My dad told me that when he got a chance, he would help me mount it my bike, but after several days of holding it in my hand and turning it over and over, I became a little impatient because we hadn’t even gotten a battery for it yet and I really wanted to see it shine. I thought it would probably shine like a spot light and I knew that when I rode my bike at night, it would surely light my way. I didn’t really stop to think about the fact that I was required by law to be inside by the time the streetlights came on, but that didn’t matter to me then. The light took one of those big, square six volt batteries and you installed it by opening the front cover and inserting the battery inside the chrome case.

After a few days, my curiosity and impatience got the better of me and so after my parents went to work, I began to wonder if I could make this light work without a battery. After all, a battery was just a source of electricity, electricity was electricity and we had electricty available all around our house. I noticed that on the bottom of the light was a big threaded rod that extended about 2 inches and there were two nuts already on the rod. I rummaged around the house and found an old lamp that we didn’t use any more so I took a steak knife and cut the cord, split the cord into the two separate wires and skinned the ends back to unveil the bare wires.

Now, I’d seen how these electrical connections were made before and knew all I needed to do was to wrap one of the wires around the threaded post and tighten the first nut down on it to hold it in place. Next, I could wrap the second wire around the threaded post the other way and tighten the second nut down to hold it in place. That would provide good electrical contact with the light and should provide more than enough electricity to the lightbulb!

I found an empty electrical socket just to the left of the television in our combination living room, dining room, kitchen and without further ado or thought, while holding the chrome bike light in my right hand and the electrical plug in my left hand, I inserted tabs A & B into electrical socket C.

I was instantly bathed in a bright blue light, the sort I’d never seen before from regular light bulbs and it seemed to me in the brief time it existed to be brighter than the sun! My bike light was sooooo cool! About the time I saw the flash, there was the sound of a what I can only describe as the very loud crack of a giant baseball bat striking a concrete wall. It was almost as loud thunder and unbeknownst to me in the moment, it was deafening.

Unfortunately, the light issuing forth from the underside of my bike light was so bright and short-lived that as soon as it went out every other light in the house suddenly went out at the same time, though it took a little bit before I could see well enough to realize it. I was still standing in our darkened combination living room, dining room, kitchen holding my chrome bike light in my right hand when I began to smell what I later learned was the smell of ozone and I wondered what could have possibly gone wrong. Did I put the wires on the light in the wrong order? Was my light too cool for our electrical system? Was it perhaps, just a coincidence that the lights went off at exactly the same time?

In the semi-dark, I turned my bike light over in my hand and examined the connection points I’d configured and found that the nuts would no long turn as they had been more or less welded to the rod and a significant portion of the plastic wire covering had simply melted away.

I don’t know how long I stood there dumbfounded, staring at my scorched chrome bike light, but somewhere in the back of my head, I began to hear a ringing sound growing louder and louder until I suddenly realized it was the telephone.

I answered the phone with a shakey voice and my mom’s first words were: “Paul, what are you up to?”

“Nothing,” I said, “but something funny is going on here at the house. I wasn’t doing anything and lights went out.” I don’t think she bought the story of my innocence for a second, but she remained calm enough to tell me to unplug whatever I had plugged in and then how to go check the breaker box. She also said she would deal with me when she got home.

I followed her instructions, flipped the breaker and got the lights to come back on. I tried to get rid of the ozone smell in the house to no avail and it was as strong as ever when my parents got home and forced me to tell them the truth about the chrome bike light and my failed experiment. I got grounded (no pun intended) from all electrical experiments for the rest of my life and my dad never helped me mount my chrome bike light on my bike. To this day, I’m convinced that their reaction to is what prevented me from becoming an electrician. They yelled and yelled about how I could have burned the house down, killed myself or worse yet I might have caused massive blackouts across the city.

In the end, being older now I realize that they were probably right and that had I wired that light just a little bit different, the results might have been far different.

Speculation aside, all I really know is that  for one brief shining moment, my chrome bike light lit up like the sun!

Anne Matilda Farrar McCaleb

We all called her “Grandmother.” In reality, she was my father’s grandmother and my great-grandmother. Anne Matilda McCaleb (née Farrar) was born on May 8, 1887 and died February 3, 1983 at the age of 95, just a little over four years shy of her 100th birthday. There was never any confusion among the family when speaking of Grandmother because both of my parents’ mothers were called “Grandma” and only Anne McCaleb was afforded the full-blown honorific, “Grandmother.” I’m not sure how that happened and I’m not really sure it matters.

What I am sure of is that I was a lucky young man because until I reached the age of 18, I was fortunate to have both my maternal and paternal grandparents and a great-grandmother still alive. More fortunate still, I was able to grow up with ample opportunies to get to know and enjoy all of these wonderful people. In light of the fact that tomorrow is Mother’s Day, I thought it would be appropriate to share a funny story about my Grandmother that happened when I was about 11 years old.

I encourage you to click on the picture to the right and take a closer look at this regal lady of the South. The straight line of her lips that might make her look stern is softened by the openness of her face and the warmth of her eyes. If you were fortunate enough to know her as I did, you would perceive the spark of mischief behind that face and you would know that this was how she looked just before a smile.  I looked closely at this photograph while preparing it to be published on the Internet and I have to believe that she would have been amused by the Internet and would enjoy reading this story almost as much as I am enjoying writing it.

Grandmother was married to Sidney Brisco McCaleb, Sr. and spent much of her life on Smithland Plantation in Kingston, MS south of Natchez. I never got to know my great-Grandfather since he died just a couple of years after I was born in 1965. To my knowledge there is only one photograph of me with both of my great-grandparents and I was just a baby at the time. Grandmother suffered from hip problems which apparently is a family problem that several of her children and grandchildren have inherited. Grandmother was in her 70′s when Grandfather died and because of her hip problems she was pretty much relegated to being in a wheelchair most of the time. She faced her disability and her loss with the equanimity and steadfastness of a grand dame of the South but by the early 1970′s she decided to close her home in Kingston, MS and live with her daughter Ella and her son-in-law Calvin in their home outside of Houston.

My parents now live on the land that is known as Smithland along with several of my aunts and uncles. Interestingly enough, Grandmother’s son, Sidney McCaleb, Jr and her daughter, Ella now also live on this land. The old home that Grandmother kept for so many years before she “broke-up housekeeping” is still standing, though it has fallen into disrepair and is only the shell of what it once was. 

