One Dad's Pride

Years have slipped by since my Dad passed. It is still easy to remember his looks, his habits, his laugh and the distinct aroma of Old Spice. However, what I remember most are the lessons I learned being his son.

LOVE
We are an affectionate family, but it embarrassed Dad to have affection lauded on him. He showed his love, devotion and care in much less visible, less outward gestures. I recall at his death my sisters and I remarked on how it unruffled him when you demonstrated public affection to him. Not that he did not appreciate it, he just did not know how to accept it without embarrassment..

STABILITY
Never was there a doubt in his dedication to Mom or his family. He supported her in everything she attempted to accomplish. His devotion was evidenced daily as they dined together at the same local restaurant. In the same place, with the same menu, with the same people, same old-same old. Mom and Dad was a fixture in their community, an example of stability. They gave everything a sense of normalcy.

INSIGHT
Dad generously gave advice, but did not so that you felt he was prying of judging. But when he said, “ I don’t know if I would do that”. You pretty well knew he disapproved of what ever it was you might be about to do. Dad saw an extreme cross-section of the peoples that make up the palette that is Alabama. He dealt daily with those who were trying to repair their transportation, as economically as possible; along with those restoring vintage automobiles and trucks, where cost was no object.

PREPARATION
Dad believed in planning, planing to plan and planning to plan to plan. No surprises, no mistakes. “Work smart, not hard. Examine the situation you are encountering and solve it the easiest way possible. It will not always be quickest, but will always be easiest.

LOYALTY
Dad taught me how to be loyal and why to be loyal. He demonstrated that respect came with being loyal. He cultivated loyalty from others with giving them respect. I saw the manner in which my father dealt with each customer. Treating each telephone call as an individual instance without preconceived notions. I also witnessed the respect he had garnered over the years by the number of former business associates and employees that attended his funeral.

FAIRNESS
Dad firmly believed in the “Golden Rule”. He gave everyone a level start. No preconceived notions. It mattered not if a customers or passers-by were chicken catchers, bankers, factory workers, former governors or scarlet necked farmers. “Everyone deserves respect until they personally wrong you. Give everyone a fair starting place, a level playing field,” he would say. “Don’t pay attention to education, color, religion or wealth. All of us are equal in God’s eyes.” I have been able to witness the reputation my father gained by his respect and fairness many times in my many trails. One instance that clearly stands out in my mind happened to me while my family was living in Tennessee.

On a rare afternoon off from work, I was “shopping” for a new “used” car and visiting several dealerships in our local area. After walking one particular lot, the owner approached without being overzealous. He inquired as to my needs and desires. He began making small talk, as successful sales persons should. Putting my mind at ease, rather than going in for the kill. He continued to probe with questions, narrowing down the features I was interested in including. Then switching to small talk again he asked, “Where are ya from?” Obviously, he did not recognize me as a local.
I responded in kind with, “Cullman, AL, originally.”
He said, “I think that I know someone from there. A real square-dealer. Do you know this fella?, a, I believe his name was.....?”
I grinned with pride and said, “Yes, I believe that I do know him. Especially since I grew up as his son.”
The dealer was startled at the coincidence of the occasion. No I did not purchase a “new” car, but came away from there with a renewed sense of paternal pride. It builds your character when we know someone who is built up, especially your Dad.

ADAPTABILITY
Change is necessary, although unpleasant. I have experienced abundant change in my life. Not as much as some folks, but quite a lot. With each change we lose something we had. We also gain new experiences and discover new places, new things, and maybe best of all new food. I’ve moved often enough, my nuclear family adapts quickly and actively. My perspective of humanity changes each time I move, I still don’t understand us.
My genetic code still puts unexplained passion for certain things in mind. My code gave me these passions. Faith in God, my wife, my daughter, my family; I know these are all given. So here’s the real list; “Real” democracy, Barbecue (sauce on the side please), Catfish and coleslaw, Music, the South and its people, Literature, Story Telling, Auburn (the lovliest village on the plains), Places I’ve lived and People I know.

LSIPLFA does not spell anything, so no acronyms please.

