Sunday, January 29, 2006

Would That We All Had a Ltttle Bit of Sergeant Kirkland in Us

Sadly, as I observe the daily news, it seems compassion, humanity, and love are moving further and further from the hearts of many in the world. When I find my own feelings hardening toward my fellowman I try to remember the actions of one Sergeant Richard Kirkland during the American Civil War.

It was December of 1862. On a hill named Marye's Heights, near Fredericksburg, Virginia, 6,000 Rebel soldiers under the command of General Robert E. Lee awaited the advancement of Union troops which numbered over 40,000. Lee placed the frontline of his Southern troops securely behind a stone wall at the front of the hill. Behind this frontline of defense, Lee placed the rest of his troops, four deep, on a sunken road.

As the Union troops approached the hill, they were mowed down with a barrage of musket fire. Wave after wave of Union men attempted to overrun the hill only to be slaughtered by enemy fire. By the evening of Saturday, Dec. 13, over 12,000 Union men lay on the ground in front of Marye's Heights. Cries for help as the bitter-cold night wore on could be heard from the wounded Union soldiers laying on the battle field. Many died from exposure and their wounds during the long night.

As Sunday morning dawned, the wounded continued to call out for help. Sergeant Kirkland, a 19-year-old Rebel soldier from South Carolina, approached his commanding officer with an unusual request, "All night and all day I have heard those poor people crying for water, and I can stand it no longer. I... ask permission to go and give them water." Permission was denied. It was deemed too dangerous. Finally, as young Kirkland continued to press, his commanding officer gave in. With several canteens of water strapped around him, Kirkland climbed over the wall of defense, and as astonished men from both sides watched, he approached the nearest wounded Union soldier. After giving him water, Kirkland gave the man his own overcoat. The sergeant then proceeded to assist the other wounded men as renewed cries for water erupted over the entire battle field. As the Union soldiers overcame their astonishment and realized what the Rebel soldier was up to, they let out a cheer.

Sadly, Sergeant Richard Kirkland was killed later during the battle of Chicamauga. As his buddies gathered around him, Kirkland's dying words were, "Save yourselves and tell my Pa I died right."

In world where it appears that people's hearts are becoming increasingly void of natural affection toward each other heroic deeds such as Sergeant Kirkland performed would be a welcomed sight. Yet, often heroic deeds aren't needed to spread a little light in the world. Sometimes all it takes is a friendly wave, a warm smile or "hello." My hope is that each day we will pause and think about that.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Chef Boyardee I Am Not

It happened one evening while the ex-wife was at work. As dinner time rolled around, the kids and I were faced with enduring starvation or my cooking; we should have chosen starvation. Now, I know better than to try and cook, but I feared I'd be thrown in jail for neglect if I allowed my children to go hungry. In retrospect, all I had to do, if brought before a judge, was to have him sample my culinary efforts. He would have awarded me a medal of honor--starving my children would have been more humane. In fact, when word leaked out that I was attempting to cook again, a swarm of flies pitched in to repair our screen door.

So, after long, poignant deliberation (three to four seconds), I decided to make goulash for dinner. Boil noodles, add sauce, and there you are; even I could do that.

I've always heard the best way to test the texture of noodles, when boiling them, is to toss one up to the ceiling. If it sticks, the noodles are done. I've never figured out, though, how to get those suckers down once they're up there. This situation is especially interesting if one has cathedral ceilings. Even more spectacular is if one has ceiling fans. Maybe around Christmas I'll dye some noodles red and green and toss them up to dangle from the fans hanging in my house.

You know, somewhere in my illustrious education one little speck of information escaped my attention: noodles love to surprise inexperienced cooks, like myself, and, when being boiled, bloat like a dead cow. I started out with a medium pot of slender, petite noodles and ended up with an enormous stainless steel mixing bowl of obese, monster-sized ones.

Now, I have this little quirk in my personality which drives me to always go one step further than needed when working on a project. Cooking is no exception. So, for a little bit of flavor I added some chili powder and red pepper to the goulash. Rifling through the fridge I found three or four jalapeno peppers. I thought, "Why not?" I chopped them up and tossed them in also.

A couple of bites and the next thing I knew, I was clawing through a mist which seemed to originate somewhere deep in my eye sockets. It was all I could do to stay conscious while grasping for any kind of cool liquid.

Oldest son--who was six at the time--fearing I had become possessed by some evil demon, grabbed his two brothers, dashed into the bathroom, and locked the door.

Meanwhile, I somehow found my way through the blur to the kitchen sink. Snatching a tall plastic cup, I felt for the taps and opened the one I hoped would give me cold water. I learned another great lesson that night--drinking water to douse an internal inferno, caused from eating jalapeno peppers, is akin to throwing water on a grease fire, it only makes things worse.

I should have take some hot dogs, held them in front of my mouth, and exhaled. At least then, my kids could have had a barbecue.