There is an oilwell on Smithland Plantation and the money earned from the oil along with her social security gave Grandmother a comfortable life with her daughter and she was able to begin a habit that stuck with her until the end. Each year around the beginning of summer, she would board a plane headed for California where she would visit for a couple of weeks with her son, Sidney, Jr. and his wife and children. At the end of her stay, she would board another plane headed for Washington, D.C. where she would stay for a couple of weeks with her daughter, Anna Belle and her husband Johnny. When that visit was concluded, she would fly to Birmingham to spend some time with her daughter, Jo and her husband, Pete, and their children. And then, when the time was right and because Natchez, MS didn’t have an airport, Grandmother would board yet another plane and fly to Jackson, MS where my parents and I would pick her up and she would spend a couple of weeks in our home prior to having us drive her to Natchez to stay with my Grandma, Mary Louise Tarver and my grandpa, Roy Howard Tarver. At the end of her time with them, we would return to Natchez, pick her up and take her back to the airport in Jackson to fly the final leg of her journey back to her home in Houston. She used to say, “As long as the oilwell keeps pumping, I’m gonna keep flying!” The well kept pumping and she kept flying until she died in 1983.

Most of my memories of Grandmother start around the year 1975 after I was 10 years old. I barely remember her in a wheelchair, because sometime around the age of 85 she had her first hip-replacement surgery. As soon as she was recovered from that, she had the other hip replaced and went from being wheelchair-bound to being able to walk across the floor with two cups of coffee and not spill any. With her renewed mobility, and her spirits high, I believe she began to enjoy life a lot more and old age became a badge of honor for her. At the time of her death she was already planning her 100th birthday party!

I mentioned earlier that Grandmother’s face concealed a mischief that made her delightful to be around. One particular pleasure that she enjoyed after getting “ball-bearing hip-joints” as we used to call them occurred at the airports. During the mid to late 1970′s airport security began to tighten a bit after some hi-jackings and now people were having to go through metal detectors prior to boarding their planes. Grandmother loved to go through the detector and not tell anyone she had metal hip-joints just to make the alarm go off. She said it was because then they would have to “frisk” her. Apparently from the stories I heard, she like to do this alot.

One of the things I remember most about Grandmother other than her spunk and high-spirits was her addiction to reading. She was a voracious reader and constantly had a book that she was half-way through. It must have been a trait that she passed on because all of her children were heavy readers and I have also been blessed with that gift as well as an interest in writing. Her trips to visit all of her children were made for the obvious reasons: she loved to spend time with them, she loved to visit, and she loved to travel. But one less obvious reason that she made all those trips was she was out of books. She always left Houston with a bunch of books packed in her bags and she traded with everyone along the way. By the time she returned to Houston she had a whole bunch of new but slightly used books to read in the coming year.

It could be argued that Grandmother was reading to improve her mind, for science has shown that you must continue to use your brain as you grow older or brain function will diminish, but I reget to inform you that I don’t believe that was why Grandmother read books. You see, my Grandmother was addicted to romance novels. All kinds of romance novels. The stuff women take to the beach with them with pictures of hunky guys on the cover with torn shirts holding a damsel in distress in his arms in the middle of a rain storm. I remember sneaking peeks at those books and they were pretty intense. Today, those books would probably not get a PG rating if they were turned into movies, but at the time they were my Grandmother’s favorite entertainment. Perhaps, just perhaps, they were also a form of travelling for her. A chance to visit places she’d never been or to do things she’d never done. Whatever the reason, I do remember the book trading process was pretty well complete by the time she reached our house and she never was more than an arm’s length away from her book.

I also remember her black creepers. Grandmother never left her bedroom without being dressed, having her hair in place, wearing her “grandma stockings” and black creeper shoes. I can’t remember if they were laced up or not, but I suspect they were not. I remember the soles were flat and made of soft rubber and being black they went with everything she wore. I called her stockings “grandma stockings” because they were what you would expect and sometimes they were a little loose. But because she always wore a dress, she always had her stockings on. There may be family members who can shed more light on this particular subject, but for now I’m writing about my memories and my memory of Grandmother always included her stockings and her black creepers. I know you are probably wondering why I’m fixated on this particular subject, but hang with me on this because they play a big part in this story.

I suppose that I was given a great gift by growing up in Jackson and Pearl, Mississippi; for living in those places put us directly in Grandmother’s flight path on her annual journey and it made it possible for me to get to spend a great deal of time with Grandmother. She was as regular as the seasons and as soon as school was out, I knew it wouldn’t be long before we would get the call from Aunt Jo in Birmingham that she had put Grandmother on the plane there and she’d be landing at Jackson’s airport about 1 hour later. I can’t remember how I felt about it at the time, I suspect that I was like most kids at that age who dreaded older people staying in their home, I hope that if I was like that, I didn’t say too much about it to my parents. Once she arrived at our house though I know I enjoyed her company and now that I’m older I know that I miss her often.

Grandmother was a great story teller, didn’t mind having a conversation with a child and she was a pretty good cook too. She was especially good at making something good out of not much at all. I remember her taking all the leftovers out of our refridgerator one year and making a soup that I remember not so much for how it tasted, but for the fact that she threw in some macaroni and cheese left from a previous meal and the elbow macaroni bloated up and became huge in the soup and that was the first time I ever had noodles in a soup that wasn’t chicken soup! One year she came to our house and noticed there were wild blackberries growing on the fence behind our house and she told me to go out and pick the blackberries and bring them to her. I did so and soon I smelled the wonderful odor of a blackberry cake baking in the oven. All of the blackberries sank to the bottom so when she turned out the cake the blackberries became the topping. I will never eat a blackberry tart or pastry without thinking of the cake my great-grandmother made for me that day!

As I said, most of my memories of Grandmother seem to start around 1975 after I turned 10 years old. I believe this particular incident occurred in 1976 when I was eleven and though I’ve talked to my mother about the timing, I can’t seem to narrow it down any closer than that. Based on where we lived at the time, it seems about right. We were living on a street named Ramada Circle in the Forest Hill area of South Jackson, MS and I believe this was the summer between my 6th and 7th grades. We were living in one of the nicest homes I remember us living in at the time and it was a light brown brick home on the top of small hill because we had a steep driveway. Inside was a big fireplace and what I though was plenty of room to be a kid. My father and mother were both working hard to build their fledging auto-repair business in Pearl, MS some 20-30 minutes away from our home and in truth I was a latch-key kid. After school each day, I’d ride the bus home arriving around 3:30pm where I would do my chores (most days) and watch “The Gong Show” and “Dark Shadows” repeats and wait for my parents to get home usually by 5:30pm. It was a different time back then and it was much safer for a 10 year old kid to be left alone. I was an only child and didn’t have any brothers or sisters to argue with or fight over the television and I was pretty happy with the arrangement. At least from what my mother tells me, I was a fairly responsible kid excluding the time I tried to wire up my bikelight to 120 volts with a cord off an old lamp. Or the time I “accidentally” shot my best friend in the butt with my bb gun. Or the time I tried to jump a ditch with a 10-speed and crash landed and bent the rims on my relatively new bike. Or the time I…….but I digress.