It’s a small, small world. We better realize it. Learn some lessons. Change our approach and enjoy each other and what we have. For far too soon we are gone and cannot say what we should have. We never know who is under our influence. We don’t know who we touch and how we touch them. It would be far too easy to see the outcome before the action. Some things would not get done.

I hope by striving to impart his wisdom I will be able to leave worthy tracks along the pathway of life. I only regret his view and outlook ceased with his passing. My daughter hardly knew him, just as I hardly knew my grandparents. Fortunately for my daughter, my in-laws have been there to assist in her growth as an individual. They have imparted their collective wisdom, knowledge and outlook and she has responded in a manner to which Dad would be proud. I am also sure my Mom would have some kind of enormous scrapbook with tattered news clippings and pictures, oh, she loved those pictures.

Dad spoke with me privately just moments before my wedding, with his philosophy on marriage and how to respect your mate. I still treasure this conversation with “Pop” as one I hold most dear. I strive to achieve this pinnacle of marriage my parents had, when in reality they had struggles along the way also and money issues, and anger. Those are normal occurrences. How we deal with them is how we succeed.
Life is not perfect, it is life.
Don’t fret Dad, it is still hot in July and August. She loves Auburn and she made the dean’s list. You would love her work ethic and dedication. She now is teaching others about our world and has a scientific mind just like her grandad.

Flashing Pigs

"One of the secrets of life is to keep our intellectual curiosity acute." ~ William Lyon Phelps

Flashing pigs dance along the eave of the cinderblock building as the sun slowly drops behind the water tower on the horizon. Pinks and blues color the distant western sky as well as the prancing neon porkers in the foreground nearer to us. The sign, by far the most costly addition to this establishment, flickers to life.

Greeting us as we step through the entryway a portly man directs us past the register stand. Our host conveys us to a hostess that directs our party to a table along the wall. Our party finds the table and four obviously mismatched chairs to our liking. As we seat ourselves through a layer of polyurethane, faces gaze up from a collection of photographs and sports cards. Mixed among these images are ticket stubs from concerts and sporting events. One aging purple stub, several years old, grabs my attention, the New Orleans Jazz Festival. Closer examination of the tickets yield a much more eclectic mix than first impression, minor league baseball, college football, hockey, Reba McIntyre, B.B. King, festivals, fests, and cook-offs.

Over my shoulder, an alto voice asks a familiar question of the South, “Will that be four sweet teas?” No assumption of soft drinks, water or beer, we are below the Mason-Dixon if any one had wanted otherwise they would need to speak now or forever hold their peace. Speak up now or receive the “Elixir of Dixie”.

Photographs of local heroes and personalities adorn the walls, with images of regional landmarks thrown in occasionally. Scattered among those Kodak candid shots and Polaroid pretties are antique artifacts, each telling an individual story of a checkered past. One could spend hours soaking in all the clutter, or culture, depending on your point of view. This environment reminds us of days gone and lives spent. History is a fuller and richer experience outside the pages of some book you remember from golden rule days.

“What’ll y’all have?” chimes the waitress gliding up next to me. I have not even glanced at the bill of fare to sort out the choice of side items. While my companions select their respective feasts, I closely examine the menu. Nothing to be found there unusual or life altering. However, the marinated coleslaw looks interesting. Not everyone dishes up baked beans that tickle my fancy. Sometimes, less really is more. My decision is to opt for fries and the coleslaw to accompany my large barbecue plate.

Over the din of kitchen noise and conversation my ears detect the strains of BB King and Eric Clapton playing through the sound system. This is becoming a truly positive experience. Smoked meat and Delta Blues are made to be enjoyed with the same breath. As the notes drift from table to table, patron to patron, the beat tantalizes and amuses as it aids in passing the time from order to delivery. An establishment such as this will tease and tempt all of your senses. Hickory and pecan woods each have a distinct aroma when used as fuel for a slow cooking pit. Years of smoking meat in that pit permeate the boards, bricks, mortar and shingles of the building. Along the sensual scale, my eyes and ears slip far below my overloaded olfactories. I hope that these temptations brought on by my sense of smell will be rewarded by my taste buds.

