for a good long stretch firing blanks from his .44 Colt sidearm. Almost every hunter carries a pistol, sometimes filled with blanks, into the woods as a precaution. In the event of an emergency, shots fired from the pistol serve as a way of attracting other hunters who might be able to help. Jethro figured that if he couldn’t really shoot at Franklin any longer, he might as well try to make him think that he could. All Franklin knew was that this crazy fool was still right behind him, and shooting like a one-eyed lunatic.

Too, there was another surprise in store for Franklin that morning as he ran out of the woods and away from his ranting and raving pursuer. Earlier that morning, not long after Franklin had parked his truck in that out-of-the-ordinary location, one of his other hunting buddies spotted it. This deer hunting friend of Franklin’s was on his way to another deer stand not far away. Having been, himself, a victim of Franklin’s Tomfoolery in the past, he decided it was time to return the favor. He stopped long enough to raise the hood of Franklin’s truck, pull all eight spark plug wires loose, and hide them up in the spare tire underneath the rear of Franklin’s truck bed.

When Franklin finally got to his truck, he was huffing and puffing, winded and exhausted from the run, and completely drained from the morning’s shenanigans. He threw open the door, climbed in the truck cab, turned his key in the ignition and stomped the gas pedal as hard as he could. Nothing! He tried again. Nothing! Again. Not even a click from the starter! Franklin got out, lifted the hood, and felt a sinking feeling in his gut - the very same feeling he had caused Jethro earlier. And likely, the same sensation he had caused countless others to feel as he had weaved his web of high-jinks through the years. Franklin Hardin now knew exactly what it felt like to be, “H-A-D!” “Somebody done took all my wars,” (Alabamian for “wires”) he moaned.

His best friend was mad enough to kill him. His mother WAS going to kill him when she found out about the panther. He was out in the middle of nowhere on a cold, windy morning. He was exhausted from a life or death run through the woods. And now, his truck had been sabotaged. There was no one’s shoulder to cry on, and no one to blame but himself.

And so, Franklin Hardin did the only thing he knew to do. He pulled his sleeping bag out of the tool box, bundled himself against the cold, fired up some Wal-Mart brand hand warmers he kept in the glove compartment, and laid down in his truck seat to take a nap. His thought was, “I am tired, sleepy, in deep kah-kah when I finally DO get home, and now without a friend in the world. The best thing that could happen to me would be for me to die in my sleep. That way, God would be responsible for my death. Mama has always said, ‘You’d better let God kill you, ‘cause He won’t mess you up like I will!’”

Such is the life of a bachelor from Alabama. Call him, “lazy, fun-loving, maybe a little ‘touched’ in the head,” or even “blessed.” But, one thing is certain - there is no life like his. Franklin Hardin and Jethro Wigder will go down in Alabama bachelor lore as two of THE most envied men on earth. People all over the great state of Alabama still call them, and others like them, the “chosen ones.” On that frosty Alabama morning, Alabama bachelor Franklin Hardin, way out there in those Alabama woods, all bundled up and snug in his sleeping bag, tucked safely in the front seat of his truck, with a heart full of joy and merriment, could rightly have been called one and only one thing – “sound asleep!”

Roll Tide, Roll!!!!!!!!!

- David Decker

Bill - The Dancing Guitarist

2008-08-25T13:55:00.000-07:00

Playing music has been this writer’s, “drug of choice,” since the age of nine. No high in the world (sorry, honey, not even sex) can compare with having performed well a popular song for a receptive crowd of listeners. Standing ovations are God’s way of paying you back for the fatigue of packing and moving heavy amplifiers and sound equipment, untold hours of practice, and the pain of developing and maintaining calluses on bleeding fingertips.

Thank you, Lord, for the gift of music; and for the blessing of being a rock guitarist in an enormously popular band, amongst the vast array of music venues in Atlanta, Georgia, in the middle of the greatest era of popular music – the 1970’s.

“Silver Creek,” was our band’s name. Previously, we had been known as, “Andromeda,” (a name taken from a boring 1971 sci-fi movie). Whatever band member(s) came up with, “Silver Creek,” thus delivering us from our former name, should be given a Pulitzer Prize.

The nucleus of the band had been together since high school. Our first gigs were a high school talent show (which we won by performing two of the biggest tunes of the day – Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Green River” and Chicago’s “25 or 6 to 4”) and playing in the lunch room during 4th period (A, B, & C Lunch) on St. Patircks’ Day (our school was the O’Keefe “Fighting Irish”). We were one of two bands on campus, and extremely popular with our fellow students.

All bands eventually go through personnel changes. We certainly did. When the band began to get serious about our future, the practice schedule really started cranking up. With this development, both our original drummer and bass player (two brothers) decided they didn’t want to be THAT serious about playing music. The departure of these two dear friends was tough on all of us, but the remnant moved on.

One of our charter members switched from playing third guitar over to bass. He “took to” the change really well, and became a top shelf bass player in almost no time at all. He was also one of our two vocalists. When this writer listens back to tapes from those days, it is amazing to hear what “Buster” could do on a bass, and in singing rock.

Also, some of our guys happened to work with three other musicians who wanted to either start or join a band. Musician #1 was a really good drummer – skinny as a rail, with fiery red hair. “Robert” would become a real asset to our group in the years to come. Musician #2 was a vocalist who was also a songwriter, harmonica player, and the owner a decent PA system – which we badly needed at the time. “Bob” became the tender-hearted core of our band. The third musician (let’s call him “Terry”) was a highly egotistical guitarist and vocalist. Being somewhat of a, “legend in his own mind,” it soon became apparent that he viewed himself as nothing short of a clone of Mick Jagger, Eric Clapton, and Elvis all rolled into one.

All three of these fellows were welcomed into the band, though there would be trouble down the road with Terry. Nonetheless, it was good to see a real band beginning to take shape.

The next hurdle was and is the most common one faced by every band that has ever struck up a tune. Where do we practice?

We had bounced around between parents’ living rooms, neighborhood garages, at least one old barn, and an apartment complex clubhouse (where some of our equipment was eventually stolen). Grrrrrrrr. We were musical gypsies searching for a place to ruin our eardrums and forge our sound. If Silver Creek was ever really going to “be”, we HAD to have a place TO “be.”

About this time, as good fortune would have it, this writer’s parents moved from one metro Atlanta County to another, and into a brick house with a basement. This house was located on what was then still somewhat of a county road, on a piece of land that was surrounded with woods on one side and open terrain on the other. It was THE perfect place for a bunch of loud, head-banger-type musicians to polish their act. Our destiny of becoming a true band was looking up.

Back to Terry, the ego-maniac. Eventually, he was asked to leave the band. Since the day he entered the group his ego had taken charge. From everything including song choices, to lead vocal and guitar duties, to equipment purchases, to what each band member would wear to gigs, to what our business cards would look like, Silver Creek was rapidly becoming “Terry’s band.” Something had to be done. Something was.

A strained, adversarial, tearful, and bitter “intervention” took place at one of our next practices. Terry’s dominance, the wisdom of some of the choices/decisions he had made for the band (without asking our opinions first), as well as a few other pertinent items were passionately discussed. Terry bristled at the idea that he had somehow become the “mac daddy” of the band. He was told that the band would henceforth be a true democracy, and that if he couldn’t live with that then we certainly wished him well. With bruised ego in hand, Terry moved on.

This kind of trouble and conflict, unfortunately, has broken up many a great band down through the history of rock and roll. Anyone who has ever been in a band (or bands) for any period of time will tell you that a group of musicians is often much more difficult to manage and keep together than a marriage. Divorce is ugly and painful - even when it “only” involves a group of guys or gals who do three chords and a chorus together on weekends.

To his credit, Terry did get us our first string of gigs. He also brought to the group a host of good cover tunes for us play. The crown jewel of these songs was a newly-released number by a then regionally-known group called Lynyrd Skynyrd. The song was, “Sweet Home Alabama.” Give the devil his due. Because of Terry’s musical foresight, we were playing “Sweet Home” (as well as a handful of other songs that eventually became hits) even before Atlanta rock radio was playing them. Kudos to you for that, Terry.

With Terry now gone, we were a band of five: two guitars, a bass, one drummer, and a vocalist (who occasionally played rhythm guitar or blues harp). Through the years a few keyboard players came and went, but we were almost always a “guitar band.” This story is about one of the guitar players. We knew him as, “Bill.”

In the 1970’s, with rock music becoming almost an obsession among baby boomers, and with it growing progressively harder-edged all the time, places for live performers and bands to play multiplied like fleas on a collie. Clubs, bars, singles apartment clubhouse parties, fraternity and sorority parties, corporate outings, private parties, restaurants and “lounges,” county fairs, small concert halls, outdoor sports venues, grand openings for new businesses, high school dances and pep rallies, and a hundred other venue types were constantly needing rock and roll bands. The work was steady and the money was decent. Silver Creek had found its place. We were a working band, and loving every rock and roll minute of it.

One of our favorite places to play was a restaurant/bar in a small town just west of Atlanta. “Effie’s Kitchen” had benefited substantially from the growth of Atlanta. The metropolis that Atlanta was destined to become was almost daily reaching farther and farther into places like the west metro county where Effie’s was located. Liquor by the drink, dancing, and loud rock and roll was packing them in. In some places, there was a rock and roll band playing five to six nights a week.

Silver Creek was given a tryout at Effie’s when their regular cover band had a conflict on a Saturday night booking. We were promised that if we did well, there could be a chance for a week-long gig in this little place. That Saturday afternoon we loaded up the gear and headed for what would become a great launching-pad for our career as a cover band.

The largest crowd ever at Effie’s showed up that night to hear our little five piece group. The time was “right,” the crowd was “ripe,” and Silver Creek was rocking. After four hours of almost non-stop cover tunes from Aerosmith, Grand Funk Railroad, Bad Company, ZZ Top, BTO, The Stones, and scores of others, the crowd refused to go home. The spirits were flowing, the music was hot, and the money was rolling in.

When the night was over, the club owner told us we were THE best bar band he had ever heard. We were immediately booked for an entire month, which was longer than Effie’s had ever held a group over. Our time had finally come. We could quit our day jobs.

Effie’s Kitchen, like any other club or lounge, attracted all types of people. Long hairs, rednecks, hippies, geeks, bikers, blue collar and white collar, black and white, male and female. They all came for different reasons, but, certainly, each was there because of rock and roll.

At the risk of overlooking anyone from the preceding collage of faces, bodies, and hearts - and for the sake of brevity - let us focus on perhaps THE most “important” segment of patrons that frequented Effie’s, or any establishment where there was/is dancing, loud rock and roll, and booze. I am speaking, of course, of women.

Women, women and more women. They came in the door like cattle at a county fair auction. Blondes, brunettes, red-heads, tall, round, thin, big-chested, flat-chested, bone-hard ugly, drop-dead gorgeous, some of legal age, and some not. One by one these precious creatures appeared. And, all with one thing in common: they were searching for a good time and for Mr. Right (or, as the country song says, Mr. Right Now!). Too, anyone who has ever followed rock and roll knows a second universal truth about women who show up at clubs, concerts, and most other places where music is to be played. That is, women L-O-V-E the boys in the band! One of THE sweetest places on earth for a musician to be is onstage performing before an adoring crowd of females.

One of the “boys” in our band was “Bill.” He was our second guitarist and sang harmony vocal. Bill was an excellent musician, who could also repair amplifiers and pretty much all things electronic with both hands tied behind him. However, he was as “a-typical” a rock guitarist and performer as there has ever been in the world.

By nature, Bill was a scientist, a borderline egghead, and a scholar. He won every award for science achievement our high school ever doled out. Blindfolded, Bill could take apart a guitar, an amplifier, or even a nuclear power plant and put it all back together in perfect order. He also had an ear for THE song that the crowd was sure to love. Bill was, in many ways, the backbone of our band.

There were two things, though, that Bill was NOT.

First, he was not a dancer by any means. If Bill had starred in “Saturday Night Fever,” the Bee Gees might never have gotten beyond singing for weddings and funerals. Bill rarely if ever moved while onstage. During a four hour gig, he would stand statuesquely in the same place, never moving unless it was a step or two toward the microphone to sing a harmony vocal. His guitar work was impeccable and he capably sang many a harmony line. But, beyond this, Bill’s onstage and real life persona were never going to get him confused with Tom Jones or Elvis.

Second, Bill was not a ladies man. He was in many ways a terribly shy person, and quiet as a whisper in a crowd. It was not that Bill didn’t like girls. And, it was not that he was at a loss for knowing what SHOULD be done whenever a room suddenly filled with a bevy of scantily clad females. Bill was just not the type to openly cavort and carouse. He occasionally confessed a minor crush of sorts for a sister of one of our band mates, but was not about to go off chasing the first pretty pair of jeans that walked by during one of our gigs. (That particular duty fell to this writer, and was a cross he bore repeatedly throughout Silver Creek’s days as a band.)

One particular Saturday night, Effie’s Kitchen was “hopping.” Silver Creek was loud and in fine form. The beer and booze were flowing. The crowd was steadily becoming liquored up, and quickly gravitating toward full party mode. The dance floor was filled on every song. And, as always, women – hot, incredibly good looking women – were everywhere. What a great time to be young, a guitar player, and part of a really, really good rock band. Ahhhhhh, the sweet memories.

At some point during the show, the dance floor emptied enough for one young lady to stand out. And, boy did she ever stand out! She was a strawberry blonde in her early twenties, the possessor of a beautiful face, and an even better physique. She was wearing stacked heels, tight jeans, and the prettiest orange chiffon, 100% cotton, tube top that K-Mart ever sold. That top was perfectly positioned in the one area of this pretty young thing’s upper body that most every guy in that place wanted to be. No one but her and Good Lord knew that the top she wore into Effie’s that night would not be in that position very much longer.