We had decent furniture, but there was one chair that we owned that was kind of a trick chair. It was covered in naugahyde that was supposed to look like real leather, but the older the chair got, the more orange it got. I don’t really know that color it was when it was new, but I definitely remember that it had an orange tint to it. The chair was deep and wide and very comfortable. It wasn’t a recliner, but rather it was mounted on a base with five feet that stuck out in a star pattern. Over the years the springs had worn out and unless you were careful and made sure that the back of the chair was resting on against one of the feet, it was possible to get too comfortable and the chair would turn over backwards leaving you on your back.

When Grandmother arrived that year, Mom and Dad both explained to Grandmother about the pecularities of the chair and warned her off telling her that she should not sit in the chair for any reason and that she should stick with the other chairs or the couch. While Mom and Dad and even me were around and in the room with her, Grandmother complied with our instructions and she didn’t try to sit in the chair. However, as I said earlier, Grandmother had a mischievious and rebellious streak in her and I believe that it began to eat at the 88 year old woman that there was any chair anywhere that she should be forbidden to sit in. Several days into her visit, she began to plot her chance to try out the naugahyde chair. It was too inviting, it looked too comfortable, and by God it was off-limits which just incited her even further.

It was a sunny day when Grandmother put her plan into action. I remember the sky was blue with white billowy clouds. It was hot outside and I spent much of the day inside with Grandmother in case she needed anything and because frankly I didn’t like hot weather. Besides, I had been given the responsibility to look after Grandmother and it just wouldn’t do for me to be outside riding my bike somewhere when I had to take care of her. It was getting up towards lunch time and I told Grandmother that I was going to the kitchen to fix us some sandwiches for lunch. She was sitting comfortably on the couch reading her latest romance novel when I walked the 20 steps from the living room to the kitchen on the other side of the wall. I had gotten most of the fixings out and was starting to make our sandwiches when I heard this “WHUMPPPFFFF!” sound from the living room and then silence. My first thought was, “Oh my God! Grandmother has fallen!” and I immediately rushed toward the living room.

As I entered the living room through the doorway that joined the breakfast nook with the living room, I was confronted by a sight that brings a smile to my face everytime I think of it now, but at the time it was all I could do not to panic. I saw the bottom of the orange naugahyde chair with the five footed base looking like a star and rising just behind were my Grandmother’s legs covered with wrinkled and loose “grandma stockings” topped off by rubber-soled black creepers pointed directly at the ceiling.

I rushed to her side and fell to my knees beside her and touched her arm thinking she was dead because her eyes were looking straight up and said, “Grandmother? Are you ok?”

She blinked and turned to focus on my face and asked, “Can you help me up?” Relieved that Grandmother was still alive and that I wouldn’t be blamed for killing my great-grandmother, I struggled to lift the chair back up to it’s upright position, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t lift her and the chair. She was not a small woman, but I knew she was old and frail and I needed to get her back up as soon as possible. I considered calling the fire department or the police, but since she seemed ok, I thought that might be overkill. All I really needed was a little bit of help to lift the chair and then everything would be ok. My heart was still pounding and I tried hard to think of what to do. It was the middle of the day and all of our neighbors were at work so no one was at home.

Then suddenly, I remembered my friend’s dad worked nights and they lived across the street, so I told Grandmother to be still and I would go and get help. I got to my feet and ran to the front door and opened it to a blast of hot air and saw the blue sky with white clouds when from behind me low and soft I heard my Grandmother call my name.

“Paul?” she called faintly and then again, “Paul?”

I froze for a second thinking that now she really was going to die. Perhaps it was a heart attack. I’d heard of family members who had passed away from heart attacks and now my own heart was racing again. I turned around and rushed back to where she lay on her back with her feet still sticking straight up in the air and fell to my knees once again and bent low so I could hear her words clearly in case she was giving me her last request. Oh, I just knew this was it. “88 Year Old Grandmother Dies While In The Care Of Her Great-Grandson Of A Heart Attack After Falling Backwards In A Chair,” which was a long headline I know, but it would probably make the front page. Worse yet, how would I tell my parents?

“Yes, Grandmother, I’m here, are you ok? Is there something you need? What can I do?” I told her hoarsely.

“Could you turn down the corner of the page I’m on in this book? It’s a good book and I don’t want to lose my place” she replied.

Stunned by her simple request and relieved that she didn’t appear to actually be dying, not that I would recognize that anyway, I turned the page down, got up and went across the street to get help. Our neighbor was home and after I explained the situation, he put on some shoes and followed me back across the street to my Grandmother with her legs still up in the air. I don’t know if he smiled or not when he saw her, but between the two of us, we got the chair upright and pulled Grandmother out of the chair and got her back to the couch. After he was satisfied that she was ok, he went back home and I finished fixing her lunch.

Not much was said about Grandmother And The Chair that night. I don’t know if Mom and Dad had a talk with her afterwards about doing what they told her not to do. I know that I would have probably gotten a lecture or a spanking if I had done something they told me not to do. But then again, perhaps they chose to let the experience be the teacher. What I can tell you is that we never had to worry about Grandmother sitting in the orange naugahyde chair anymore and in the end she outlasted the chair for she continued to visit long after the chair was gone.

There are many things I wish I could remember about Grandmother. The older I get the more precious the memories of that time with her become to me. Grandmother was a great wit and storyteller, a good cook, a loving great-grandparent, and my summertime friend. I believe there is a Heaven and somewhere in it is my Grandmother’s mansion. I also believe that in at least one of the rooms in that mansion, Grandmother has an orange naugahyde chair that she can sit in any time she wants.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Have you ever heard anyone say, “You are gettin’ on my LAST nerve?” Perhaps, they were referring directly to you when you heard it. Have you every heard something that just “irked” you? Based upon this anecdotal evidence alone, I believe scientists should focus all their energies on nerve cells because that, my friend, is where the Rebel Gene resides. When a politician says something that makes the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up, like when they plan on spending more of my money that I don’t have; it’s my nervous system going into overload that causes the twitching in my left eye. People have described the sensation they feel when somebody “gets up in their face” and their response is to “bow up” in return. Again, the nervous system is in control of the situation and the contracting of the Rebel Gene is what makes the nerve cells tighten and initiates the “fight or flight” response; although it must be noted that the “fight” response is much more likely in someone with high concentrations of the Rebel Gene.

We’ve known for years that the Rebel Gene existed whether we’ve called it that or not. For example, in 1978 when I was old enough to go see ‘Star Wars’ I immediately recognized the explanation of The Force by Obi Wan Kenobi as a full on description of what I’ve come to know as the Rebel Gene. Obi Wan explained the Force this way:

“The Force is what gives a Jedi his power. It’s an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us, and penetrates us. It binds the galaxy together.”