Anticipation builds as we await our meals. Absorbing every moment of this anticipation prepares me for my feast. Other diners do not even suspect as I gaze and evaluate their plates attempting to determine what triggered their decision. They are oblivious to my espionage.

Suddenly, I hear the sound of tinkling of ice as the waitress refills our drinks and utters and apology, “I’m sorry for the wait, but Friday nights are a real ‘booger’”.

I spy a weathered Frostie Root Beer sign, with the characteristic elf, next to an autographed baseball. My curiosity drives me to examine it closer, checking it for authenticity. Aging relics are used to create a measure of ambiance. Americans crave atmosphere, an experience, an event or a happening. Corporate America and its simulation of this experience are endangering these authentic locations. They are planting cookie cutter imitations of real “joints” delivering sterile versions of this atmosphere to society. Spotlessly clean simulations of old joints, shacks, roadhouses attempt to give young Republicans a taste of the forbidden. Without leaving the safety of suburbia or the mesmerizing malls of America, you cannot truly experience this joy, this satisfaction, this atmosphere. Corporations continue to strive to imitate this feeling by using flea market purchases and reproductions placed strategically to create the level of ambiance.

Dining is one of the rites of humanity, not just protein for survival. Not just nourishment, but socialization with each other. An interaction between human beings. I imagine ideas can be idealized, tales told, flirtations can also be felt, and egos be entertained at any dinner table. However, these “homey hold outs” are our oasis from the sameness of those corporate giants. Just how different is TGI Friday from Ruby Tuesday or Applebee’s? Don’t expect sameness if your choice is between Johnny’s Barbecue and the Top Hat. Each experience can and should be an adventure.

Over the years, being flung around the country I’ve pleasured and experienced many local color establishments that really tickled my fancy. Uniqueness, for its own sake has not been squandered on me. When I sit in remembrance of these places, I enjoy them over again and share them with those I know. Hot links in Louisiana, Chuy’s Tex-Mex in Texas, Schnitzel in Kentucky, Tenderloin and Milkshakes in Tennessee, Catfish in Mississippi, Seafood in South Alabama or Pomme Frites with Anthony Quinn in NYC. Each place has a special place and special memories.
The aroma of plated barbecue disturbs the air as the server hefts the oversize platters onto our table. I envy the choices of my tablemates. Baked beans never looked or smelled as tempting as those across the table do tonight. A quick prayer of thanks is then offered for the bounty before us. A little polite conversation breaks the anticipation and the feast is on. Neither the aroma nor wait has been in vain. The food has lived up to its aromatic billing. The ambiance and atmosphere converted the short wait into a pleasant adventure.

After what seems to be hours later I rise with my friends to leave and pass the weathered glass showcase. A mixture of Clorets, Certs, and Wrigley’s gum join t-shirts and bottled sauce on the shelves of the showcase. Hanging above and behind the cash register, on a makeshift clothesline are samples of the t-shirts in the showcase. America’s contribution to the fashion world, the t-shirt comes in many styles and colors. These proclaim the prominence of the barbecue from this business. Some are humorous. Some are serious. Some are just colorful. 

Stevie Ray Vaughn and Double Trouble comes out of the sound system as we exit the door into the parking lot. Just an exclamation point on a near perfect evening! It really does not matter whether its barbecue, hot links, fried chicken, catfish, soul food, seafood, or your favorite ethnic place, a little food and music between friends is perfect. Oh, If you recognize the place from the story, let me know where it is, ‘cause I would like to try it.

Lee in the Mountains

A poem in memory of a Great American.

Lee in the Mountains by Donald Davidson

Walking into the shadows, walking alone

Where the sun falls through the ruined boughs of locust

Up to the president's office. . . . Hearing the voices

Whisper, Hush, it is General Lee! And strangely

Hearing my own voice say, Good morning, boys.

(Don't get up. You are early. It is long

Before the bell. You will have long to wait

On these cold steps. . . .)

The young have time to wait

But soldiers' faces under their tossing flags

Lift no more by any road or field,

And I am spent with old wars and new sorrow.

Walking the rocky path, where steps decay

And the paint cracks and grass eats on the stone.

It is not General Lee, young men. . .