The song that seemed to light this young thing’s fire was ZZ Top’s great dual hit, “Waitin’ On The Bus/Jesus Just Left Chicago.” Her boyfriend had stayed with her on the dance floor through, “Waiting On The Bus,” but retreated to his seat for the second part of the medley. “Jesus Just Left Chicago” was a slow, bluesy type number, with a steady, pulsating bass line. It was THE perfect song for a lead guitarist to show his chops; and, for a pretty young thing in an orange tube top to show hers as well.

We were right in the middle of the guitar solo when the action began. The doll-baby all alone now on the dance floor must have known that every guy in the place was watching her (and every girl, but for different reasons). Slowly, sensuously, and graphically our young mistress began to disrobe. Keep in mind that she was already only half-clothed from the waist up to begin with. One gentle tug after another at that orange top was gradually bringing it ever closer to her navel. And, not a bouncer in sight (a “bouncer” is big male brute who removes rowdy folks from dance floors – not the “OTHER” variety of “bouncer” which had a partner bouncing with it on this girl’s upper torso).

Never has the male portion of any audience we ever played for made that much noise. Every male in Effie’s that special Saturday night was euphorically caught up in ecstatic approval of what they were witnessing!

Being the serious guitarist that this writer was, he was totally and absolutely focused on the solo he was playing, and thoroughly oblivious to the show that was taking center stage right in front of him. Sad to say, but he thought the audience was cheering for him!

Suddenly, I heard Robert, our drummer, screaming at me. “Hey, dude! – D-A-V-I-D!!! – Look, man! – Look at…BILL!” I opened my eyes and saw the eye-popping mammarial display only a few feet away. She was obviously “digging” the solo I was playing. The better I played, the more vigorously she moved that body and that top to places one would have never imagined.

At that point, in my own mind and field of view it was, “Bill W-H-O?”

Robert yelled again, “Man! - Not her!! – Look at BILL!” Being the stalwart drummer he was, Robert was attempting to continue the beat of the song while gesturing wildly toward the opposite end of the stage with one of his drumsticks.

This guitar player was finally able to tear himself away from the unbelievable sight unfolding (or undressing) before his young eyes, and look in the direction that Robert was pointing. What he saw was almost as unbelievable – and a thousand times more entertaining!

Bill was D-A-N-C-I-N-G!!!!

Bill - the science freak, egghead, intellectual, solitary, “stationary” man – was hopelessly overcome with the sensuous, fleshly display he was witnessing. Bill, my buddy and fellow guitarist, was smiling, laughing, moving around, smiling, swaying, grinning, leaning back and forth, shaking his head in approval, and doing something akin to the “bump!”

This stoic, unmovable, lug that stood like the Rock of Gibraltar on the other end of the stage from me, never changing his position or his countenance, was going absolutely rock and roll crazy!!! He was dancing around like Buster Poindexter did when he performed, “Hot, Hot, Hot!,” in his Vegas show. That little stage at Effie’s rocked and rumbled each time Bill would gyrate back and forth and side to side. As the Motown hit says, the earth was truly moving under his feet.

Soon, the bouncers came and got little Miss Orange Chiffon Tube Top(less) and gingerly escorted her off the dance floor. We didn’t see her again the rest of the evening. But, no matter - the deed was done – the transformation complete!! Silver Creek now knew what made our rhythm guitarist “tick” – not to mention jump, shout, shake, rattle, and roll.

Bill never stood still again. From that night until our band took its current thirty year hiatus, Bill enjoyed every minute of every show. He moved around onstage like the late Billy Preston, flirted with the girls in the front row, and became one of THE greatest memories this guitar player still has from the days of rock and roll, and a band called Silver Creek.

Thank you, Bill.

Rock on, brother.

- David Decker

"Mama's Mad & She's Beating The Hell Out Of Everybody!"

2008-08-25T13:54:00.000-07:00

Daddy was born on August 21, 1920, at 2525 Forrest Avenue in Atlanta, Georgia. The old home place was actually a family farm when daddy was a boy - located in the middle of a farming community in the edge of Atlanta. Little did daddy nor anyone in his family foresee what Atlanta would one day become. In his day, the future premier city of the south was to him nothing more than a piece of red earth that fed the eleven people in his immediate family.

The community of Riverside was just that – a settlement of farmers that originally located themselves on the old hillsides near to the Chattahoochee River. In those days, before pollution and overcrowding ruined this fine old tributary, the Chattahoochee provided plenty of clean water for irrigating crops, feeding livestock, fishing, and swimming. It was the latter of these that brought heavenly pleasure to a community of young boys after a hot day of working the fields - plowing, picking peaches, or splitting wood.

One hot, summer afternoon all the neighborhood boys had made it up to high-tail it down to the river when the mid-day work was done. During previous summers, someone had taken an old piece of grass rope and a worn-out T-Model Ford tire and made a swing that jutted out high over the deepest bend of the river (near what is now South Cobb Drive and Southern Company’s electric generating plant Jack McDonough). During daddy’s day, there were strong, storm-tested oaks and hickory trees lining the river bank, with an occasional washed out, natural ledge overlooking the water. A more perfect launching pad for a river swing there could not have been.
Fairly near the water’s edge at two locations ran two farm roads – today known as Spink Street and Main Street. These were little more than pig-trail roads just wide enough for a mule and wagon. Hardly any traffic ever passed along them, unless it was a farmer coming to the river to water his mules or to fish in the late evening.

On this fateful day, daddy and about thirteen or fourteen other neighborhood boys met at the river. They had come straight from the fields, still clad in their sweaty Liberty overhauls and long sleeved gabardine shirts. There was no time to go back to the house and change. Besides, going back to the house might have meant that mama would have found some labor-intensive chore that needed doing, and you were the perfect candidate to be drafted for her need.

Growing up in a southern, farm community almost guaranteed that you would be in the regular company of devout church going folks who understood and practiced decency, modesty, and other Bible-based mores. As such, these boys had been taught that swimming in the river was always properly done in one’s cut-off overhauls, boxer shorts, or in some other form of “bloomer” designed to cover one’s lower extremities. Nekkid swimming was for “heatherns” and hobos, and was strictly forbidden even during the darkness of night.

When fourteen or so sweaty farm boys showed up at the banks of the Chattahoochee that day - out of breath and in the hurry of their lives to dive into that cold, refreshing river water – the decency that had been taught around the supper table and in Bible class was the farthest thing from their minds. Each boy stripped off nekkid, threw all their clothes in a great big pile by the river bank, and into the water they went. Daddy often said that the cool, sweet taste and feel of the water of that old river on that hot, muggy afternoon was as near as dying and going to heaven as anything one could imagine.

For the next few hours those boys - who would later go off to war - swam, dove, leaped off that old tire swing, played games in the water, and became so lost in the cool, refreshing water of that old river that they forgot about the hardships of life on a farm. There were no computers, I-Pods, cell phones, or amusement parks in their world. There was just nature – a playground provided by the good Lord. How much better off our world would be today if more kids grew up like this.

At some point during this heavenly respite from following a hot, stinking, old mule down a corn row, someone drove their own team of mules up one of those old nearby farm roads. This development brought with it a great temptation. Though it was often denied in later years, daddy claimed that it was his older brother Hubert (ironically, himself nicknamed “mule” for his strength and stubborn nature) who did the dastardly deed. In full view of the road, “mule” Decker jumped out of the Chattahoochee river, ran to a spot on the bank that was easily seen from the road, started making a boisterously loud and rowdy, “woooo-woooo,” noise, and shook his budding maleness wildly at the passing wagon. This, of course, drove his accomplices into a frenzy of howling laughter and giggling that echoed off the water and up through the path to the road.

When the wagon had passed, the perpetrator jumped back into the water with his mates and they resumed their care-free frolic under the hot, Georgia sun. Little did any of them suspect or anticipate the process that Uncle Hubert’s foolish, boy-driven, antics had set into motion.

Unbeknownst to them, the party in the wagon was old man Leke Donehoo’s wife. The Donehoo’s lived just down the road from daddy’s family and farmed the adjacent acreage. Leke’s wife was on her way that day to take an afternoon helping of food and cold water to her husband as he worked the back part of their property. Mrs. Donehoo got a full bird’s-eye view of Uncle Hubert’s mindless behavior on the river bank. She recognized him straight away, but said nothing as she went on her way to deliver the food and water. Once her errand was complete, Mrs. Donehoo drove her team of mules directly to the front door of my grandparent’s old farm house. It was there that she revealed to my Grandmaw Georgia what she had witnessed on the river bank. My grandmother thanked her, and assured her that she would handle it.

Those fourteen boys never saw it coming. They were still so preoccupied kicking, thrashing, diving, and playing in the river that they never detected my grandmother. She carefully and quietly positioned herself between them and their mountain of clothing piled on the river bank. Then, as loudly as the archangel’s voice at the Second Coming, Grandmaw’s voice cut through the air, “All right! Every one of you boys!! Come out of that river one at a time!! Every one of you has got to come out by me to get to your clothes! I know that none of you will want to go home nekkid! And, Hubert, you wait in the water until everybody else has come out! I want you to see what you are going to get!!!!”

Daddy said that his petite mother, though barely standing five feet tall and weighing little more than one hundred pounds, had a tree limb in her hand the size of Buford Pusser’s infamous “stick” from the Walking Tall movies of the 1970’s. Daddy swore that the tree limb grandmaw had secured on her way to the river that day featured numerous jagged edges where smaller limbs had been stripped off at their base. The effect would be nearly the same as being flogged by a strand of barbed wire.

As those boys obeyed her in coming out of that water, my grandmother would make each one lie down on the bank while she administered at least three vigorous licks to their back sides. Daddy said that he remembered two things while witnessing this process. First, the blood-curdling screams of these robust farm-hand type boys; and second, the look of absolute terror in uncle Hubert’s eyes as he witnessed the carnage that would soon come its climax on his own set of exposed butt-cheeks.

Being the baby of the family, daddy said that his own licks from Grandmaw were somewhat merciful, though extremely painful and humiliating nonetheless. However, daddy often recalled that it seemed that grandmaw saved the greatest reserve of her wrath for uncle Hubert. Both men swore later in their adult years that grandmaw beat uncle Hubert with that tree limb for what seemed to be a half an hour – all the while asking him questions. “You ever gonna’ get in this river nekkid again?” “You ever gonna’ shake your ‘dibbie’ at anyone again?” “You ever gonna’ embarrass your daddy and me like this again?” To each question, Uncle Hubert squawled a tear-filled, “no ma’am!”

When the beatings were finally done and the boys scattered back to their respective farms, my grandmother marched behind Uncle Hubert and my daddy all the way back to their farm house, talking to both of them every step of the way. “I didn’t raise you two boys to run around nekkid in public!” “Neither one of you were taught to act like ‘heatherns’ when you’re away from your daddy and me!” “Hubert, what you do you think you were doing shaking yourself at Mrs. Donehoo like that?” “You both better keep your peckers in your britches before I take your daddy’s razor and cut them off!”

This protracted lecturing during the journey back to the house evidently made uncle Hubert angry. It was one thing to be beaten in front of your contemporaries. It was quite another to be lectured by this little, frail woman after she had embarrassed you with such a display of discipline. When Uncle Hubert could stand it no longer, he mouthed off something under his breath back at my grandmother thinking that she could not hear him. How wrong he was a second time. She swatted him twice more with the tree limb on his bare back, and promised additional licks once they had reached the house.

With this, Uncle Hubert took off running to try and get to the house in time to hide or barricade himself in one of the bedrooms. When “mule” ran in through the front door, one of the older sisters who had stayed behind to start supper for the family asked uncle Hubert why he was running, crying, and acting like he was being chased by a bear.

His answer still rings through this writer’s ears and brings profound laughter each time it is remembered – now over eighty years since that fateful day. Uncle Hubert told my aunt, “Sis, run away as fast as you can, mama’s mad and she’s beating the hell out of everybody!”

Never again did daddy nor any of his running buddies ever strip off nekkid in the old Chattahoochee. Never again did Uncle Hubert expose himself to Mrs. Donehoo or anyone else. And, never again for any reason did Grandmaw Georgia have to administer a whipping to the boys of that grand old community known as Riverside. Her point was made.

(During the times of year when we honor fathers and mothers, let us remember how blessed we were and are to have been brought up by godly parents. May we always entertain the greatest love and respect for these remarkable men and women who not only loved us enough to hold us to Divine standards of behavior and decency, but also through that same love applied the, “rod of correction,” when we needed reminding of these and so many other things.)

- David Decker

257 Channels & Nothing On

2008-08-25T13:51:00.000-07:00

Bruce Springsteen is a musical prophet.

A few years back, “The Boss,” penned and recorded a song entitled, “57 Channels & Nothing On.” The song was about the empty, broken viewing promises of the intellectual and entertainment landfill commonly known as cable TV.

Given the three channel menu that this writer remembers from TV in his youth, it seems reasonable that the entertainment industry would find something substantive to air within the broad spectrum of fifty-seven airwaves. Little did Springsteen know that his words hinted of an even greater dilemma for the TV viewer of the future. With the advent of satellite we now have, “two hundred fifty seven channels & still nothing on.”

Recently, while recovering from coronary by-pass surgery, this writer experienced the chronic, nightly insomnia that comes with having your chest sawn open and new plumbing installed. Since you can’t sleep and there is no one awake to play with, it is assumed that finally someone in your house will get some good out of the $50 being shelled out monthly for satellite. TV in any form has become a service that most families are too busy to use, but wouldn’t be caught dead without. This patient remembers thinking, “well, if I can’t sleep, at least there will be something I can watch on TV.”

Enter Bruce Springsteen.

Enter the newest innovation from our friends down at Direct-Dish –Network-Comcast TV.

Namely, The Infomercial.

Night-time TV would be better described as, “Infomercial Hell.” Like snake oil merchants at an old time carnival, the personalities of night-time TV come into your living room with one purpose in mind – “sell!” (which, again, rhymes with “hell”). Like an already way-too-long sermon gone to seed, these extended sales pitches are to the marketing world what Lynyrd Skynyrd’s 14 minute classic anthem, “Free-Bird,” was and is to southern garage-band rock. They go on and on and on and on. Enter the Energizer bunny.