Well, with a frantic search, I finally found a jug of buttermilk on the top shelf of the fridge. After swallowing three huge sloppy gulps of the stuff, I coaxed my children out of the bathroom with the promise of cooking them popcorn on the stove. I even found what looked to be an excellent cooking oil for the job. I believe it was called...Karo Syrup.

Monday, January 16, 2006

I'm Trying to Watch My Language, Momma, I really Am

Momma always says that I should watch my language and I try. But it would be so much easier if our language weren't' so confusing.

Take the word our. We all know the word our is used to show ownership of something by more than one person, as in our house or our car. But put the letter t in front of the word our, and you get the word tour (phonetically pronounced too-oer). But wait. When the t is put in front of the word our shouldn't the new word be pronounced like the word that describes a tall building? Nooooo, that word is tower, unless one is pulling another's automobile behind his. In that case said person is a tower (toe-er), spelled the same but pronounced differently.

Now, if one's vehicle is being pulled behind another's automobile, that person can say he was towed, but shouldn't that be spelled toad? No, a toad is some little warty thing that starts out in life as a tadpole, usually named Polly something or other.

Then maybe the word should be spelled toed. That won't do either. People might misconstrue toed to mean someone who was clubbed by a certain part of another's foot. This is soooooo confusing!

The word or is another interesting word. Put a w at the beginning of it, an m at its end, and you get the word worm, a little creature I used to dig out of the dirt to use as fish bait. But when you add the w and the m to or, shouldn't the newly formed word be pronounced like the word that means the opposite of cold? No, that word is warm; even though when the w is removed you get the word arm, ARRRRRG!

Now, if all of this isn't enough to give you a headache then consider this, why do words often have more than one meaning? Take the word staple. It can mean a metal object used to hold more than one sheet of paper together, or it can mean a way of eating, as in staple diet. If I were one who didn't have sufficient command of our language and a doctor told me I needed a "staple" diet I'd leave his office so fast I'd be a blur to the human eye.

Here's something else to think about. Why is it that the socially acceptable counter part to swear words just don't have the same sting to them as do the swear words themselves? They're just words aren't they? Yet, calling someone an anal orifice doesn't have the same bite to it, nor does it carry the same satisfaction for the user, as does its equivalent swear words.

Go ahead and try this theory out. The next time you're angry with someone call that person a fecal cranium, or tell that person you're really urinated off at him. If you don't get laughed at you'll at least get a "what?" look from that person.

Another thing we do with language is we sugarcoat subjects that make us uncomfortable. An adult, for instance, doesn't pee his pants. He has an "over-active bladder." So, if one is constipated does one have an under-active bowel? It's worrying the heck out of me.

"Excess gas," now there's a sugarcoated term if ever there was one. This is a term that one particular product uses in its commercial. Have you seen this commercial? This is a product that is used to help regulate one's bowls, and in the commercial the makers of it claim that using it won't give you excess gas. Tell me, what exactly is excess gas? Well, trust me on this one. If you're interviewing for a job, if you're in a corporate board meeting, if you're stuck in a crowded elevator, or if you're on a date, ANY GAS IS EXCESS GAS!

Finally, there's the king of all sugarcoated terms, the digital exam. This is the part of a doctor's exam that, sooner or later, all men end up having. Digital exam, pa--lease, call it for what it is. Digital exam is nothing but a sugarcoated way of telling you that the doctor is going to stick his finger so far up your hind-quarters he can tickle your brain!

So, between the confusion, the double meanings, substitute swear words, and the sugarcoating of terms, watching my language is a very difficult task. But, momma, for you I'll try. In the mean time, I think I'll cook for my dinner a nice, juicy stake, wait, that would be steak--unless, of course, you happen to be a beaver.

Sunday, January 08, 2006

I Prefer to Call it Auto Fatigue

Helping youngest son search for a car to purchase has taken me back a number of years when I discovered why people finance their new cars on a five-year loan--it takes that long to recover from the battle fatigue, or as I call it auto fatigue.

It was in March of 1991. I was in the market for a truck but couldn't find what I wanted locally. I called an out-of-town dealership (about 40 miles away) and explicitly told the salesman what I had in mind, the monthly payments I could afford, and how much money I could scrape up for a down payment.

"Oh yeah," the man assured me, "we've got a truck here that just fits the bill. Its price is right in the ballpark, and it's even the color you prefer. Come on down and we'll work out a swee-eet deal!" (I've since learned that at sales school the instructors make the students repeat those expressions convincingly 100 times each morning or they get thumb screws clamped on until they do.)

I called ex-wife at her work with the urgency of a man pleading for his life to let her know she needed to get home as soon as possible so we could get to the dealership and buy our new truck before they closed.

As we rushed through the main doors of the dealership, a plump, balding middle-aged man, rubbing his sweaty palms together and smacking his lips, was eagerly awaiting our arrival.

"How do?" he welcomed us as he extended a hand.