Re-read Obi Wan’s quote and ask yourself these questions:

1. What cell in the body transmits energy or electrical signals?
2. What cell in the body is found everywhere in the body and in all places in the skin surrounding us?
3. Which cell in the body makes all of the other cells respond and react to the environment?

The answer is nerve cells.

So what is The Force that George Lucas was really trying to describe in Star Wars? I suggest that Mr. Lucas was really describing the Rebel Gene and it’s influence on certain people when he named it “The Force.” Let’s take a closer look at several Star Wars characters and you’ll see what I mean:

Darth Vader – The Force he used was from the Dark Side, but it made him no less a rebel. Darth Vader was perhaps the most formidable rebel ever! He would ‘bow up’ against anyone friend or foe. He only took orders from the Emperor and even that ended when the Emperor tried to kill his own flesh and blood. 

Luke Skywalker – Learned to use The Force from Obi Wan Kenobi and was a rebel at heart from birth. He didn’t want to stay on the farm with his uncle; he wanted to fly X-Wing Fighters and join “The Rebellion.” Luke starts with no skills and no future and ends up changing the universe. Classic case of high levels of Rebel Gene. 

Princess Leia – Luke’s twin sister, again strong with a rebellious spirit from birth. Watch how she stares down Darth Vader in Episode IV and talks to him like the dog that he is. She’s a Southern Belle with her hair in buns. Plus, she’s pretty good with a firearm and ain’t afraid to point and shoot anything that’s in her way. 

Han Solo – Cowboy Rebel. Extremely high levels of Rebel Gene, but no real plans and flies by the seat of his pants. Han Solo is the type of Rebel that you see from time to time that operates on the game plan: Ready, Fire, Aim, rather than Ready, Aim, Fire. He’s not too worried about the consequences and in case anybody doubts me on this, believe me Han shot first. Period. 

Obi Wan Kenobi – We didn’t see much evidence of his Rebel Genes in the first movie, but even he was shown to be a real rebel in his early years. Plus, when Darth Vader killed him, he still wouldn’t go away and continued to fight by helping Luke blow up the Death Star.
Classic rebel response.

Chewbacca - A different lifeform, sure, but a rebel just the same. He left a planet full of Chewbaccas who could actually understand him and hooked up with Han Solo then spent the entire first trilogy growling and howling so only Han could understand. Great in a fight and he wore a cool ammo belt strapped around his chest. Frankly, I know some folks who can’t talk much better than Chewy and they are all full of Rebel Genes so Chewy definitely makes the list.

It is my hypothesis that George Lucas was actually describing the Rebel Gene, but back in the late seventies, he simply did not have any scientific understanding of the Rebel Gene to rely on. Therefore, it was necessary to frame his story in language that everyone understood. Maybe it’s just me, but I also think he saw ‘Deliverance’ once or twice while writing Star Wars but I’ll save that discussion for another day.

“So what?” I hear you say incredulously, “How does this affect me?” Well, I’ll tell you. Technology has come a long way in the last 30 years and we know a lot more about this genetic component and it’s affect on people’s lives. Just because scientists haven’t located the Rebel Gene, doesn’t mean that we can’t see it’s affects or identify specific traits associated with the presence of this illusive gene. In fact, there are several dominant and recessive traits that can be observed in humans with high levels of the Rebel Gene present in their DNA:

Dominant Traits:

• Marked redness of the dermis covering C1-C5 of the vertebrae
• A tendency toward coarseness including a high likelihood of developing calluses on the hands. Language may also be affected.
• An increased and intensified desire to “Do It Yourself”
• A strong attachment capability to the living environment, friends and family
• A tendency toward stability and an unexplained ability to return to a stable lifestyle following tragedy or disaster. Combining this trait with “Do It Yourself” trait means that survival skills are maintained at unusually high levels of quality.
• A clear-cut distinction between right and wrong and a willing acceptance of a “Higher Power” in control of all things.

Recessive Traits:

• Low interest in paying $5.00 for a cup of coffee
• High distaste for “frou-frou” foods such as French Cuisine and a preference for flame grilled meat and starches. It should be noted at this point that there is no evidence that all French people are without Rebel Genes, but for some reason that is unknown at this point, the Rebel Gene has been almost completely bred out of the French people, which is why they are able to eat things like escargot and drink lots of wine.
• Marked loss of flight instinct. Scientists have always described the reaction humans have to personal threats as the “Fight or Flight” response. People with high levels of Rebel Genes have almost completely lost the “flight” side of the “Fight or Flight” response. It is their nature to fight even for lost causes and to stand their ground against insurmountable odds especially if a “Double-Dog-Dare” is involved. Some researchers have termed this as “Stubbornness” or “Hard Headedness”  but it is the natural result of the loss of the ability to run away. This loss may also be the reason why people with high levels of the Rebel Gene cannot back down from doing something even if they realize that it could be dangerous to their health. It is often easy to detect this moment whenever you hear someone yell, ‘Hey Ya’ll! Watch This!” just before it all goes wrong.

With all this in mind, it should be obvious that people with high concentrations of the Rebel Gene were simply born the way they are and have little choice about how they react to situations. The genetic code strictly guides and controls these people in ways that is often little understood except by others who have similar levels of the Rebel Gene.

One final note to all Rebel Gene Researchers: Assuming that you find evidence of the Rebel Gene, do not assume that this is a disorder or syndrome. In fact, the people who lack the Rebel Gene are actually the ones with the disorder. And if you start publishing crap like that, me and few other folks are liable to show up on your doorstep and give you a personal demonstration of the effects of the Rebel Gene’s influence.

You got me, jack? Don’t make me bow up on you!

In 2007, Pam and I went to see John Prine & Iris Dement in Thalia Mara Hall in Jackson, MS. All through the show we were treated to the bright light of the cell phone screen of a girl in the row directly in front of us. She must have been a music critic from Rolling Stone magazine or something because she was constantly texting someone her thoughts and feelings about each song that was sung, while John was still singing it. The screen was so bright in the dark, it was difficult for us to focus on the spotlighted artists on the stage. When she finally decided to crawl all over everyone and left the hall our excitement was short-lived and dissolved into complete disappointment when she returned shortly thereafter. She was walking kinda funny, but her male friends seemed very pleased when she got back because she was able to smuggle in what must have been a case of beer between her legs. She made it back to her seat and started passing out beer and everyone started popping tops and having a great time. It wasn’t long before she just had to text someone and explain how she did it. Then, they all had to make individual bathroom runs because of all the beer they drank.