Infomercial creators and producers evidently have one and only one cookie-cutter template they adhere to in making these, “Nightmares on Insomnia Street.” Their ingredients are predictable. Their format is mindless. If you have seen one infomercial, you have truly seen them all. And yet, night-time TV is saturated with these inane productions. They spew endlessly and uninterruptedly through the broadcast night - like feces through a goose.

One night’s excursion through the infomercial haven chamber by this, “Sleepless in Sickville,” heart patient left the following impressions.

First, infomercial folks will shamelessly sell anything. In one eight hour stint the viewer is offered hundreds of items for sale including: grills, vacuum cleaners, jewelry, record (excuse me – CD & DVD) collections, perfume, cat litter, automobile and truck accessories, hunting and fishing gear, DVD’s of the well-traveled series “Girls Gone Wild,” dishes, paintings, feminine hygiene products, light bulbs, lingerie, stamp and coin collections, golf clubs, male enhancement drugs, trips, vitamins, club memberships, aerobic CD’s & DVD’s, internet business opportunities, erotic sex toys (yes ma’am – saw that one three times in one night – advertised by two of the homeliest women in broadcast TV), yard tools, furniture, cosmetics, swimwear, computers, stereo equipment, books, diet pills, exercise equipment, and (did I mention?) erotic sex toys.

It is easy to understand why Wal-Mart now stays open all night. The competition never sleeps. If it can be manufactured, imported, packaged or marketed in any way, it is gonna’ show up eventually at 2:30 AM on channels 240-310.

Second, cleavage. One particular infomercial evidently did not trust that one young lady’s endowment was enough to capture and keep the buying public’s attention, so they added a second. The two young ladies that “starred” on this particular infomercial are likely going to wind up one day in some chiropractor’s office with serious back trouble. All they did for the minute or two that this insomniac was watching was to lean exaggeratedly forward with their extremely low-cut blouses hanging open and talk wild-eyed into the camera about their product and/or service. It is amazing that this viewer even saw their eyes. The next morning, I could not for the life of me remember what they were selling, but their marketing approach was forever “implanted” in my mammary, uh, memory.

If the feminists are correct and sex does not sell, someone forgot to tell the folks down at, “Infomercial Central.” From the very least hint of cleavage all the way to a full-blown avalanche of female foliage, infomercial folks live and die with exposed female tissue.

Exposed female legs enhance the package - as panelists do their best to mimic the poses that made Entertainment Tonight’s Mary Hart famous. But - make no mistake – the folks who produce this sort of thing are placing all their bets above the female waist.

Third, infomercials are the world’s haven for testimonials. They are bizarre, and they are extremely entertaining. “This product worked for me even though I was on death row!” “I made $3 million my first week with my brand new internet shoe repair business.” “I learned the entire Chinese language in my first month with this new speed-reading course and never even cracked a book.”

Infomercialists always hedge these outlandish testimonials with legalese fine print at the bottom of the screen which cautions, “Not every person achieves the same level of performance as results may vary.” This really means, “We are lying through our teeth and don’t care if one day we will go to a devil’s hell because of it – just buy our product, sucker!”

The thing is, in the middle of the night, lying there like a zombie in a cage, with all sorts of medicine coursing through one’s system, some of (many of) these bald-face lies start to sound believable.

If only we could sit down face to face and find out how much the liar was paid to sell his soul – not to mention the sponsor’s product – then we could get the real scoop on whether or not this new magical diet supplement will make us look like Brad Pitt.

The power that the infomercial demons have over us is that if we bite the bait and try the suppository, buy the DVD’s, or drink the kool-aid and the promises do turn out to be lies, who are we gonna’ tell? It is embarrassing enough to admit that we might spend an evening watching this junk – let alone that we might be foolish enough to spend $150 just to see if a pill can make hair grow on a bald head by six inches in just two days.

Finally, infomercials are hosted by losers, has-been’s, wanna-be’s, and “ain’t-gonna-be’s.” For example, note the infomercial host who was previously an out-of-work actor, whose last meaningful role was as an island native rowing a canoe in a three second long-distance shot that didn’t make it to the final cut in one of the lost episodes of Gilligan’s Island. Or, the former forth runner-up in the 1901 Miss America pageant. Or, the ex-big league ball player whose sole claim to fame came through his being at bat as a pinch-hitter at Wrigley Field in 1972 when someone fell out of the upper deck behind home plate.

If the promise of your next big gig in the entertainment world involves hosting an infomercial, either get another agent or get another gig – one with steady, day-time hours. Truth is - you ain’t about to go from hawking Popiel’s Pocket Fisherman at 3:00 AM on the Lifetime Network Channel to a starring role opposite Jenny McCarthy in Mission Impossible V.

Being sick is a drag.

Being sick and unable to sleep is an even bigger drag.

Being sick, unable to sleep, and then being lured into watching 175 year old Jack Lalanne try to convince you that his longevity is due solely to his drinking regularly from his Bionic Juicer Machine – which you can have right now for four “easy” credit card payments of $375.99 – this is the biggest drag of all.

It is the spiritual and existential equivalent of dying a thousand deaths, waking up to find that reincarnation is true, and that you have come back each of those thousand times as the padding in Hillary Clinton’s brazier.

Strange, but, here we are back again to the chest area of a female. Well, at least with Mrs. Clinton, maybe not.

Time to go to sleep.

Good night, Edith.

- David Decker

Thanksgiving & Uncle Hubert

2008-08-25T13:50:00.000-07:00

My recollection of Thanksgivings past is decorated with many great memories. Tops among them were the Thanksgiving Days spent at my aunt Katie’s house. Aunt Katie and uncle Bill lived just north of Atlanta, Georgia, in a very nice, well-to-do neighborhood. Aunt Katie was an older sister to my dad, and herself the youngest girl among nine kids. Many of these siblings and their broods would gather each Thanksgiving at aunt Katie’s house for a double feature. First, there was always a feast to behold. Second, there was always a fight to be had.

The food was splendid and delicious year in and year out - southern cuisine at its finest. The menu always seemed to include the following: 1) Home grown vegetables such as garden corn, green beans, field peas, Crowder peas, bunch beans, green limas, fried squash, fried okra, rutabagas, potato salad, and sliced tomatoes; 2) Several varieties of meats including roast, fried chicken, venison, turkey, and sliced ham; 3) Sweet potato casserole served at least three different ways; 4) Desserts of various kinds – including lemon icebox pie, chocolate cake, sweet potato pie, pumpkin pie, homemade fried apple and peach pies, and more homemade peanut brittle than all the kids who came could possibly eat. Diabetes ran in our family, but you would have never known it by the size and quality of the “feed” that aunt Katie and my other female ancestors trotted out every year on that glorious Thursday in November. Blood sugar levels would ever more take a royal beating on Thanksgiving at aunt Katie’s house.

After the meal, the ladies would clean up, the kids would go outside to play, and the men would retire to the living room or den for football and conversation. The annual Georgia and Georgia Tech freshmen Scottish Rite Hospital Benefit football game, played for many years on Thanksgiving Day, provided ample entertainment while the food settled. No one seemed to really care, though, about the football game. There was a far greater contest awaiting.

Uncle Hubert was by far the most boisterous of all my father’s eight siblings. He talked so much, and so loudly, that his nickname as a young man was, “radio.” It was said that when uncle Hubert was born the doctor vaccinated him a Victrola needle, and he never was able to shut up after that. Uncle Hubert was also a die hard, yellow dog, Democrat. He believed in God, the Bible, and Franklin Delano Roosevelt. “Roosevelt saved the world!,” was uncle Hubert’s stock answer to any negative comment about the holy Democratic party.

Without fail, on those Thanksgiving family gatherings, uncle Hubert would always get into a red-faced, vein-popping, verbal brawl with somebody over politics. Most of the time that somebody was cousin Tom - who himself, at the ripe old age of twenty one, thought that he knew everything there was to know about everything. Cousin Tom was not necessarily a Republican, he was just against anything that was, “establishment.” If it had to do in any way with uncle Hubert’s generation of politics, cousin Tom was against it. He didn’t like Social Security, the fact that the United States had used nuclear weapons to end World War II, nor anything else that the federal government had done since the end of Herbert Hoover’s presidency. Tom was the perfect foe for uncle Hubert in these annual Thanksgiving Day Battle Royals.

Consistently, uncle Hubert defended his ideologies like the true Archie Bunker prototype that he was. Through the sheer energy of his anger, the booming volume of his baritone voice, and the unrelenting hard-headedness of his personality, uncle Hubert shouted down every opposing view.

Though no official victory was ever declared, uncle Hubert always seemed to prevail in these verbal bloodlettings. The fight would usually end with one of the women coming in and announcing that the coffee was ready to be poured. The cooler heads and softer voices of the women were very powerful, and were exactly what was needed to calm the storm that was uncle Hubert. Only once did any of these elegant ladies deviate from the Biblical pattern of, “soft words turning away wrath…”

It was during the torrid climax of one of these mêlées. Aunt Hester, uncle Hubert’s meek, quiet, and incredibly petite spouse came rushing into the middle of the fracas, shoved uncle Hubert down into a recliner, and bent over him like his own mother probably did in his youth – wilding shaking her bony little finger in his face. As loudly as her tiny diaphragm would allow she shouted, “Hubert, you big, mule-headed jack-ass, the way you are acting only proves that there is more than one great big turkey in this house today.”

Aunt Hester, if you can hear me…You go!

©David Decker, 2006

My First Date

2008-08-25T13:47:00.000-07:00

In this writer’s high school days, during the late 60’s and early 1970’s, dating was a status symbol. If you WERE somehow able to secure regular dates with other human beings of the opposite sex, you were then, and only then, judged by your peers to be worthy of personhood. If not, then obviously you lied about your weekends, because the greatest curse of all would have been to be labeled an un-dateable nobody. Pride, ego, and your “rep” amongst your peers were all at stake – not to mention your very existence.

For everyone who has ever dated, the first time can be the best of times and/or the worst of times – all at the same time. From the initial, “what are you doing Saturday night?”, all the way to the good-night kiss, the first date is sometimes more frightening and fraught with uncertainty than is coronary by-pass surgery. Yours truly has experienced both. The latter of the two was, comparatively speaking, “duck soup.” The main difference is that during the first-date the “victim” is wide awake and painfully aware of each exhilarating, yet excruciating, moment of the procedure.

Regardless of the outcome, however, the first-date has the potential of being one of THE greatest and sweetest experiences in a young man’s life - one that fills his heart with the most precious of memories. That is exactly how it was with this writer.

Her formal name was Anna Laura Hamilton. What a great old, southern, female (and family) name. I never knew the reason, but her nickname was “Jaye.” She was blonde, as petite and adorable as a newborn Shetland pony (she probably would have more than a little difficulty appreciating this writer’s comparison of her to miniature equine), and monstrously popular with all the guys (and most of the girls) in our high school. She played saxophone in marching and concert band, and held one of THE most coveted positions associated with our school’s music program - she was a majorette.

In later years, Jaye freely admitted that one of the reasons she much preferred being a majorette to playing sax at football games was the difference in the uniforms. Amen, sister! Jaye was asked out a lot during her high school days – but rarely if ever was it because of the military-style marching outfits worn in high school band. Her majorette outfit declared to the world that God had done some mighty fine creative work in Jaye’s particular case.

I had known her for some time in contexts not related to dating or high school marching band. Jaye’s two brothers and I, along with some other high school chums, played in a rock band together. As either dumb luck or Divine providence would have it (and since her brother did not want to lug his drums all over creation just to rehearse) we always practiced in her parents’ living room. One of the great perks of practicing in the Hamilton living room was the fully functional jukebox, filled with the hits of the day, that her parents kept there. I never told Jaye this, but that incredible jukebox was probably more of a reason for this guitar player’s passion for being in that place on those evenings than even her presence was.

What a sweet thing it was, however, whenever Jaye would join us during band practice. Sometimes she came in just to listen. Sometimes she came in to flirt. And, sometimes she came in to twirl her baton and do her routines - always in sync with our renditions of tunes from super groups such as Bloodrock, The Who, and Creedence Clearwater Revival.

John Fogerty and Pete Townsend, eat your hearts out!

There were times that I, as the lead guitarist, completely lost my place in the song, playing chords that came out of who-knows-where, as she entered the room twirling that infernal baton. I was immediately and terminally smitten! I am certain my band mates could see right through my insistence that we practice at Jaye’s house at least six nights a week, every week (which NEVER happened).

We were sitting in the school library when I finally worked up the courage to ask her out. I don’t remember what brought us to the same table in the library that day. But, I DO remember the almost overwhelming power of the fragrance I encountered during that class period. The sweet, intoxicating, unmistakable smell of White Shoulders perfume floated across that library table from her to me like a wave of fresh honeysuckle in the early summer. At the time I didn’t know what her perfume was called, but I knew I had to get closer to her than across that library table in order to fully experience and familiarize myself with that potent, angelic scent.

My mind was made up – I was GOING to ask her out. Even if she said no, it would be worth the risk. If she did say no, Plan B was to ask her if I could borrow her bottle of White Shoulders long enough to coat the walls of my room with it. Either Jaye or her aroma was going to spend a Saturday evening with me somehow – and very soon.

Too, I don’t remember how I got around to popping the question. There was no begging, bribing, or other mode of coercion. This fifty-something memory recalls the young man sitting across from Jaye biting his lip, closing his eyes, sucking in his gut, sitting up straight, and before he could pass out from lack of oxygen to the brain, saying very plainly, “would you like to go to a movie Saturday night?”