It is Robert Lee in a dark civilian suit who walks,

An outlaw fumbling for the latch,

a voice Commanding in a dream where no flag flies.

My father's house is taken and his hearth

Left to the candle-drippings where the ashes

Whirl at a chimney-breath on the cold stone.

I can hardly remember my father's look, 
I cannot Answer his voice as he calls farewell in the misty Mounting where riders gather at gates.

He was old then--I was a child--his hand

Held out for mine, some daybreak snatched away,

And he rode out, a broken man. Now let

His lone grave keep, surer than cypress roots,

The vow I made beside him. God too late

Unseals to certain eyes the drift

Of time and the hopes of men and a sacred cause.

The fortune of the Lees goes with the land

Whose sons will keep it still. My mother

Told me much. She sat among the candles,

Fingering the Memoirs, now so long unread.

And as my pen moves on across the page

Her voice comes back, a murmuring distillation

Of old Virginia times now faint and gone,

The hurt of all that was and cannot be.

Why did my father write? I know he saw

History clutched as a wraith out of blowing mist

Where tongues are loud, and a glut of little souls

Laps at the too much blood and the burning house.

He would have his say, but I shall not have mine.

What I do is only a son's devoir

To a lost father. Let him only speak.

The rest must pass to men who never knew

(But on a written page) the strike of armies,

And never heard the long Confederate cry

Charge through the muzzling smoke or saw the bright Eyes of the beardless boys go up to death.
It is Robert Lee who writes with his father's hand--
The rest must go unsaid and the lips be locked.

If all were told, as it cannot be told--
If all the dread opinion of the heart
Now could speak, now in the shame and torment
Lashing the bound and trampled States--

If a word were said, as it cannot be said--
I see clear waters run in Virginia's Valley
And in the house the weeping of young women
Rises no more. The waves of grain begin.
The Shenandoah is golden with a new grain.
The Blue Ridge, crowned with a haze of light,
Thunders no more. The horse is at plough. 
The rifle Returns to the chimney crotch and the hunter's hand.
And nothing else than this? Was it for this
That on an April day we stacked our arms
Obedient to a soldier's trust? To lie
Ground by heels of little men,

Forever maimed, defeated, lost, impugned?
And was I then betrayed? Did I betray?
If it were said, as it still might be said--
If it were said, and a word should run like fire,
Like living fire into the roots of grass,
The sunken flag would kindle on wild hills,
The brooding hearts would waken, and the dream
Stir like a crippled phantom under the pines,
And this torn earth would quicken into shouting Beneath the feet of the ragged bands-- 
The pen---Turns to the waiting page, the sword
Bows to the rust that cankers and the silence.

Among these boys whose eyes lift up to mine
Within gray walls where droning wasps repeat
A hollow reveille, I still must face,
Day after day, the courier with his summons
Once more to surrender, now to surrender all.
Without arms or men I stand, but with knowledge only
I face what long I saw, before others knew,
When Pickett's men streamed back, and I heard the tangled
Cry of the Wilderness wounded, bloody with doom.

The mountains, once I said, in the little room
At Richmond, by the huddled fire, but still
The President shook his head. The mountains wait,
I said, in the long beat and rattle of siege
At cratered Petersbyrg. Too late
We sought the mountains and those people came.
And Lee is in the mountains now, beyond Appomatox,
Listening long for voices that will never speak
Again; hearing the hoofbeats that come and go and fade
Without a stop, without a brown hand lifting
The tent-flap, or a bugle call at dawn,
Or ever on the long white road the flag
Of Jackson's quick brigades. I am alone,
Trapped, consenting, taken at last in mountains.It is not the bugle now, or the long roll beating.
The simple stroke of a chapel bell forbids
The hurtling dream, recalls the lonely mind.
Young men, the God of your fathers is a just
And merciful God Who in this blood once shed
On your green altars measures out all days,
And measures out the grace
Whereby alone we live;
And in His might He waits,
Brooding within the certitude of time,
To bring this lost forsaken valor
And the fierce faith undying
And the love quenchless
To flower among the hills to which we cleave,
To fruit upon the mountains whither we flee,
Never forsaking, never denying
His children and His childrens children forever
Unto all generations of the faithful heart.