Either my wife and I are picking the wrong venues to see artists and shows, or this is not an unusual occurrence these days. When we went to see the ‘Mikado’ at the MSU/Riley Center Opera House, the emcee came out on stage and politely asked everyone to turn off their cell phones. As he made his point, I thought about just how often I hear ringing phones or worse ring tones in shows, theaters, church services, and special events. I swear, if I hear Crazy Frog starting up his motor-scooter again when my preacher is praying, I’ll go crazy. And, I’m sure God ain’t far from the breaking point either. Has everyone gone mad? Are we so afraid of missing a call that we are willing to forget that there are other people in the room with us?

Electronic Social Graces are gone, if they ever existed. And, it is not just cell phones that are a problem. Our lives are so involved with electronics that the erosion of our civility to each other is happening everywhere. I love my mp3 player, but I hate seeing drivers with earphones in their ears as they drive down the road. The only time I used to see people with earphones was at a ballgame so they could listen to their favorite sportscaster call the game and back then, people only had one ear piece so they could still hear what was going on around them.

These days, I wouldn’t be surprised to see someone bring a portable dvd player to a restaurant to watch a movie. No, wait, I DID see that! My wife and I went to Red Lobster for dinner with some friends and a couple was seated at the table next to us a little while after we arrived. Without warning, the guy pulled out a portable dvd player and popped in a movie, turned up the volume and they began to watch the movie before they even ordered. It brought a whole new meaning to the concept of “Dinner & A Movie.” It is no longer “Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner” and more like “Guess What They Brought WIth Them.” After watching all the heads turn in the room, we finally asked the waitress to do something. She went and got the manager who at least asked them to turn the volume down.

We all get spam email and while I really appreciate that so many people are truly concerned about my sexual well-being, I’ve gotten used to just ignoring most of it. I got an email the other day signed ‘John.’ There was a single sentence in the message and there was no identifying corporation name in the return email address. I knew the message wasn’t spam, because ‘John’ was writing to ask that I call him back about a specific technical support problem he was having with a program I wrote, but I swear I couldn’t figure out which customer he was because I have a lot of clients named ‘John.’ I didn’t want to just email him back and ask, ‘Who Are You?” because I thought that would have been rude, so I spent about 24 hours trying to figure out who he was, then finding his phone number so I could call him back. It would have taken about 2 minutes for him to set up an auto-signature to show at the bottom of each one of his out-going messages with his full name, company, and telephone number and had he done so, I could have called him back 30 seconds after receiving his email. As it was, he didn’t get prompt service because he didn’t identify himself clearly.

Just the other day, I was in the check-out line in the dollar store when the person in front of me said, “How’s it going?” and since I live in a friendly place and I’m a friendly guy, I said, “Not bad, working too hard, but things are good! How about with you?” At which point the person turned their head around and looked at me with a strange, irratated look and said, “Can you keep it down? I’m on the phone.” Then, I saw the tiny BlueTooth earpiece in her ear and I felt stupid. It’s not fair, if you are going to wear one of those things and talk to someone in the middle of a store, you have to figure that someone is either going to assume you are talking to them, or worse talking to yourself sometimes! But the earpieces keep getting smaller and harder to spot and having friendly chats with strangers is going the way of the Edsel. Maybe these earpieces should have a light that sticks up above their head and it flashes when they are talking on the phone. That way everyone will know they are on the phone and we can laugh at how stupid they look with this light flashing above their head.

A recent news item came out about a guy who was looking at porn in a library and when the librarian finally called the cops, he was sent away and she was fired. At what point, did our Electronic Social Graces devolve to the point where those with good taste and good sense are the ones persecuted instead of those who have none.

There are no Manners Police and there probably won’t be a push to incarcerate those people without Electronic Social Graces however satisfying that would be. But peer pressure can help a lot. After all, we are beginning to win the war against those who insist on sending email messages written in upper case. I’m seeing fewer and fewer of these ‘screaming’ messages as time goes by, so I know it is possible to make a difference.

Next time someone begins texting in a movie theater or concert, politely remind him or her that the light of their phone is just as annoying as the ringing. Ask your friends to put auto-signatures on their emails and point out that you can call them a lot quicker if you don’t have to look up their telephone numbers. It won’t change the world over night, but perhaps we can all enjoy the next movie we see together just a little bit more. Until then, I guess I’ll just have to get used to seeing spots in my eyes and hearing ringing in my ears.

I’m a good American, I like to eat at my local Chinese restaurant using my chopsticks to eat my fried shrimp and a healthy portion of General Tso’s Chicken. And after I finish my meal, sometimes I like to eat a bite of ice cream just to settle in amongst the sweet and sour flavors and sooth any potential disagreements that might be brewing down there.

But I have come to the conclusion that some, not all, but a bunch of Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream eaters either need physical therapy or new glasses, because every stinkin’ time I try to fix myself a bowl of Neapolitan (personally mixing the chocolate, vanilla and strawberry flavors in exactly the correct proportions), I find Green, MINT CHOCOLATE CHIP ICE CREAM MIXED IN WITH THE VANILLA!

I don’t know how hard it is for people to understand that no matter what weird, ice cream mixture you want ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS get the vanilla FIRST! You see, vanilla is one of those flavors that is easily contaminated by chocolate, cheesecake, and yes, mint chocolate chip. Being white contaminates show up especially well in vanilla. Mint chocolate chip being green, and mint being mint, changes the flavor and appeal of Neapolitan completely. There is no green in Neapolitan!

I’m a careful, quiet sort of guy who considers his fellow man as a neighbor and looks out for that neighbor in careful, quiet sort of ways that maybe he or she will never see and probably never appreciate unless I don’t do those careful, quiet sort of things and it irritates the stew out of them. For example, in the process of making my preferred Neapolitan ice cream mix, I wash the dipping spoon vigorously in the hot water they provide at the restaurant and then careful dip out the exact amount of Vanilla that I will need to make the perfect bowl of ice cream. Quick dip in the hot water bowl with the spoon and then I dip up a smaller portion of Strawberry (with real frozen strawberries mixed in, preferably big strawberries), being careful to dip a second time to make sure that I’ve gotten any and all residual Vanilla that came off the spoon and was left in the Strawberry. Quick dip in the hot water again, and then straight to the Chocolate, where I get an even smaller portion of Chocolate since the flavor is so strong it can actually overwhelm the subtle flavors of the Vanilla and Strawberry to the point where you might as well have just gotten Chocolate and forgotten about mixing anything. I would think the perfect ratio is approximately 3-2-1 with Vanilla, Strawberry, and Chocolate respectively.

However, my happy world of Neapolitan has been destroyed on too many occasions when I wash the dipping spoon vigorously in the hot water and turn to get the Vanilla and find horror of horrors: GREEN, MINT CHOCOLATE CHIP ice cream spots all over the Vanilla and mixed in to the point where a line forms behind me as I attempt to dig around all of the green spots searching and hoping for pristine Vanilla to dip into my cup. There are snorts of attitude coming from behind me as I simply attempt to maintain the perfect balance between pure Vanilla and Strawberry and Chocolate that is so hard to attain especially when bespotted with huge green chunks of mint flavored ice cream.