The few seconds that inevitably pass between the first-date invite and the RSVP seem like death. They always play themselves out in S-L-O-W motion. They frequently involve nervous convulsions in the chest, as well as deep, red, flushing of the face and neck. On the part of the invitee, these times often result in a barrage of flimsy excuses, uncomfortable apologies, and/or bald-faced lies. This time, however…the invitation resulted in…

“Yes!!!!!!!!!!”

I sat there stunned. For a long minute I was sure I had died and gone to heaven. Did she say yes? WHY did she say yes? Do you think she means it? She’s not just jerking my chain, is she? Surely not?!

In trying to reason through these questions, in the blink of an eye - and long before the brain could fully process her surprising answer - yours truly said the only thing in response that he could think of….

”Really???????!!!!!”

“Really! ”, she said, smiling sheepishly. The gracious southern belle that Jaye was had truly come shining through. Her tone and demeanor almost seemed to say, “You big dummy, I thought you’d never ask!”

I don’t remember what I said in excusing myself to leave the table for a moment (the rest of that whole day is, frankly, a bit of a blur). My overwhelming urge was to run in breakneck fashion to the boy’s bathroom so I could throw up (in reaction to the convulsive nervousness I had experienced). Or, to fling open the bathroom window and shout boisterously to all of downtown Atlanta, “Yaaaaaaa Hooooooo…she said YES!!!!!!.”

The only thing I DO remember saying , in a very cool, collected, hip, matter-of-fact way was, “I’ll call you.”

Still in a state of joy-filled shock, I left the library with a series of first-date mountains to climb. “She said, ‘yes!’”, I whispered, “now what in the heck do I do?” This writer was a full seven months away from turning sixteen, with no driver’s license, no car, and not one single outfit of cool, “date clothes,” to his name.

And, oh yes, did I forget to mention that Jaye had just broken up with THE most extremely jealous and uncouth boyfriend that any horror movie could ever produce? None of that bothered me at the moment, though. The only thing that mattered was that she had said, “YES!!!!!”
When I called her the next night, I was a great deal more collected than in the library. After all, she was now, “conquered territory.” For at least the next few days - culminating with Saturday night - whether she knew it or not this woman was, “mine.”

During our conversation (in which I was witty, funny, and VERY cool) I asked what movie she would like to see. Maybe the then-popular “Love Story” or some other sappy, girl-movie, I thought. It didn’t matter to me what we saw. “Godzilla Gets A Day Job At Waffle House,” would have been fine with me. I did not anticipate watching the movie to any great degree anyway.
Jaye’s answer was truly NOT what I would have expected in a million years.
“Well, who are we going with?,” she asked. I was more than a little taken aback. Funny thing was, I didn’t recall asking a “group” of people out that day in the library. Did she have in mind one of her parents going as a chaperone? Or, was she somehow suggesting (in my dreams) a ménage a trios? Or, was she alluding, heaven forbid, to THE most hated, dreaded, night-from-hell that no guy in the world would ever want to agree to? Was she proposing a (wash-my-mouth-out-with-soap-as-I-gag-on–the-term) double-date?

“I don’t know,” I said calmly, “whom did you have in mind?” What else could I say??? “You’re nuts, sweetie pie, if you think I am going out with you AND somebody else!?????” I waited nervously for her reply.

Jaye must have suspected that my prohibitive age and the driving predicament that had to be worked out because of it were at issue. Looking back, this was perhaps my first encounter with the infamous reality of, “woman’s intuition.” Regardless, her proposal was delivered quickly and with substantial evidence of forethought.

“Beau (one of her brothers – and my band-mate) has been wanting to see that new science-fiction movie called, ‘The Andromeda Strain,’” she said. “What would you think about doubling with him and Phyllis?”

Again, this love-sick, first-dater was pretty much stuck. Without this option, what WOULD we do? Would I walk to her house (which was at least nine miles from my front door), and then stroll the obligatory fourteen miles to the movie theater? Not likely. Could I steal my parents’ car for the evening and risk being arrested for driving without a license, not to mention auto theft? The certain death that would have awaited me back at home for such an act made this particular option seem highly unwise.

Clearly, not having thought out this rather significant detail of the overall proposal, this writer was forced to quickly dismiss these ludicrous non-options. Then, in a sudden rush of level-headedness and wisdom, yours truly said the only thing that made any sense…

“Sure, what time does the movie start?”

Eventually, I talked to Beau. He was such a cool guy. Beau was brilliant in techno things. He finished at the top of his graduating class, and while still in high school was employed as an engineer by Ted Turner’s then-budding-communications-empire flagship TV station, WTCG (Channel 17). Beau was our bass player and our band’s electronics mister-fix-it. If an amp blew during a song, Beau could have it back in business before the last solo was played. He was THE best possible male candidate I could have ever wished for in this first-date/double-date experience.

Thank you, Jaye…Thank you, Lord.

His girlfriend Phyllis was another story. From the neck down, God had really been good to Phyllis. From the neck up, well, it suffices to say that she had a million-dollar body and a fifty-cent face. It was a very good thing indeed that Beau was a proto-type techno-geek, engineering-minded, guru. He was always infinitely more interested in what was going on inside of something than on its surface. Given this, Phyllis seemed the perfect match for him. She was a lot of fun to be with. And, along with the high-quality anatomical “equipment” she possessed, Phyllis also had the savvy and hormonal drive to know how to use what God had given her – and use it quite well. Beau always had a profoundly “satisfied” smile on his face the day after a night out with Phyllis. No one ever had to ask why.

Beau assured me that he was cool with my dating his sister. After all, I was his lead guitarist. We had a mutual respect that, while unspoken, was keenly evident. Beau said that he would be come by my house to pick me up about 6:00 PM, and that we would go together to get the girls.

What a guy!

Beau well understood what it would have done to this first-date ego for all three of them to have shown up together to pick me up dead last. For this concession, and for the other reasons aforementioned, to this day, Beauregard Hamilton is in my eyes, “the man!”

The rest of the week passed like a whirlwind. I don’t remember what I finally decided to wear. But, there will be no forgetting how Jaye looked when I finally saw her that fateful Saturday evening.

God-given blonde hair, jade green eyes, a gorgeous face, and a petite female teenage body are a lethal combination. Jaye could have worn a Martha White Self-Rising Flour sack and it would have knocked any young man to his knees. She was a true beauty – both inside and out.

When we got to her house, Beau dropped me off and went to pick up Phyllis. Jaye’s Mom (whom I already knew from band practice – and who obviously loved me) answered the door and sat with me in the living room while Jaye put on the finishing touches. The fact that this writer had been in their house so many times previous to this helped relieve the normal nervousness and anxiety of such an experience. As it is with every first date, the few minutes I waited on Jaye in that living room were a bit like sitting in a dentist’s office with an old magazine in hand. One could only wish that the rest of a life’s span would pass so slowly.

While waiting on Jaye to appear and Beau to come back, Jaye’s mom excused herself to go into the kitchen and check on supper. The delectable smell of meat and vegetables filled that great old house on that memorable Saturday evening.

Jaye’s dad stuck his head in the door to say hello. He was greasy from head to toe, having been neck deep in a car repair out in the garage for most of that day. And, her younger brother, Hugh (our drummer) also came in to wish me luck for the evening. “Be careful,” he warned, “my sister can be a real wildcat!” Hugh was messing with me – but only to try and help calm my nerves. In many ways, being at their house was a lot like being at home.

When Jaye finally came down, it was like a dream. She was dressed in a pink dress and white boots. Her hair was perfect. Her make-up, flawless. She was in every way a living doll. Suddenly, the only thing more intoxicating than the smell of the meat and vegetables coming from the kitchen was Jaye. She also obviously had applied in generous proportion (in all the critical places) my now-beloved White Shoulders perfume. Passing on the meat and veggies, I could have easily eaten her alive right then and there.

“Dear God – thank you,” I silently expressed. If I had died at that moment and gone to heaven my life would have been supremely complete. THE most beautiful creature in the world was standing right there in her living room next to me. She was mine for the evening. There wasn’t anything that could possibly be better than this.

“Let’s go stand outside,” she suggested, “Beau and Phyllis will be here in a minute.” It was now less than an hour before the 7:30 PM show, and the early spring sun was beginning to set on Atlanta. As we stood there on her front porch talking, I wondered why I had been so blessed. Everything had gone SO right, so far. How could anything that had begun so perfectly go wrong?
Just then, as if Satan himself had read my mind, our picture-perfect first-date bubble burst into a million pieces.

We heard a car round the corner, and looked in anticipation of it being Beau and Phyllis. Instead, it might as well have been the anti-Christ himself.

Jaye’s recent break-up with her boyfriend, Reece Anthony, had been anything but civil. Reece was the epitome of a red-neck’s red-neck. He drove an old 57 Chevy with wide tires, cherry bomb exhausts, furry dice hanging from the rear view mirror, and “STP” stickers plastered all over the back windshield. Reece had jacked up that great old classic car so high in the rear that the front bumper almost dragged the pavement as he drove. His was truly one of THE baddest “rides” in our school.

Reece Anthony also had the reputation of being one of THE baddest “dudes” in our school as well. He was a varsity football player known for his temper and violent play on the field. Reece was loud, lewd, unmannerly, and permanently entrenched in his studies at about a 1.3 GPA.

Clearly, his future lay somewhere between the chain gang, Alcatraz, and/or running the grill on second shift at McDonald’s.

Too, no one would have ever mistaken Reece for a pretty boy. His facial features resembled something of a cross between an ant-eater and a rhesus monkey. His sandy blonde hair was as nappy as a used Brillo pad, and his teeth were bucked out in front so exceedingly that he could have easily eaten corn through a fence.

With the knowledge that love is sometimes stone-cold blind, no one but Jaye and the Good Lord could have ever appreciated what she saw in Reece. Most of our school was of the opinion that she had definitely chosen far beneath herself.

Perhaps it was a combination of these and other things that led Jaye to finally break it off with Reece. Their ugly, very public, parting of the ways came just days before this writer showed up at her library table. Timing has rarely been my forte in life.

Reece, as I later found out, had already spread the word around school that if he caught anybody “messing with” Jaye, he would publicly and quite painfully separate them from the limb (or limbs) of their choice.

What a guy!

As we stood on Jaye’s porch that wonderful evening, Reece drove his old ’57 slowly, deliberately and LOUDLY down Sumter Lane. He coasted to an almost complete stop as he passed Jaye’s house. With his car idling and rumbling like a 747 waiting for take-off, Reece glared at both of us with an expression of hate and loathing so demonic that it could have only come from the bowels of hell itself. For a long, extremely uncomfortable moment, it was clear that come next Monday morning, my prospects for a future of life, health and/or happiness would scarcely be worth about .15 cents.

“Let’s go back in the house,” Jaye said, as she quickly opened the door and ran inside. Reece, realizing that we both had seen quite enough of his manly display of charm and grace, popped the clutch on his monster car, loudly squalled its tires, and left at least $40 worth of Goodyear’s rubber on the street in front of Jaye’s house. By this unforgettable demonstration of anger and immaturity, Reece left his mark not only on the pavement, but also on Jaye’s heart. She was visibly upset.

Thank goodness for Beau and Phyllis. They saved the day. Showing up just seconds behind Reece, they came in, sized up what had happened, and immediately began to joke, kid, laugh, and even poke fun at the childishness we had just witnessed. They single-handedly rescued the evening.

What a couple!

Jaye’s smile returned. This writer’s heart was restored. And, Mr. & Mrs. Hamilton came to the door and told us to go and have a good time. I am certain that Reece’s exhibition had greatly embarrassed them.

The four of us hurriedly piled into Beau’s old station wagon - driving like mad to make the movie on time. Along the way we laughed, turned the radio up loud, and generally acted like the crazy teenagers we were supposed to be on a Saturday night out on the town. The night was still young, and Jaye was still the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Life for the moment was still good, and the prospects for it getting even better were improving with each tick of the clock.

The motion picture, “The Andromeda Strain,” debuted on March 12, 1971. It was billed as a sci-fi thriller involving scientists who discover and try to stop a deadly new alien virus from spreading. The movie featured Arthur Hill, who went on to star in his own television series, “Owen Marshall – Counselor at Law.” His co-star, Kate Reid, later appeared in a supporting role spanning one full season on the popular night-time soap, “Dallas.”

Once the movie got going there were elements that made being there quite enjoyable. The popcorn was warm and buttery, the rocking chair theater seats were soft and comfortable, and the smell of Jaye in her White Shoulders sitting next to me was magical.

The movie itself, however, was underwhelming. The longer we sat there, the more it became evident - “Andromeda Strain” was a snoozer! At $1.75 a head (which was big entertainment money in 1971), even watching folks die from an out-of-this-world flu bug was nothing short of a lackluster rip-off. No sex, no skin, no kung-fu fights, and no John Wayne to save the day! Instead of applause, at climactic points in the movie the audience yawned.

Even Beau, the sci-fi addict, became visibly bored. His obvious disinterest in the movie was reflected in the lustful sounds emanating from the lip-locked, death-grip embrace he and Phyllis had lapsed into barely fifteen minutes into the picture. At one point, it seemed that a good many of the theater patrons around us were getting more for their money from watching, “The Beau and Phyllis Strain,” rather than the one they originally paid to see.

At several intervals during the moan-filled wrestling match next to us, this writer wondered what Jaye thought of her brother and his girlfriend’s carnal display. Surprisingly, she looked up at me several times, and not with expressions of disgust and disbelief. Instead, Jaye’s countenance reflected more of the sentiment, “that sure looks like fun, doesn’t it?” Each time, this still-scared-out-of his-mind, first-date, rookie would look away thinking to himself, “I wonder if she expects me to attack her like that?” “Should I try something?” “What if she slaps me and runs out of the theater?” “Would Beau make me walk home for attacking his sister - in a public place - on our first date?” “Why am I SO stupid?”

Each time, when Jaye would look at me and smile so invitingly, this writer would look away in fear – repeating the same questions as before. Finally, having worked up the nerve to go for the gusto, I turned to Jaye, pulled her close, stared into those beautiful green eyes, and, just as I was preparing to plant a “whopper” on her lusciously pink lips, she...