"Nice to meet you, " I responded. "Say those are a couple of nasty looking thumbs you've got that there."

Well, the salesman I chatted with on the phone was right. The truck he had waiting for us was exactly what we were looking for. . .and a little more.

The truck handled beautifully. But something curious happened between the time we took it for a test drive and returned to the dealership; the price of the truck shot up $2,000.00! I didn't know inflation worked that fast.

Luring us into the interrogation room with the aroma of freshly baked doughnuts and hot chocolate, the salesman and a cohort locked the door behind them. When we refused to accept their inflated price of the truck, they began the process of trying to break the iron will of their prey.

They started with the "dark room and the bright light in the captives' eyes" routine. Ha! Who did they think they were dealing with anyway?

When that failed, they tried the "nice cop-mean cop" act. We didn't succumb to that either.

Next, came the gig of holding the customers' children hostage. Five minutes of that and they were trying to pay us to take them back.

As a last resort, the two salesmen used reverse psychology. Trying to make us think we'd broken their spirits, they asked, "What would it take to send you home in that new truck?"

"Sell it to us at the price you originally quoted us," was our response. Boy, did that fall on deaf ears.

When we'd finally had enough, I said the one thing all car salesmen dread. I mean, it's like having a stake driven through their hearts. They'd rather be boiled alive in hot oil, for they know it's the death nail of a sale to hear, "Well, we'll have to go home and recheck our budget to see if we can possibly squeeze out the higher payments."

As it turned out, after three hours of intense interrogation, we finally convinced our captors they'd have an easier time breaking down Mount Everest with a sledge hammer than getting us to sign on the dotted line without first going over our finances again.

For a long while after this experience I suffered from battle fatigue. Every time a salesman came near me I'd get an erratic heartbeat, I'd begin to stammer when speaking, and I'd foam at the mouth.

After years of intense therapy, though, I made a full recovery. So, while on this quest with youngest son to find a vehicle for him, when the flashbacks and symptoms of post traumatic syndrome rear their ugly heads, I only hope he'll visit me regularly after I'm put in one of those funny jackets and hauled away by the nice men dressed in white.

Sunday, January 01, 2006

Bumper Stickers and Personalized Tags...Keep 'Em to Yourself, Will Ya?

Bumper stickers and personalized license plates (or tags, as we call them in these parts) are fun to read. You can also learn a lot about people by what their bumper stickers and personalized tags say.

I saw a personalized tag that read, PRAY 4 YOU. The first thing to cross my mind was, is this guy so bad at operating a motor vehicle that he prays for others when he gets behind the wheel of his car? Take it from folks, if you see PRAY 4 YOU on a vehicles tag GET OUT OF THE WAY!

And speaking of religious personalized tags, I also read one which said, I PRAY. That's nice. I just hope if the guy prays and drives simultaneously that he keeps his eyes open. But just in case, I think I'll start praying while I drive. . .for me!

Then there's the tag on a car that simply says, BOOGER. Do you suppose the idea for that one came from a bad habit the guy never broke? But I really shouldn't pick on him, so let's move on.
Bumper stickers. Yeah, they can sure provide some good reading material too. There's the car with the bumper sticker that reads, HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS. Someone did, and in return got the Florida State Bird. You know, the one-finger howdy. But isn't that how it usually goes? Those who wear their religion on their car can be some of the rudest people on the road.

Another bumper sticker I saw on a car said, OUR OTHER CAR IS A ROLLS ROYCE. Liars, liars, liars! That car was beat up, the bumpers were tied on , the hood over the engine was secured with bailing wire, the trunk had no lid, and the car was missing its roof. If you believe their other car is a Rolls Royce I have some terrific swamp land you might be interested in purchasing.

The other day, I saw a sticker on the bumper of a truck that read, MEN ARE IDIOTS AND I MARRIED THEIR KING! Now, there's a marriage that's going to last. I guess we know who calls the shots in that relationship. I was surprised there weren't a bunch of divorce lawyers following that vehicle around.

Ah, but the all time, least favorite stickers are the ones that brag about a person's family. ASK ME ABOUT MY GRANDCHILDREN is one that just grinds on my last good nerve. It makes me want to grab these people and scream in their ear, "I don't give a #### about your grandkids!"

Or, how about, PROUD PARENT OF [you can fill in the blank here--Honor Roll Student, Eagle Scout, Juvenile Delinquet, Parolee, Etc]. Well, here's a news flash for these people, it's the same with your kids (or grandkids) as it is with your dogs, nobody thinks they're as cute as you do. And nobody wants either one forced on them!

So, there you have it, a few thoughts on bumper stickers and personalized tags. They can be humorous, and they can also tell a bit about a driver's personality as well. I guess that's why I've yet to put the sticker on my bumper that my sons got me for Father's Day, MOMMA DIDN'T RAISE NO FOOL...JUST AN IDIOT! I really should have a talk with those boys.