It is in these moments when I think that people who like Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream must be from another planet, because what human would soil the favorite flavor of ice cream of another human intentionally? What human would care so little for his or her fellow man that they would do something so thoughtless as to mix the green stuff with the white stuff by getting the green stuff first and then contaminating the white stuff by dipping their spoon directly from green to white?

Surely, I’m not the only one who understands that Vanilla is a fragile flavor and is easily corrupted and therefore must be protected. For example, if you mix Vanilla and Chocolate, the result still tastes like Chocolate. It doesn’t magically change to Vanilla unless you mix a whole lot of Vanilla in with the Chocolate. And it only takes just a little bit of Chocolate or any other flavor to change Vanilla into something else.

Why can’t these Mint Chocolate Chip people see this? Are they blind or are they just in-human. Forgive me if I seem a little out of sorts, but the balance of ice cream flavors are changed forever the first time you take a bit of what you expect to be a wonderful, cacophony of Neapolitan flavors only to have your first taste include a big old green hunk of Mint Chocolate Chip. Intolerable. It is simply Intolerable and I’m not going to take it any more.

Therefore, whenever I come across a nest of these in-human, Mint Chocolate Chip eaters who cannot seem to keep their flavor to themselves, I intend on dipping up bits of other flavors and dropping them in the Mint Chocolate Chip. Stuff like Green Tea, Birthday Cake, and Buttered Pecan and we’ll just see how they like that. Sooner or later these aliens will get the picture and understand that they can’t just come here and screw around with Vanilla without there being an uprising to push back their slovenly ways and peculiar tastes.

Long Live Neapolitan!

Editor’s Note:
The views expressed by this diatribe do not reflect the views of this website or necessarily anyone associated with this website. Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream lovers should refrain from sending death threats or other types of malicious messages to the management since this article was written to entertain, enlighten and perhaps bring a smile to someone’s face, NOT to enflame the already sensitive tensions between the Vanilla and Green Mint Chocolate Chip factions. If you recognize yourself in this article in anyway, you are probably spending too much time at the ice cream bar at the local Chinese Restaurant anyway.

I’ve have watched Windows from the time it was first released and have used and supported it for many years. Although I’m not usually given to conspiracy theories, I’ve come to believe that I’ve discovered one and I really want to share it.

Earlier this year, Microsoft released the latest version of Windows called Vista and announced that XP would be discontinued. Immediately, the mass-market computer manufacturers dropped XP and began shipping all of their computers pre-installed with Vista. Quickly, the only computers you could find at Dell, Gateway, Walmart, OfficeMax, and OfficeDepot were Vista computers. The chaos began in earnest when early adopters of the new operating system realized that much of their existing software simply would not run under Vista because the new, tighter security shut down older software’s ability to operate.

Microsoft never seems to take into consideration that most businesses are not like giant corporations who replace all of their computers and software every two years. Smaller businesses tend to find stable, dependable software that works all the time and they keep it. I can’t tell you the number of clients who still have DOS applications in operation. This usually not a problem unless the company that wrote the software goes out of business or quits supporting their older products. Under Vista many older software packages had minor conflicts with Vista, but they were really major problems because the original programmers weren’t around to fix the problems.

This resulted in a large increase in our computer sales, because our vendors could and would still ship computers with Windows XP. Customers using older versions of Windows, raced to purchase computers with XP because they didn’t want to risk not being able to access to software they’ve been using for years. Starting over is not to be taken lightly!

In the early days of Vista’s release, so many people returned their Vista computers or began demanding XP upfront that all of those major retail manufacturers quietly added Windows XP models back to their product offerings. Microsoft also announced at their analysts meeting that last year Microsoft sold $14.97 Billion in the Windows product line and Vista accounted for only 12% of those sales. While I’m sure that Windows server products make up a large portion of the remaining sales, I believe there are a surprising number of XP sales in that number as well.

Steve Jobs at Apple would have you believe that the argument is still Apple vs. PC, but I have come to believe that Microsoft has reframed the argument to XP vs. Vista. Which brings me back to my conspiracy theory.

Do you remember a little company named ‘Coca-Cola?’ You know the one who dominated the soft-drink market for many, many years? You know the one that who decided they wanted to update their flagship product and created ‘New Coke?’ Remember the lines at the stores that were stampeded by folks trying to buy Old Coke. Remember the people who quit drinking Coke products in such large numbers that the management of the company came out on TV and said, “No! No! Wait! We were just kidding! Here’s Coke Classic! Drink all you want we’ll make more!” And remember how Coca-Cola sales took off like a rocket after that?

My conspiracy theory is that Microsoft took such a beating for security problems for so long that their programmers were finally fed up with it and decided that one way to solve the problem would be to release a Windows operating system that was so restrictive that no one could use it. Then, when everyone figured out what having a truly secure system meant, they would demand to have the old, user-friendly, classic XP back and it would be a win, win for Microsoft. And it is beginning to look like the gambit paid off.

As in the Coke case, you really only want customers debating the pros and cons of two products if you sell BOTH of the products. New Coke vs. Classic Coke was a much better argument than Coke vs. Pepsi, just as XP vs. Vista is better than Microsoft vs. Apple, or Windows vs. Linux.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it was just a coincidence that worked to Microsoft’s advantage.

And, maybe aliens DID land at Roswell and they lived as “illegal” aliens in the U.S. and gave birth to a baby boy named Bill who just happens to own the largest company in the world.

Never heard of a BOLO? Neither had I until last Saturday, but now I am very aware of it’s meaning and it’s reach. Here’s what Wikipedia had to say about it:

An All Points Bulletin (APB) is a broadcast issued from one law enforcement agency to another. It typically contains information about a wanted suspect who is to be arrested or a person of interest for whom law enforcement officers are to look. As used by police, the term dates to at least 1960[1]. An all-points bulletin can also be known as a BOLO, which stands for “be on the lookout”. It is sometimes called a “lookout” or “BOL” for short.

And so now that you know, I guess it is time for “the rest of the story” as Paul Harvey says. So here’s the deal with just the facts and nothing but the facts:

On Saturday night, January 6th, 2006 approximately at 7:30pm, my wife, Pam and I were ensconsed in our white, Ford Expedition heading along Highway 19 North toward Philadelphia (a small city in Mississippi). We were approaching the small town of Collinsville, MS when I realized that we didn’t have enough fuel to get us to Philadelphia and back and that I should probably stop and get some gas for our vehicle. Therefore, I pulled over into the Conoco Super Stop on the right hand of the highway and up to a fuel pump whereupon I exited the said vehicle and began the process of putting the nozzle into the mouth of the tank and getting the pump started.