Stretched, yawned big like she hadn’t slept in several days, and whispered that she had to go to the bathroom. Tapping Phyllis on the arm, off they both went to powder their noses – and to likely compare notes about the kind of time they were having. One shudders to this very day to imagine what must have been said in that, “Ladies Room.”

Back in the theater, Beau was slowly recovering from his hormonal tsunami with Phyllis. He leaned over to me and said, “When they come back, let’s get out of here. This movie is the pits!” I agreed whole-heartedly. Beau added with a wink, “Look dude, I know you want some back seat time with my sister…You can count on me – I’ll make it happen!”

What a guy!

When Jaye and Phyllis returned, they both seemed relieved when Beau said we were getting out of there. This writer has rarely seen two young girls bolt out of a theater so quickly.
As we climbed in Beau’s station wagon and sped off to find pizza or a world-famous Varsity hamburger, or whatever, Jaye did not slide over close as she had done when the evening first began. Was she angry? Was she still bummed out by Reece’s behavior? Was she bored? Did she want to go home? Do I grab her and rip her clothes off now or after the meal? “Whoa, big fella,” I thought, “there is still plenty of time and she hasn’t asked to be taken home yet…you’ve still got a chance!”

Thankfully, Beau’s old station wagon was MADE for dating. It had great big, firm but really comfortable, bench seats. A whole gaggle of offspring could have been fathered on those huge, couch-like, slabs of spring and foam. Taking the bull by the horns as Beau had done earlier in the theater, your writer slid across and corralled Jaye on a small portion of that very large back seat. My rapid advance seemed to surprise her. My intention and hope was that my sudden “move” would rekindle her perceived interest from earlier – and that she would lustfully await the opportunity for her tonsils to be polished during our upcoming, “back seat time.”

We found a pizza place, enjoyed our meal, and drove away. As we rode around for the next little while, Phyllis and Beau took advantage of several longer-than-normal traffic lights. Every time we stopped at a red light Beau personally and directly shared his gum, his after dinner mints, and his tongue with Phyllis. Of course, she was more than willing to cooperate. I had never seen so much mouth-to-mouth contact in my young life – not even in emergency room scenes on Marcus Welby, M.D.

Each time, Jaye would look up at me as she had done in the theater – evidently waiting to see what I would do. Almost forty years after the fact I now realize that she was trying to tell me with those looks that she was, as my friend Travis Tritt says, “warm and willing,” for the same type of exchange. Dang it!!!! If only there was a way to rewind time and space. Please forgive me, Jaye.

True to his word, Beau finally drove over to Phyllis’ place. Her family was well-to-do. They lived in a very swanky part of Atlanta - in a large two-story, white brick house that looked almost like 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

As we pulled up, it was evident that Phyllis’ parents were “out” for the evening. Beau parked the car on a section of the street in front of the house next to Phyllis’. He made sure to position the car near a section of the curb that was darkened from the street light by a large, overhanging oak tree. Beau said that he and Phyllis needed to run inside for just a minute to get something, and for us to stay in the car. They would be right back (wink, wink).

What a guy!

Here it finally was. The answer to this boy’s prayer. He had the girl of his dreams, all alone and in the back seat of an old station wagon, on a darkened street, in the greatest city in the south, smack dab in the middle of the spring time when the, “sap goes to rising.” The stage was set.

This young, first-date Don Juan prepared to make his move.

Sliding closer to Jaye for one last desperate attempt at following Beau’s lead, he was again taken aback. Instead of leaning into him and making his move a success, Jaye reacted in a way that taught her young escort a valuable lesson about making hay while the sun shines – as well as the consequences that come when one fails to do so. She leaned forward, placing her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. She sighed, looked out the car window at the house and yard close to where Beau had parked, and said in a very detached and disinterested tone, “those people need to cut their grass.”

If there was any doubt before, it was now confirmed. Jaye was thoroughly and genuinely bored. The whole evening had been a flop for her from beginning to end. Her interest in this date, the movie, the pizza, and now this solitary moment together was nothing short of graveyard dead. Reece had opened the grave, and this writer cooperated fully by shoveling in the dirt.

Beau and Phyllis had been inside now for several minutes doing the Good Lord only knows what. Well, that’s not exactly true. Both Jaye and I knew. My time was running out. If I was going to resurrect this corpse of a date, I would need to quickly think of something meaningful, witty, reassuring, and supportive to say. I gently put my arm on Jaye’s back, rubbed her tenderly, leaned forward, and whispered: “I think you’re a great girl, and I really like your boots.”

Many years later, while watching another movie in the theater (this time a really good one) I was shown how such a statement must have sounded to Jaye. The latter movie featured the beloved character, Forrest Gump, as he uttered those immortal words, “Stupid is as stupid does!”

Forrest wasn’t the first one to say those timeless words. I am now convinced that they originally came from Anna Laura “Jaye” Hamilton’s mouth as she mumbled several things under her breath in response to my imbecilic utterance.

How in the world did Jaye keep from either laughing or crying? Was she now ready and anxious to go back to Reece? Was this her lowest hour on earth? Had I become her, “date from hell?”
Not only did this writer’s eloquent observation about her character and her clothing NOT move her to respond carnally, it also did not move her to even smile or say, “thank you.” Her only audible response to the boot remark was a half-hearted, “sometimes they make my legs sweat.”

Thankfully, Beau and Phyllis emerged from the house, having breathlessly survived their second installment of the flesh-fest that had begun earlier at the theater. When they got in the car, they asked what we wanted to do next.

I said that the hour was late, and I needed to be getting home. Being only fifteen, my parents had levied an 11:30 PM curfew for this my dating “test-drive.” I can only imagine that Jaye was never so glad in her life to see 11:30 PM come.

As the three of them dropped me at my front door, Jaye did at least have the decency to get out of the car with me. She smiled sweetly, lied through her teeth saying she really enjoyed the evening, and then proceeded to kiss goodnight this poor, stupid boy. In attempting to describe Jaye’s kiss, it suffices to say that she very graphically and capably demonstrated the oral ecstasy that could and should have been experienced much earlier in the evening . Dang it!!!!!

I thanked her, put her back in the car, thanked Beau and Phyllis, and told them all that I would see them Monday at school. As I walked to my front door, I looked at my watch. It was 11:35 PM. Five and a half hours - vanished in the twinkling of an eye.

I walked in the house and was immediately asked the typical nosy questions from both of my folks and my younger sister. Afterward, I went straight to my room and climbed in bed - never to sleep a wink the rest of the night.

Instead of cursing myself, my inexperience, and my royal display of stupidity, I opted for something more beneficial. I bowed my head and thanked God. I thanked Him that I had been so lucky to have dated a girl like Jaye as “my first.” I promised Him that if He would give me other dates, that I would learn from this experience and try to do a better job next time, and the next time, and the next time after that.

Thankfully, God answered that prayer a thousand times over as the years went on.

On that next Monday, Reece Anthony did not kill me after all. Beau glad-handed me as we passed in the hall. Phyllis came up and hugged me (giving me a first-hand sample of the anatomical blessedness of her upper torso). And, Jaye spoke sweetly and kindly to me just like always – as we exchanged friendly glances in the band room during first period.

Since that day, this writer has dated many girls and has enjoyed many romantic experiences. Also, this writer has now been married for almost thirty years to an incredible woman. Again, God has more than held up His end of the bargain.

But, the Good Lord knows - as does this writer - that even though there have been a lifetime of second chances granted in response to that night’s prayer, there will never be another night like that night.

And, more importantly, there will never be another Jaye.

If this writer ever really did finally become a man, or if he has ever been one at all in any sense…Or, if ever he was able to reach that coveted level of dateable “personhood” during those timeless high school days, he wants you to know, Jaye, that you were THE one above all others who helped make it so. You gave him courage and hope. The fact that you said, “yes,” in that school library on that fateful day helped a frightened, immature boy believe that he one day could be the person of someone else’s dreams – just as you were to him on that wonderful night in 1971.

Until his dying day, he will always be grateful to you for these things.

And, too, he will always remember that first date. It could not have been more special to him, both then and now.

Thank you, Jaye.

Finally, this writer has wrestled off and on through these many years with one single, lingering, burning, question. In concluding this account of, “our night,” Mrs. Anna Laura “Jaye” Hamilton Jackson, I must now ask it of you.

Do your legs still sweat whenever you wear those boots?

- David Decker

Spring Time in Georgia

2007-02-23T12:48:00.000-08:00

It’s azaleas, dogwoods, jonquils, and magnolias. It’s the reappearance of redbirds and yellow jackets after a cold winter’s hiatus. It’s the smell of grass greening, and the feel of breezes warming for the approach of summer. It’s spring time in Georgia.

Georgia is one of the most beautiful places on earth in the spring. From late March through May every year the good Lord blesses this writer’s home state with an early view of the splendor of heaven’s vestibule. If one spot on earth can be this pretty once a year, one imagines the eternal vistas that must await on the other side.

Spring time in Georgia also brings other things to the surface. Things like exposed flesh, testosterone, and swarms of duly infected “insects” of the human, male variety. Older Georgia men refer to this as the time when the, “sap goes to rising.” Whatever the process actually entails, one thing is for sure - all the young and budding, “Georgia Peaches,” become as vigorously hunted and intensely pursued in the spring as are Georgia white tail buck in the fall.

This was surely the case with one particular fourteen year old, freckle-faced, Georgia male. During his life’s first hormonal epiphany, he slowly began to realize and appreciate the superb creative work that the Lord had been doing since Eve. That appreciation was never greater than during those precious few minutes each day when a neighborhood female passed by his old home place.

Her name escapes remembrance. Her younger sister’s name was Karen. Karen was a high-school contemporary of this writer. There were three daughters in their family. They lived just around the corner in our little community of Riverside.

She was blonde, fair skinned, built like a, “brick outhouse with the corners knocked off,” and loved to go bare-footed during the warm months of Georgia springs and summers. During those unforgettable days, with the grace of a swaying pine in a Georgia breeze, she made her daily pilgrimage through this writer’s old neighborhood bound for Gary’s Store.

Mr. C.J. Gary had an old two story brick grocery store on the corner of Bolton Road and Main Street in northweat Atlanta. Bolton Road was a main thoroughfare from Atlanta to all points west. Her chosen route to Gary’s Store kept her away from the busy traffic of Bolton Road, and in the process brought her right past the front door of 2579 Forrest Avenue.

Thank you, Lord.

Mr. Gary had the coldest 16 ounce Cokes, in those classic, greenish-tinted, glass bottles with the name of the city of their origin on the bottom, that have ever been sold to mankind. So cold were they that a soft layer of ice would often form on the inside near the top - just below the bottle cap. Thankfully, Mr. Gary always had a case full of these carbonated beauties on hand at .15 cents a pop.

She evidently loved those drinks. Every day, she walked to Gary’s Store and came back with her beautiful lips wrapped around the mouth of one of those icy bottles. And every day, a certain young man felt as though he could kiss old man Gary right in the mouth for being such a savvy merchant.

One of the great challenges of Georgia, spring time, female watching is stealth. Young boys are as clumsy and obvious in their movings about as any bull in any china shop ever was. In their minds, all young men are as clever and undetectable as agent “007” when it comes to checking out a passing female…In reality, they are as obvious and comical as the late Peter Sellers’ character, “Inspector Clouseau.”

The lure as she walked by was to get close enough to see the dirty bottoms of her wonderful bare feet, while appearing to be merely checking the mailbox for the day’s mail - again...Never mind that you just checked the stupid thing barely twenty minutes earlier when she walked by the first time.

To make certain the voyeuristic intent of this charade was well camouflaged, the “smart” thing was to stick one’s head ALL the way INTO the mailbox. To this day, it somehow still seems reasonable and justifiable that a young man would go to such absurd lengths in order to behold the bottom of someone else’s dirty feet.

But, ahhhh….those perfect feet.

The other great hurdle was to not appear to be “stalking” her as you carefully paced every square inch of the road frontage of your parent’s property - picking up pine cones like it was your life’s calling. If you happened to run broadside into a large sweet gum tree, this faux pax was best blamed on, “those pesky sweet gum balls!” Either way, the pretense of yard work and landscaping became a sweet mission indeed whenever this glorious creature made her daily trip to and from Gary’s store.

Her name may escape remembrance but her body does not – a veritable masterpiece of anatomical perfection. As fellow Georgia native Travis Tritt sings, “…she had a body that was made for sin…”

Amen, brother.

Many other aspects of this beautiful specimen of womanhood have endured in one Georgia boy’s mind through the passing of time.

Things such as her coy smile, which said that she saw right through the pathetically obvious attempts to hide the real purpose behind yet another visit to the mailbox…Those wet, blonde, freshly washed curls falling all around her neck - gently swinging back and forth with the motion of her shoulders…Her wonderfully scant cut-off shorts and sheer white t-shirt as they supplely draped her perfect form…The rhythm of that slow, sensuous “strut” that she proudly paraded down that old neighborhood street…And, again, the vivid picture of her lusciously perfect lips caressing the frosty opening of that Coke bottle….

Mmmmmm…Mmmmmm….Kodak moments – every one.

These “precious memories” resurface with every blooming of azaleas and dogwoods and magnolias – and they have now for almost forty years.

Along with one other highly vivid recollection from that same time…

The shrill sound of a mother’s brazen, Parris-Island-trained, drill-instructor voice…loudly echoing from just inside the front screen door…barking out those unforgettable words…

“George David!...You had better quit standing out there with your head in that mailbox!…You don't need to be out there lusting after that heifer a-walking the streets like she does!…You better git your lazy butt in here and mop this kitchen floor like I told you to do thirty minutes ago!…Before I get me a switch and tear your sorry hide out of the frame, young man!…Do you hear me???!!!”

Ah, yes, spring time in Georgia.

"Before This Night Is Over..."

2005-05-07T17:39:00.000-07:00

Tom Cruise would have had nothing to fear from Scott Thomas. Ditto George Clooney, Brad Pitt, and Matt Damon.

But, on one April Saturday night in 1974, in the back seat of an old Ford Fairlane, a nervous young lady who had been talked into a blind double date by her first cousin was not so lucky.

Scott Thomas was tall, raw-boned, and clumsy as a yearling. He had a head full of flaming red hair, and a face covered with freckles. He wore Dickey work jeans and insulated hunting boots to high school - in the middle of downtown Atlanta - during the hippie dominated culture of the 1970's.

When he talked it was like listening to Gomer Pyle, Briscoe Darling, and Larry the Cable Guy all in one voice. If a baying coon dog could have ever spoken a human language, the sound would have been remarkably similar to Scott's talking voice.

From his boyhood Scott invented all sorts of interesting phrases which meant nothing, but sounded slick - at least to him. For instance, if you passed him in the hall on the way to class, he would answer your greeting with a high-pitched, "Aww-Gaww."

No one ever asked him what this utterance meant.

Also, instead of mimicking the fad phrases of the time such as, "right on!," or, "far out, man!," Scott walked his own path. When something really impressed him he would stick out his hand for a "low-five" and in a hybrid sort of yodel/whisper would say things like, "daddy rabbit!," or, "boy, howdy!"

On most days Scott smelled like "Cooter," his German Shepherd. There was absolutely no indication whatsoever that he had been present in Health Science class on the days when coach Kennerly talked about male personal hygiene. When Scott went hunting, he never had to wear manufactured scents such as deer urine in order to attract white tail buck or any other wild game. His natural bouquet was sufficient. They all seemed to accept him as kin.

One other endearing trait of Scott's was his annoying tendency to repeatedly perform a very unique head movement. The movement itself consisted of two animated blinks of the eyes, three rapid shakes of the head, and a twitch of the mouth - always to the right side. It was assumed that he picked up this quirk as a little boy, and then proudly wore it as his calling card throughout adolescence and into early puberty.

The maneuver was usually performed swiftly and with great frequency. It is unlikely that anyone ever counted the number of times this spasm occurred during a given time period. It would have been, however, a safe bet that its frequency was at least eight or nine times per minute.

(Scott fired off this movement with an almost rabid intensity on that ill-fated blind double date night in April of 1974.)

With distinguishing features such as these, it was pretty much a given that Scott's dance card was rarely if ever going to be full on any Friday or Saturday night. If the rest of the entire male gender had suddenly been extinguished from the face of the earth, Scott would probably still have had a doozie of a time finding a consenting female companion among the eligibles in his high school.

Still, this big overgrown kid was, "warm and willin,'" as Travis Tritt says in the song, and extremely available.

Scott's best friend was Ricky Stephens. They had been neighborhood running buddies since elementary school. Ricky was a handsome, dark complected young man about the same age and grade level as Scott. Ricky could have had any number of young fillies as his steady were it not for his extreme shyness. He wound up marrying one of only two girls that he ever dated.

This brings our story to the mother of all dates.

One Saturday afternoon in April of 1974, Scott was outside washing his daddy's pick-up when his mother came to the door and said that Ricky was on the phone. "What are you doing tonight?," was the first thing out of Ricky's mouth when Scott picked up the receiver. When Scott affirmed that he was free, Ricky said, "Be ready about 6:30, man...We're going on a double date."

Ricky went on to explain how that earlier that afternoon he had finally convinced Sherry Metcalf to go out with him!

Sherry was a cute little brunette with cat-eye glasses, who lived just up the street from Ricky. Like him, she was on the shy side - but had a great body, and had gotten a reputation as perhaps the best kisser in the community. This most likely came from her performance during neighborhood sessions of "spin the bottle" and "five minutes in heaven."

"Five minutes in heaven" was a lot like its cousin, "spin the bottle," except that for five minutes (more like a minute and a half) you got to go into either a nearby closet or other room, with the door shut and locked, and experience the sweet and blessed rewards of having had the bottle land on someone like Sherry Metcalf.

During one of these very sessions with Sherry, Ricky had fallen in love.

Sherry's acceptance of Ricky's invitation was contingent on him finding a date for Sherry's cousin Judy, who was visiting from Valdosta with her parents.

"What does she look like?," Ricky asked - before promising to find a second guy for the evening's festivities. "She's cute, smart, and has a great personality!," Sherry answered, somewhat defensively. Ricky understood immediately that this was female code for, "She bears a strong resemblance to something like a cross between a possum and a moose!"

"Don't worry, I've got just the fella," Ricky promised..."They will be perfect for each other...Be ready about 7:00!"

"What does she look like?," was the first question out of Scott's mouth. "I don't exactly know," Ricky explained, "but from what I hear she has got a bodacious 'rack' on her," (tapping into the moose image of cousin Judy that had earlier flashed through his own mind) .

At the adventuresome age of 17, most southern males are motivated to overlook even the most glaring facial imperfections, as long as the girl's bosom is equal in size to your average grapefruit or small cantaloupe. When Ricky had finished explaining the potential of cousin Judy's anatomical features, there was really only one thing Scott could say...

"Aww-Gaww!"...

The date was on!!!

When the guys arrived at Sherry's, Ricky was sweating it. "Man, I hope Sherry's cousin is not flat chested!," he thought, not wanting to disappoint, or be found a liar in the eyes of, his friend. More importantly, Ricky had hopes that cousin Judy would sport at least some cleavage so that Scott's energies and focus would be confined exclusively to the back seat. That way, Ricky and Sherry could have some uninterrupted peace and quiet during their own precious moments of anatomical discovery.

What a relief it was when the girls answered the door.

Sherry looked great! And, cousin Judy - well, let's just say that she was everything both young men had secretly prayed for, and about three cup sizes more. A rather skimpy halter top confirmed this fact before God and the rest of the sighted world.

Cousin Judy was truly nobody's Miss America, but it was obvious to all observers, trained or otherwise, that the Good Lord had blessed her in ways unquestionably worthy of a young man's gratitude. Scott's countenance was glowing - and his head was "going to town" with spasms of the special cranial movements he was famous for! Even a dating novice like Scott Thomas understood what a fine physical specimen this was that stood before him.

"Looks like old 'daddy rabbit' hit the jackpot tonight!," Scott whispered "out loud" in Ricky's ear as the four of them stood there on Sherry's front porch - exchanging awkward blind date greetings with cousin Judy and checking each other out.

Eventually they all piled into Ricky's daddy's 1968 Ford Fairlane and sped off to the local drive-in. A double feature of Godzilla movies was on the bill for that night. "Five minutes in heaven" couldn't have held a candle to what this particular evening was promising.

Little did anyone know that the ride to the drive-in would turn out to be more like, "five miles from hell."

Ricky's driving experience that evening was a busy one. For the duration of the trip it was: look at Sherry, watch the road, look at Sherry, check the rear view mirror to see what was happening in the back seat, watch the road, look at Sherry.

The girls were giggling and chattering away, likely out of sheer nervousness.

Scott hadn't said one word since they got in the car.

His eyes, though, were speaking volumes!

"Don't stare at them," Ricky whispered to himself, as he looked back and saw Scott blatantly glaring at the mammary gland paradise sitting next to him.

"Hey Scott, tell Judy about that twelve pointer you killed back in the fall!" Ricky was trying his best to snap Scott out of the trance he had fallen into - desperately hoping to keep Scott from offending cousin Judy.

After all...No cousin Judy - No Sherry - No Sherry - No fun!

Ricky had his work cut out for him.

Several very apparent attempts to get Scott to start talking and stop gawking failed. Even one of his patented, non-sensical noises would have been better than the lustful silence that was emanating from the back seat...

Finally, the dam "busted"...

Scott suddenly slid over in the seat, snaked his arm around cousin Judy's shoulder, and pulled her close enough for her to be overcome with the smell of "Cooter." About this time, Ricky had to stop for a traffic light. The drone of the tries on the road quieted. Too, almost as if it had been cued by an angel from above, or by a demon from beneath, the radio suddenly went silent - nothing but dead air.

All things had fallen into place...The world was on the edge of its seat...Scott Thomas was about to unleash the mother of all blind date remarks.

Cousin Judy looked up at Scott and smiled nervously...

Bless her heart...As well as the rest of the beautiful and bountiful chest that adorned it...

She looked deeply and inquisitively into the eyes of her blind date...

Scott pointed the index finger of his huge right hand in a wildly animated manner toward Judy's chest and boldly said...

"Before This Night Is Over, I Am Gonna' Git Them T_ _t_es!!!!!"

The thick steel walls of that old Ford Fairlane kept surrounding cars and pedestrians from hearing the screams, the name calling, and the initial crying and wailing that came as a result of Scott Thomas' revelation.

The only sound that was unmistakably distinguishable was that of Sherry's voice screaming violently at Ricky, "Take us home, NOW!!!"

One can only assume that, somehow, and at some point either during or after that memorable and eventful night, things finally turned around for the couple in the back seat...

Now, thirty years later, Scott and "cousin" Judy Thomas have three boys of their own!

Aww-Gaww!!!!!!!

LIB John Brown

"Bad Breath Borland"

2005-05-05T04:38:00.000-07:00

Being a high school senior is a sweet thing indeed.

Perks of all kinds come to seniors. Open campus lunch periods, serving as teacher's aides, and the sovereign power of being a hall monitor while class is going on, are just a few of the senior privileges that the lower strata of student population scum can only dream about.

One of the most memorable things about being a high school senior is that teachers begin to show you at least some of the respect that you felt was due way back when you first landed on campus as a freshman. Seniors have paid their dues, and commonly feel in every way equal to the full grown adults that have taught them on a daily basis for four years.

Tilmon Crowder was just such a senior.

Born and bred in the extremely working class section of Atlanta known as Bellwood, Tilmon was rough as a cobb and, at least in his own mind, tough as a pine knot. He was a tall kid with knappy, "brillo" hair. Some of his fellow students called him, "Peach," because of his frizzy, fuzzy head of hair. The tougher kids in school whom Tilmon knew could easily kick his rear end were the main ones who called him "Peach." Sometimes, though, in hushed and secretive tones, even the ninety-eight pound weaklings dared to refer to him in this way also. The nickname just fit him too well for his schoolmates to leave it alone.

When the Good Lord allowed man to invent the word, "loud," He must have had Tilmon Crowder in mind. His was the only set of lungs among a 1,400 member student body that could be heard distinctively above the sound of a 125 member marching band, and 1,274 other loud, screaming voices during the Friday football pep rallies in the school's old gymnasium.

Everyone wondered how Tilmon got to be a senior in the first place. If he had ever earned anything higher than a "C" it would have only been because some teacher's aide had been charged with entering the final course grades into the class ledger, and Tilmon had either offered a substantial bribe or else threatened torture (or death) by some insanely violent means. There were no division 1-A schools knocking on Tilmon's parent's door with the offer of a full academic ride. His only "degree" would eventually come from "Blue Collar U."

Tilmon, as one might guess, hated "schoolwork." School - to him - was social time, play time, and party time. Schoolwork was an intrusion, a necessary evil, and and his mind nothing more than an opportunity for the snot-heads to show off in front of the teacher.

Tilmon had his own ways of showing off.

Seeing them as his equals - or himself as theirs, Tilmon had no reservations about proposing things like: offering to rub the tired feet of the school's youngest and cutest English teacher, Miss Johnson, or volunteering to take the head football coach's brand new pick-up truck out for an oil change and lube, or suggesting that he make a hamburger and onion ring run for the marching band drum section and band leader during fourth period. Tilmon was always ready and willing to provide services that even the school's support staff could and would not do.

Most of his teachers understood that there is usually a Tilmon Crowder in every class, and in most every school. Normally, they accepted his brown-nosing tendencies with a hearty laugh or two, and then simply sent him back to his seat and back to work. To them he was little more than a modern-day "Eddie Haskell."

Coach Miles Duncan was the only teacher who couldn't and wouldn't tolerate Tilmon's mumbling as he walked back to his seat after one of these exchanges. Coach Duncan had been an All-America linebacker for a major southern university during his playing days, and was built like a small mountain. He once offered to rip Tilmon's head off and puke down his neck if he did not shut up the mumbling under his breath and get back to his seat. Tilmon seemed to understand the "gospel according to coach Duncan" as it was preached to him on this occasion. And evidently, he never doubted for a moment "coach's" ability to fully keep his promise.

One other teacher that simply could not tolerate Tilmon Crowder's overgrown tendencies was a science teacher named Mr. Borland.

Daniel Borland was a small, frail man, who wore large coke-bottle eye glasses. His modest teacher's wardrobe included neckties with double Windsor knots in them as big as coach Duncan's fist. In today's culture he would likely be referred to as a "geek." We just called him "Mr. Borland." That said it all.

Mr. Borland was not married. It was long debated among those who came through his classes as to why there was no "Mrs. Borland." Most of the football players believed that he was of the "left-handed" sexual persuasion. During class, all the athletes made sure to sit as far away from Mr. Borland's desk as they possibly could. The humiliation of having Mr. Borland to come stand by one of them and "diddle" his fingers on their notebook while he was lecturing was the one thing that no jock, especially during the 1970's, would have ever lived down.

For some reason, Mr. Borland did a lot of "diddling" back in those days.

The most blatantly obvious reason why Mr. Borland had never found a Mrs. was evident every time he opened his mouth within six inches of someone else's face.

It was his breath.

No one in the history of halitosis ever needed a mouthful of Scope like Daniel Borland. During his murderous, dictatorial regime, Saddam Hussein could have used "Borland Breath" as a substitute for Ricin, anthrax, or mustard gas, and would have easily killed just as many of his people. Mr. Borland's exhalation(s) could also have been used as an effective herbicide in wiping out entire fields of kudzu. Further, any number of auto body shops throughout Atlanta could have used Mr. Borland's potent aeromatic breath to strip the paint jobs off repair vehicles.