I selected the grade and pushed the button labeled ‘Inside Credit’ because I intended to pay for the gas along with purchasing a bottled water for my wife, Pam, and a diet soda for myself. (I thought I might also get us a snack as well since it might be a few hours before we ate dinner.) In spite of a large red sign on the pump that said you must pay for your gas first due to past drive-offs, I waited for just a few seconds, and the pump started pumping gas.

When the tank was full, I headed inside the convenience store and wandered around for a few minutes picking out our drinks and then trying to decide on an appropriate snack. (Just as an aside, I settled on those little-bitty chocolate covered donuts, a) Because they are really, really good, b) My wife really likes those tidbits, and c) They come 6 to a pack which makes them very easy to split between us. But I digress…) Anyway, after a few minutes of convenience store shopping, I decided to get into the line to pay, when I discovered that the girl working behind the counter, used to work in my home town Conoco,

As I waited in line, I spoke to the clerk as another clerk came into and opened the second cash register and called me over. I put my snacks and drinks on the counter and continued talking to the first clerk as the second clerk rang up all of my purchases. I handed over my credit card without being asked, in fact, since asking me to come over to her register, the second clerk hadn’t said anything at all. She ran the card through the machine and handed me my card and the receipt to sign. I signed the receipt and put it in my wallet without looking at either one, said my goodbyes to the first clerk, gathered up my goodies and headed out to join my wife and complete our evening trip to Philadelphia, MS.

After enjoying a great dinner and some fun at the Silver Star, we headed home around 10:30pm and about and hour later we approached the four-way stop and I noticed a Marion Police car in the parking lot of the gas station across the street. This is not an unusual place for a Marion Police car to be located, but I wondered if it might be Ben, Marion’s Police Chief, who normally works the late shift. I made sure that I stopped at the stop sign and turned left onto Dale drive toward our home.

As I drove past the police car, I tried to see if it was Ben, but I couldn’t see into the car. I drove about a block and looked into my rearview mirror and saw the headlights on the police car come on. We were not the only vehicle on the road, but I automatically checked my speed as Marion Police have a reputation of being very strict enforcers of the speed limit. My speed was perfect, but I still felt that rush of nervousness of being caught by the police and eased my foot off the gas a bit as the police car pulled out onto Dale Drive behind us.

Two more blocks and I turned my blinker on to turn right on the next road on the way to our house and kept checking my rearview mirror to see if the police car continued on Dale Drive, and was spooked a little more when I realized the police car was turning right just as we did. I eased up to the next stop sign and turned right again.

“He must be making his nightly rounds through the neighborhood,” I said nervously to Pam. Two blocks further and we are home free, I thought. I checked the rearview mirror again as I saw the police car turn right again and remained firmly on our tail.

I turned the blinker on to turn left into our driveway (I never turn the blinker on to turn into my driveway, but hey, there was a police car on my butt and I think there is some law that says you have to turn on your blinkers even in your driveway.) I quit looking in the rearview, but I saw the headlights of the police car pulling into my driveway as I parked in the garage.

As I exited the vehicle, I heard a familiar voice call my name and I relaxed a little bit when I realized that it was Ben after all and since we are friends I figured he was just bored and wanted to talk about computers. Ben got out of his car and stood beside it as Pam and I headed out to see what was up.

I guess I should describe Ben to you. Ben is a 6′ 2″ tall, buff, black man with closely cropped hair, glasses and arms that are huge. He works out religiously, has two degrees, manages rental properties in the day time, goes to college to work on a master’s degree, is the Marion Police Chief, works the night shift and supports several children. An articulate, generous man, he has a great sense of humor and extensive knowledge of the world around him and the people who populate it. Oh, and in a surreal sort of way, he speaks with a redneck accent. It is a combination that is just enough off from what you expect to drive a person to distraction. I’ve liked Ben from the moment I met him and we’ve developed a great relationship over the years.

Standing in our driveway at 11:30pm with Ben, I shook his hand and said, “So, what’s up?”

“Were you in Collinsville earlier tonight?” he asked.

“Yeah, we were headed up to Philadelphia for dinner and we stopped to get gas at the Conoco.”

“Well, they issued a BOLO alert on you for driving off without paying for your gas.” he said.

“Can’t be,” I replied defensively, “I’ve got a receipt!”

“A receipt? Let me see it.” Ben was clearly surprised by this turn of events.

I pulled out the receipt and as I started to hand it over, I saw the total at the bottom. $3.57. I had pumped $35.00 in gas so I knew immediately what had happened. In the course of paying for my items, the second clerk didn’t know I had gotten gas and had not added it to my total.

Ben looked at the receipt and said, “Looks like you didn’t drive off without paying for you gas, It looks more like they forgot to bill you. Did they ask you if you had gotten gas?”

“No. But I was talking to one clerk while the other one rang me up.”

“Tell you what, lemme call dispatch and tell them to pull off the BOLO, and I’ll have dispatch tell them you’ll come out and pay for the gas.”

“Yeah, but it ain’t gonna happen tonight. It’s 20 minutes out there, and we’re tired. How about I head out to the Conoco after church tomorrow and pay up then.”

“Sounds good to me, I’ll have dispatch call the Conoco and let them know what’s going on and what the plan is.” Ben promised.

And with that Pam and I headed into the house and hopefully to bed soon. As we entered the house, we heard the familiar beeps of messages on the answering machine. Pam punched the play button and we heard the voice of a young woman on the message asking for Paul Tarver to come back and pay for the gas I drove off without paying for before 10:00pm. I was a little put out that the assumption was that I had “driven off without paying for the gas on purpose” but Pam and I laughed it off as being just one more funny story I could write up and put on the website. The second message was from a friend who worked as a deputy for the Lauderdale Sheriff’s department, begging to know what was going on since my name was on a BOLO alert and wanting me to give him a call as soon as possible. I called and left a message telling him that we had spoke with Ben and we were getting the situation resolved.

Sunday morning brought sunshine and a bit of anger as the events of the previous evening stewed around in my brain. Pam was more than a little miffed as well as we realized that my name had been broadcast all over the police radios and scanners combined with the implication that I had drive off intentionally without paying for gas that I had pumped. We went to church and tried to forget about it for a while, but all I could think about was getting to Collinsville and getting this whole misunderstanding resolved.

As soon as the final prayer was said at church, we got in the truck and headed to Collinsville. About 20 minutes later I pulled up in front of the Conoco and went inside. I walked up to the counter and approached one of the clerks.