"Bad Breath Borland," as the poor guy had come to be known, had quite a reputation. Tilmon Crowder, however, also had quite a reputation. They were as destined to clash as two hungry rottweilers after the same dish of food.

Third period "senior" science class began that Friday morning in the normal fashion. Mr. Borland called roll, and Tilmon was the only absentee. Anytime there was a long pause after roll call, the class knew this to be a hint that Mr. Borland was frustrated about someone or something. "Anybody seen Tilmon Crowder today?," Mr. Borland asked the class. No one said a word. Students looked down at the floor, some stared out the window, and others whispered silently to themselves.

You could have heard a gnat's whisker hit the floor.

"I know he's at school today...I saw him earlier - carrying a bag of Hardee's food into somebody's classroom," a football player named "Tele Savalas" Williams (his real name) said from the back of the room. Tele had a twin brother who also played football. His name was, "Isaac Hayes" Williams. Somebody's mama watched a lot of Thursday night TV and listened to way too much R&B while she was pregnant.

"I saw him too," said Anthony Cleveland, who also wore coke-bottle glasses and big knotted ties to school - Mr. Borland had been his idol for four years. Some wondered if he was Mr. Borland's secret love child from some torrid affair with another science teacher. Naaaah...Anthony was most likely just a Borland groupie. Perhaps the only one in history.

No one ever got close enough to Anthony to smell his breath either.

Following roll call, and before Mr. Borland could go on with class, you could hear it. The loud slamming of the third floor hall door, the even louder whistling of "Stairway to Heaven," and the sound of Master brand padlocks on each student locker being "flipped" as the culprit walked slowly down the hall. These approaching sounds served notice to all - Tilmon Crowder was about to arrive!

When he rounded the door-facing and walked into the classroom, Tilmon was in a, "top of the mornin' to ya" kind of mood. As he walked by, he gave Mr. Borland a big "thumbs up" with one hand, while pitching an orange up in the air with the other. He didn't stop whistling Led Zeppelin until he had reached his table, kicking the seat out and plopping down next to, you guessed it, Anthony Cleveland.

"What it is, ya'll?," Tilmon greeted the class. The class did not respond.

"Mr. B," he said loudly, "Yo' man Tilmon is now officially present and accounted for...Anything I can do for you today - my good man?," Tilmon asked Mr. Borland with a wink - as he simultaneously peeled the orange - flicking each peel toward the trash can as if he were shooting free-throws - and making only about every third or fourth one.

One never knows just what the breaking point is for a person of small stature. Intellect, refinement, good manners, puny little biceps, and perhaps even bad breath can all be effective measures of temperament camouflage. Like the hidden but flaming red fires of a steel mill, sometimes the impulses that go on deep down inside a petite heart, soul, and body are actually more befitting those of a mad, raging bull.

That day, the seniors in third period science saw for perhaps the first time in their young lives the undisputed wrath of God - as interpreted and displayed by Daniel Borland. In almost a demon-like chant, Mr. Borland poured forth the fury of a provoked, mad scientist.

"You're late, again, Mr. Crowder, THAT'S 'what it is'!!...And, my name is not 'Mr. B'...Just as your name is not 'Timmy' nor 'Peach', as some of your friends and classmates are given to referring to you!!...My name - to you, young man - is 'MR.' Borland'!!!...AND...You are NOT 'my man' - nor anybody else's for that matter - mainly because of the childish, irresponsible way you approach not only your schoolwork but your life as well!!!...AND...What YOU can do for ME today, Mr. Crowder, as well as for the rest of your teachers and fellow classmates, is that you can start to GROW UP!!!...AND...Maybe, just maybe, you can begin today to act like a responsible student instead of the overgrown juvenile delinquent that this entire school believes you to be!!!!!...Am I making myself clear, Mr. Crowder???"

The more he said, the louder he became...The louder he got, the closer he came...Like a mad dog stalking its enemy, "Bad Breath Borland" was in Tilmon Crowder's face before you could blink!

The veins in his neck, the flush in his face, the clenched hand wrapped tightly around the ruler he always held during roll call, and the violent shaking of his tiny, fragile body were likely the ventings of pent up frustration from perhaps years of dealing with academic riff-raff like Tilmon Crowder. Whatever the motivation - one thing was clear - this normally dignified little educator was only about three seconds away from physically lighting into Tilmon Crowder like a buzz saw into a tree stump.

"Well do I, Mr. Crowder?," Mr. Borland loudly asked. "Do I make myself clear?"

Tilmon seemed lost for the moment - in either complete disregard for, utter denial of, or simple-minded indifference to, the danger that he was facing. The class was unanimously hopeful that their class clown would say the wrong thing in response, and thus wind up creating an even bigger confrontation - after all, as long as this kind of thing was happening, there were no dull science lectures being given. Too, they had never seen this side of Mr. Borland before. Not a single soul would have guessed that they would be witnessing this kind of show in third period senior science on this Friday morning.

Momentarily gathering his wits, and in typical Tilmon fashion, the reply that Mr. Borland waited in anguish for finally came...

"Whoa, Danny...Go easy, bro...Old Tilmon was just trying to help...", he said - shrugging his shoulders, rocking back in his chair against the table behind him, and looking around at his fellow classmates as if to gauge their reaction to it all.

Mr. Borland lowered his upper body even more closely to Tilmon so that they were practically nose to nose.

Before Mr. Borland could react further to this flippant rebuttal...

Tilmon Crowder made a hideously sour facial expression, fanned his right hand back and forth through the small space between their two noses, and drove the final nail into his own obnoxious coffin...

"Son!!," he exclaimed..."They don't call you 'Bad Breath Borland' for nothing!!!"

Over thirty years later, Tilmon Crowder still holds the exalted distinction of being the only graduating senior in the history of his old Atlanta high school to have received his high school diploma while in a full body cast.

LIB John Brown

"That Long Haired Hippie And His Mickey Mouse Watch"

2005-05-04T09:56:00.000-07:00

"Johnny" was a young Hispanic fellow originally from Brownsville, Texas.

He was an ace carpenter who came to Georgia in the 1970's because work was plentiful, wages were good, and there was this trouble back in Brownsville that involved a woman, liquor, somebody's stolen Colt Dragoon pistol, and jail time. Johnny was hardworking, dependable, and a whale of a good carpenter. No one bothered to ask him a lot of questions about his past.

Johnny did good work and unapologetically expected the same out of others. The foreman always put new-hires with Johnny knowing full well that they would be made to work, and that hopefully they would learn something while watching and helping Johnny do his craft.

Some plans, however, look good on paper but come apart like wafer-thin toilet paper when applied to the derriere. This was just such a plan.

Johnny not only expected a lot out of his co-workers, he literally and absolutely despised laziness, incompetence, sorriness, and stupidity. This, coupled with an extremely high strung, "Type-A" personality, made Johnny one that could never have been accused of having the patience of Job.

Building the ark would have been a real challenge for Johnny.

To top it off, whenever Johnny would lose his temper he would curse, loudly, and in his native Spanish tongue.

Construction jobs are famous, or infamous - depending on your point of view, for their imposing and sometimes deafening noise level. The collective roar of saws, hammers, drills, heavy equipment of different varieties, the slamming of building materials, and a hundred other things have made many a good construction worker lose his hearing, if not his sanity. However, whenever Johnny got on the warpath because of either a co-worker or some other matter that had activated his trip-wire, the tirade of Spanish expletives ("wet-back cussing" - as he called it) could be heard loud and clear above all other noises.

Only the voice of the arch-angel and the trump of the Good Lord could have outdone him on these occasions.

What a show it was to watch and hear - all from a safe distance!

Once, Johnny got a real surprise when he showed up for work one Monday morning. The boss had done found him a brand spanking new helper. A long-haired, older teenage kid had shown up right off the street that very morning saying he needed a job. His "resume": no construction experience, no hammer, no tool-belt, no measuring tape, nor any other implement of the building trade. The only thing this new helper had besides his clothing and tennis shoes was a watch. He was little more than a warm body. Evidently, that day the superintendant had been desperate for warm bodies.

"Where's Johnny?," the superintendant asked the foreman. "We've got him a new side-kick!" Everybody standing in that construction trailer that morning began smiling. Everybody except the kid. He was the only one who didn't have clue as to what was about to happen.

You could almost see the the steam slowly rising from Johnny's head and ears on that cool morning as the foreman informed him of, and introduced him to, his new co-worker. "Blankety-blankety-blank-blank, why you stick me with this blankety-blank long haired hippie?," he mumbled as the foreman walked away - trying to hide his ever expanding grin.

One of the other things Johnny hated with a passion was long hair.

"Come on, sweetie, let's go to work," he said - shaking his head and looking disgustedly in the direction of his new apprentice.

Anyone who has ever worked on a construction job knows the unspoken gospel regarding the three most important times of the day: break time, lunch time, and quitting time. Starting time is negotiable but the observance of break time, lunch time, and quitting time are not. B, L and Q time begin, without exception, at precisely the very milli-second they are scheduled - if not several minutes before.

It just so happens that on this first day with his new hippie co-worker, Johnny had left his trusty pocket watch at home. "Can you tell time?," Johnny asked - gesturing toward the young helper's watch. When the young rookie affirmed that he could, Johnny snapped, "Good, then one of your jobs is to let me know when it's ten o'clock - that's break time, and then when it's twelve o'clock - that's lunch." The kid said he thought he could handle the job.

The morning slowly passed with little or no incident. Everything Johnny told his new laborer to do, he did - but only after pulling his long stringy hair back out of his face for the hundredth time. Johnny offered to fix the hair in a pony tail, saying that he would fasten it with a piece of rusty clothesline wire that he kept in his tool belt.

The boy did not accept Johnny's offer.

After what seemed to be an eternity, Johnny's stomach began to growl. "Got to be break time," he said out loud. "Nope," said his helper, "only 8:45." Later in the morning Johnny said again, "You sure it ain't break yet?" The kid said, "Naaah, it's only 9:30." Johnny was getting a little weak in the knees when he inquired again about the time. The boy shook his head, "Not yet...almost...about ten minutes 'til."

Johnny had gotten busy and had almost forgotten himself when suddenly he turned - without warning - grabbing the young helper's watch hand. When he saw the time Johnny let out a loud shriek, "It's 10:30...dude, why didn't you tell me?" "You seemed busy, I didn't want to disturb you," was the reply.

Johnny's face turned every shade of red there is in Arizona's famed, "painted desert." He shook his finger in his partner's face and said, "OK...little Miss hippie long-hair...NO BREAK!...We missed it because of you!...If you let me miss lunch I'm gonna shave your stinkin' head with a rusty sheetrock knife!...Comprende?"

As the morning dragged on, the scene was the same. Johnny would ask the time...The helper would give it. Each time it seemed like four hours had passed. Finally, Johnny asked if it was lunch. "Actually, it's almost three minutes 'til twelve," the helper said.

Relieved, Johnny started taking off his tool belt and looking for his lunch pail. He was famished.

About that same time the foreman walked in, took one look at Johnny and said, "Pablo...(Johnny hated it when the gringos called him by that name...Since his first morning on the job, "Pablo" had stuck as THE name his co-workers used when trying to kid or "razz" him)...where in the (you know what) have you been?...Aint' you hungry today?"

Before Johnny could answer, the foreman facetiously continued, "Man, it's almost one o'clock...Lunch is done over!...What's the matter with you, son?...Can't you tell time, amigo?..."

Johnny took one exasperated look at his apprentice, reached in his tool belt, pulled out a gigantic framing hammer and threw it in the direction of his young timekeeper. "Blankety-blank you, you slimy, good-for-nothing hippie...You and that blankety-blank Mickey Mouse watch of yours has done cost me my break and my lunch...When I get through with you...they'll have to dig that blankety-blank Mickey Mouse watch out of your skull!"

The last time that young new-hire was seen, his long dark locks were blowing and flapping like a flag in the wind as he ran for his life out the front gate of the construction site - with Johnny hot on his tail, throwing every scrap piece of lumber at him that he could pick up - screaming and "wet-back cussing" to the top of his lungs.

The kid never even bothered to come back to pick up his half-day paycheck.

Ci?

Ci!!!!!

LIB John Brown

"Mama Ain't Paid The Bill Yet..."

2005-05-03T21:25:00.000-07:00

One other incident in the life of Johnny the short-tempered Mexican caused an emotional eruption not too far removed from the storied overflow of Mount St. Helens.

It all took place one Tuesday evening.

During the summer months, Johnny would moonlight doing side jobs for extra money, most of which he sent home to help feed his extended family back in Brownsville. Sound familiar?

He had been asked by a friend to make some new window screens for a rental house the friend owned. The screen frames were wooden, and in fairly decent shape. All Johnny had to do was re-cover the wood frames with screen material, and then spray paint each refurbished screen.

Piece of cake...In and out in one evening...Easy money.

When Johnny got to the house that afternoon there were children everywhere - from little kids all the way up to teenagers. The long days of summer had given them plenty of light for their play, but the oppressive heat made them as lazy as a bunch of slugs. The mom and dad of the bunch were not home when Johnny drove up that evening.

Johnny tried to talk to some of the youngsters when he first arrived, but to no avail. They weren't talking, they weren't moving, and they sure weren't about to offer to help him with the screens.

No matter...Johnny worked best by himself anyway.

He went about his business collecting the window screens, stripping the old screen off the frames, and meticulously re-screening each one. The sweat poured from his brow. The kids, lying around all over the porch, some in lawn chairs, and some even on the concrete driveway, watched with rapt attention. Johnny the master craftsman had a sizeable audience that day.

When he finished the re-screening, Johnny positioned each screen carefully, leaning them against the large water oaks in the side and back yards. He was now ready to spray paint the screens before returning them to the windows.

Johnny unloaded his brand new Sears Craftsman industrial strength air compressor off his truck, plugging it up to an outlet on the exterior of the house. He then connected the airhoses, filled the paint can with flat black Rustoleum and took his place in front of the first screen.

When Johnny pulled the trigger on the sprayer absolutely nothing happened. Dead silence! The kind of silence that fills a room after a child has said some taboo word or phrase in front of church company. The compressor was dead as a doornail.

Johnny checked to make sure the switch on the side of the compressor was turned on. It was. He tried again...Nothing! His young audience watched in silent assessment.

Johnny went up to the side of the house and made sure that the compressor plug was seated firmly in the electrical outlet. It was. He tried again. Still nothing!

"That guy down there at Sears has sold me a piece of blankety-blank crap!," he said out loud.

The children all heard this evaluation, but still no one said a word.

Johnny then pulled the compressor back over to his truck. "Could be a bad plug," he murmured. Being the well prepared professional that he was, Johnny always kept a spare everything in the tool boxes on his work truck. He rambled around in one of them for the longest, profanity streaming forth in his native tongue.

When he finally located a replacement plug, Johnny pulled out his pocketknife, sliced off the original plug, spent several minutes stripping and bending wire, turning screws, and making sure this new plug was securely attached to the power cable.

When this was done, Johnny dragged the air compressor across the yard and back into place, firmly seated the plug in the outside wall outlet, and again picked up the spray gun. With a mighty grip Johnny fired the now half-dried paint sprayer in the direction of the screens.

When no paint nor noise nor any other thing came forth from the sprayer and compressor, Johnny lost what little "christianity" he had ever possessed. Every profane Hispanic word he had ever heard came spewing forth from his gaping mouth. Wildly stomping the ground and cursing the day he ever agreed to do this blankety-blank job in the first place, Johnny violently kicked the side of the compressor, jerked the air hoses out of their sockets, and sent the paint container flying toward the street. Flat black Rustoleum went everywhere.

Johnny kicked a hole in every single window screen, and then flung each one across the yard like giant frisbees in the wind.

By now the kids were getting into it. They hadn't seen a show like this since the last big neighborhood gang fight that had taken place over a year before.

Johnny picked up his new compressor - wrestling it off the ground - and heaved it against the cab and into the back of his pick-up. He slammed the tailgate with such force that the compressor lurched toward the cab again, this time shattering the sliding rear window.

Each act only served to add another log to this amigo's already raging internal fire.

Finally, when all the toolboxes, hoses, hammers and other tools had been briskly deposited in the back of the truck, Johnny walked past each child who had been witness to this real-life demolition extravaganza.

He stopped and knelt down next to the oldest looking boy - who was still stretched out under one of the large water oaks nearby. "Son, tell your mama," Johnny began, "that I had some trouble with some of my tools. I can't get my sorry, dad-gum (Johnny was slowly and carefully cleaning up each word as he went) air compressor to work"..."Tell your folks..."

Before Johnny could complete his thought, the boy looked him straight in the eye and said incredulously: "Mama ain't paid the bill yet!"

"WHAT did you say?," Johnny asked - with eyes blaring as he raised quickly up off his haunches into an exaggeratedly erect posture. The boy repeated, "You know - da' power...Mama ain't paid the bill yet!...She said they was supposen to come out and cut it all off 'til she go down to the power company and pay it...I guess she didn't and they did!"

The next morning's headlines read: "Hispanic Handyman Charged With Mass Murder On Local Family Jobsite!"

Ci?

Ci!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

LIB John Brown

"If You Say I Say, I Say You Say"

2005-05-02T05:51:00.000-07:00

Nora Early (we called her "Aint Nore") was a tiny, little Alabama woman who spent her life married to the coal mines.

Her husband Walter died in his fifties from black lung. He had spent his life working in the mines throughout northwest Alabama, with an oocasional foray into saw milling when mining was slow. Plus, Aint Nore's only child, J.W., also worked the mines throughout much of his life.

Aint Nore had rough, leathery skin. She cooked and heated with coal all of her life, and spent countless hours out in the sun picking cotton and working in the fields. No amount of Oil of Olay (or "Oil of Old Lady" as the little boy called it in the old joke) could have restored her appearance. The only precaution against the blazing hot sun she really ever took was to wear a bonnet when she went outdoors. When you saw her coming from a distance, or passed from the road while she was bent over in a field picking peas, that bonnet told you that it was Aint Nore.

This wiry little woman could have outworked a whole truckload of Mexicans in today's screwy blue collar world.

Well into her seventies she walked daily from one end of her local mining and farming community in northwest Alabama to the other. She maintained sizeable gardens in at least two different fields situated over a mile apart from each other.

After uncle Walter died, Aint Nore's small TCI spousal mining pension and monthly social security check were all that kept her from becoming destitute. She kept the two gardens in order to have fresh vegetables to eat, but also to have something to "peddle" in a little roadside stand she built with her own hands out in front of her small home. The extra money, "...helped keep the wolf away from the door," she said.

Through this sort of hard work, and with more than a few blessings from above, Aint Nore survived. The cast members on these modern so-called reality/"survivor" shows could have learned more than a thing or two from Aint Nore.

The gardens and the walking were not only for bodily exercise and nutrition's sake, however. There was an additonal factor that was really the driving force behind such a work ethic.

Namely...Gossip.

The family often said that gossip was Aint Nore's claim to fame. But, in reality it was much more than that.

Gossip was Aint Nore's life!!

"Did yuns h'year?," was her patented way of introducing the latest headlining story. "I h'yeard yesterdee," was also a popular lead in for one of these priceless gems of hearsay. When Aint Nore began a conversation this way, you knew something good was coming.

In her community everyone knew that if you wanted something spread, Aint Nore was your girl. She knew more about any and everybody in the surrounding countryside than Equifax knows about you and me today.

On her daily treks to those two gardens she would stop to "rest a spell" at every house along the way. While there she would always accept a cool drink of well water, pick up a tidbit of "news," and drop off the ones she had collected at her previous stops. On her way back she would make sure to catch any of the places where folks hadn't been home during her morning round.

Aint Nore could have easily been a successful operative for the CIA. She could have found Bin Laden - within days. Not only could she have found him, she could have told you what he had been eating for breakfast in his cave every morning.

Some years after uncle Walter's death, Aint Nore's house burned to the ground one chilly fall night. A spark from the coal stove landed on some old newspaper she kept nearby as kindling. Like many coal mining families, and widows in particular, Aint Nore didn't have a dime of insurance. Her loss was total. Literally all that she salvaged were the clothes she escaped the burning house with.

Luckily, her sister, Aint Shug, lived nearby and was also a widow. Aint Nore moved in almost immediately.

They were a pair made in heaven.

Aint Shug stayed in the house cooking and listening to the party line telephone. Aint Nore stayed in the garden or out on the road transporting the daily news that Aint Shug had heard while listening to other people's conversations on the party line telephone.

Neither UPI nor CNN could have done it any better.

These two became as inseparable as Forrest and Jenny - just like peas and carrots.

When friends or relatives would visit Aint Shug and Aint Nore, one would cook while the other would share all the latest community tattlings. Due to Aint Shug's advanced age and poor eyesight the cooking was usually mediocre. But, the gossip always sizzled.

Billy Jorman, the Jinrites, old man Monty Quinn, and a host of other coal miners and their families became like stars on the Hollywood walk of fame. Thanks to Aint Nore, these as well as a host of other common folk achieved celebrity status in the hearing of all who visited these two dear sisters. No newspaper nor tabloid gossip columnist could have done a better job of dishing the dirt. In fact, the local community newspaper would often call Aint Nore to find out what was going on, and with whom.

Aint Nore probably never heard of the term, "copyright," in all of her lifetime. But she knew how to protect her sources, and herself. She would always begin a juicy line of gossip with the disclaimer: "Now, if you say I say, I say you say." Which, when translated, meant: "If you tell anybody I said this, I'll tell them that YOU said it first."

This warning evidently sufficed. Not until this writing did anyone ever fully expose Aint Nore as the borderline "double naught spy" (as Jethro Bodine would have put it) that she truly was.

There is an old saying that observes, "There's not much to see in the country or in a small town, but what you hear sure makes up for it."

Given this truth...

And thanks to Nora Early...

At least one five mile stretch of an old mining and farming community in rural northwest Alabama was never lacking for something interesting either to hear or to tell.

This writing - meant as a tribute to her - and in keeping with Aint Nore's fine tradition of copyright integrity...

Must also be guarded with the timeless disclaimer...

"If you say I say, I say you say..."

LIB John Brown

"Feel Like A Million Dollars, And Ain't Got a Dime"

2005-05-01T03:53:00.000-07:00

"Brother Tommy" was a crusty, old, retired mess sergeant. He served just after World War II, and was stationed in Japan for the last part of his hitch.

While in the Army, brother Tommy cooked for enlisted personnel and officers alike. He would often brag about a particular General or other high ranking officer that had requested brother Tommy to personally prepare a special meal or dinner of some kind for them. He always made you feel like a four star General when you ate at his table.

In civilian life, brother Tommy's cooking was horrid. Evidently just as bad as it had been during his Army days. The pie crust was always greasy and heavy with the taste of shortening. The coffee was deep black, and strong as any rot-gut moonshine ever brewed. But, both were always freshly-made and hot when company came by.

After his one true love, Ruth, passed away brother Tommy desperately sought companionship. The good Lord filled his need with church members who loved him more than his own real family did. For the remainder of his days his modest home was host to many. Invitations to visit him were spread every Sunday throughout the congregation - from preacher to parishoner. Sometimes he would cook a multi-course meal, and then call every family in the church directory imploring them to come over and help him, "eat all this food."

Like most older people brother Tommy repeated himself alot. As the brain slowly dies in an old person's skull, their memory grows as faint as the print on the pages of an old book or magazine. Brother Tommy's demeanor made the redundancy of his talk not only bearable but precious.

If a stranger asked brother Tommy how he was feeling, the answer, given with a hearty smile and chuckle, was always the same:

"About half dead, thank you."

One morning the phone rang in a local church's office and the preacher answered. Brother Tommy was calling. He said, "Hello, this James Thompson, (his formal name) and I'm mad as hell!!!" Taken aback, the preacher asked why brother Tommy was angry. He explained that his current preacher was doing some things he didn't think were right and he was, "hunting a church where they don't carry on any foolishness." The preacher assured him that the church brother Tommy was calling was just such a group, and that he and his family would be welcomed there with open arms. Brother Tommy's response: "Preacher, what you have just said is like pie in my mouth! We'll see you Sunday!" He and Ruth placed their membership the very next Sunday with that little congregation and remained faithful members there until their passing.

As a widower, brother Tommy delighted to go out to breakfast on Friday mornings with anyone who would agree to accompany him - but always as his treat. If you insisted on paying, either you didn't get invited back or else there was a stern lecture following the last cup of "joe."

Having grown up during the Great Depression, together with having lived a serviceman's life, brother Tommy had learned to be a good money manager. He could at times be, "tight as the bark on a tree," as my daddy would say. However, though he keenly knew the value of every nickel, to almost everyone he knew brother Tommy was as generous as a sow whose milk had come in. All he really had was money and time. It was his joy to spend both on breakfast for two.

There were countless restaurants in the growing bedroom community where brother Tommy lived. However, to this grizzled old Army cook there was one and only one place that served HIS kind of breakfast - "The Blue Goose."

The Blue Goose was a little hole in the wall restaurant with pine paneling that reeked with the smell of cigarette smoke, uncomfortable slat-bottomed wooden chairs, and large roach bugs that frequently showed up to watch you eat from their perch on the wall next to your table. Everything was tolerable in the BG with the exception of those roaches. Some of them were bigger than the popcorn shrimp served at the Goose every Friday night. You couldn't help but wonder sometimes how many of those critters had actually made it into that platter of shrimp sitting in front of you.

If you complained about the roaches in front of brother Tommy or ever attempted to reach up with your paper napkin and crush one he would scoldingly say, "leave that little fella alone - he's got to eat too!" A holdover practice from his Army days, we all assumed.

The waitresses all loved brother Tommy. When he walked in they showered him with hugs and kisses. He would tell them the same thing every week: "the one with the best kiss gets the biggest tip." Brother Tommy made the rank of, "dirty old man," a very sweet thing indeed.

On "Blue Goose Friday" brother Tommy and his guest for the morning would come in and take a seat, always at the same booth. No one else was ever allowed to be seated in brother Tommy's booth on Friday mornings. Once brother Tommy and his guest were in their seats the waitresses would all scurry around in a desperate race to see who could get coffee to the table first.

Regardless of which waitress was the victor, the greeting was always the same:

"How you doin' this mornin', sweetie?"

Brother Tommy's answer was always the same...

"Feel like a million dollars, and ain't got a dime..."

Those good ladies had become brother Tommy's close friends. They would smile, sometimes repeating the last part of the sentence in unison with him, and then fill his cup to the running over. Whatever brother Tommy ordered, no matter how off the wall it was, the girls at the Goose would just wink, kiss him on the forehead, and hurry off to do his bidding.

If the Blue Goose had a "red carpet" it always got rolled out to brother Tommy and his breakfast companions.

While waiting for the food to come, brother Tommy told and re-told every family and personal story that had ever come to his mind. Some of the one-liners he threw in with these yarns were priceless.

There were stories of his two sons, Bill and David. David was an entertainer in the Tony Orlando theater in Branson, Missouri, and Bill had served in the Marine Corps. There was also his adopted daughter, Carol, who had been a successful nurse and real estate tycoon somewhere in Arkansas.

The gleam in his eye each time he spoke of these things was like that of a little boy telling about his first roller coaster ride.

It might have been because we heard them over and over again, or maybe it was because we all loved this kind old gentleman so much. Either way, brother Tommy's, "Tommy-isms" are still repeated in conversations to this very day whenever his memory wells in our hearts.

Some days may seem like I do not have a dime, but it always feels like a million dollars every time I think of brother Tommy.

May God rest his soul.

LIB John Brown