“I’m Paul Tarver and I’m here to pay for the gas I didn’t get charged for last night, ” I said. “And by the way, was it really necessary to call the police since you had my credit card number, you knew I lived in Marion, MS, and you had my telephone number? Wouldn’t a call to let me know that we had a problem have been enough?”

“Well, sir, driving off without paying for gas is a criminal offense, ” she replied defensively.

“Only if you do it without any intent to pay!” I said somewhat incredulously.

“Sir, I didn’t say you were a criminal or anything, ” she said snidely.

“I’m sorry but you just did. You said that I drove off without paying for my gas which is a criminal offense which makes me enough of a criminal in your eyes to make you want to call out the police on me! How can you say that you didn’t call me a criminal?”

She just rolled her eyes and ran my credit card through the machine, gave me back my credit card along with a receipt to sign. This time I read the receipt carefully and verified that I had been properly charged. Returned to my truck where Pam was waiting and we headed back to our regular lives.

Monday brought a new perspective as I realized that since I’ve now had a BOLO alert issued for me, I had now officially joined the ranks of “Bad Boys” which might not be all bad. I mean after all these years of being an overweight computer geek, good guy, I’m now a bad boy! Membership has it’s advantages. I told Pam that she better look out, because now I was going to have to beat off all the women with a stick.

I got a stick. I’m still waiting to use it.

The Barn

As I sit in my father-in-law’s den looking out of the window covered with thick plastic wrap used to lock out the cold, I can barely make out the blurry shapes of trees and the iced over driveway. What is unmistakable are the blobs of white covering everything and they look the same from behind the plastic as they do from in front of the plastic. Without a doubt after seven or eight years of traveling to upstate New York for Christmas this is the most snow I have seen for the longest period of time ever.

On our trip up here, we began to see snow a lot further south than we normally do and it continued to get thicker and heavier each mile further north we drove. I do not intend for this to turn into a diatribe against global warming, because there’s plenty to say about that in another article some other time, however, because of the recent front that passed over the eastern portion of the United States, it is colder than I’m used to.

I was born and raised in the Deep South in the heart of Mississippi and though we laugh about our reaction to snow, I’ve never seen more than a few inches of it at one time and then only for a day or so before the sun comes out and turns the stuff into slush and then ice and then it vanishes. I grew up where my only experience with a snowball was being hit in the head with something that was more akin to ice cubes than snow. In fact, it was amazing to me after I arrived in the Great White North this year to discover that even after several days of being on the ground, snow could actually still be fluffy, or powdery or snowy

Perhaps that’s why so many of my contemporaries in Mississippi genuinely do not understand skiing. I’ve slid down a hill or two in my time and frankly after the initial snowfall, the snow becomes something more like gravelly rather than snowy. Perhaps it was because there was only about an inch on the ground, but it was not a very comfortable experience and I spent about as much time trying to dry out my butt as I did sliding down the hill.

Several years ago, I was sent to Boston on a business trip where I stayed at the home of the person I was there to assist. He had a small pond in the back yard and though I was frightened, I allowed myself to be enticed into walking across the iced-over pond. Those who know me will probably understand why a corpulent fellow as myself would have some reservations about walking on the top of a frozen pond, especially if they are from Mississippi where the ice on small ponds never gets more than an inch or so thick if that. But wanting to experience everything in life, I took the chance and I have a photo of the event to prove it. However, if you look closely at my eyes in the photo, you will see the bravado of my posture does not belie the fear clearly etched on my face.

A few years later, I came to Upstate New York to deliver my wife for Christmas as the contract I was required to sign with her parents before they would bless the marriage stipulates, and once we were here it snowed about four inches. In a weak moment, I was intrigued enough by the Cub Cadet snowblower attachment that I volunteered to clear the driveway. After about 2 hours running the machine up and down the driveway, I had accomplished three things: 1) The driveway had somewhat less snow on it than it had when I started. 2) I miscalculated and blew the top of my mother-in-law’s mailbox off when I made the turn at the bottom of the driveway and 3) My pants legs were frozen solid in a hard, cold tube around my legs from the knees down. I couldn’t feel anything in my toes for several hours after that.

[View with PicLens]

Needless to say, I have not volunteered for any more outdoor projects at my in-laws before a complete and thorough explanation and about an hour’s research on the internet. When it is cold outside and all I see is white, I’m content to stay indoors and try to figure out the channel listing on their cable service, which by the way is progressing nicely since I have explored at least 10 of the more than 60 channels they have here. I figure a few more years at the pace I’m going and they’ll have added 60 more channels that need exploring. I just might be able to milk this project for a while yet.

Anyway, yesterday it was a veritable heat wave around here when the temperature got over 22 degrees. Fahrenheit. As the Yankees around here like to say, “It’s not so bad as long as the wind’s not blowing!” Unfortunately, the wind is ALWAYS blowing so that argument doesn’t hold a lot of water with me.

Last year, when Pam and I were forced because of the weather to spend an unscheduled night in a hotel in Frackville, PA., we arose in the morning to a heart-stopping 21 degrees BELOW zero. Pam lost one of her mittens and almost got frostbite loading the luggage in the truck.

Now before you start jumping to conclusions and assume that I sent her out to load the truck while I stayed in the warm hotel, you should know that I was recovering from a two-day bout of food poisoning and before we spent the night in the hotel, we spent a couple of hours in a ditch waiting for a tow-truck to pull us out. Pam was awesome and without her assistance I would still be in Frackville which would answer the question I have asked everyone for the past year: “Why would any rational, sane person chose to live in a place where the temperature drops to 21 below?”

The fact of the matter is that all of the people in Frackville, PA probably were just like me at one time. They were passing through this inhospitable place with a bad case of food poisoning and had to spend the night. But unlike me, they didn’t have a Pam to get them loaded up in the morning and drive them as far away from that place as possible. No, they were stuck there and eventually it became easier to stay than to go. (My apologies to the fine people of Frackville, PA. This is a humorous piece and I’m sorry that you had to be the butt of my jokes. Unfortunately, it has to be someone and it might as well be someone who stays in place with seasons that include the words 21 BELOW!)

The upshot of this rant is that it is cold up here. My whole body is cold. It is cold inside and it is colder outside. The good news is that it is a dry cold and it isn’t too bad unless the wind blows.

PS: Any rumors that you may have heard that I’ve have decided to move to New York have been greatly exaggerated and my attorney says that if we can figure out who started that rumor we will have a pretty good slander case to prosecute.

Evolution, if you believe in that sort of thing, must have a sense of humor. Survival of the fittest doesn’t mean what all of the exercise gyms want you to think it means. In truth, survival of the fittest just means that in some way each species, big or small has at least one ability or skill that enables it to survive. I believe that evolution must have given fat creatures intelligence or something that was the key to their survival.

In pre-historic times, men were expected to kill something and drag it home to eat. This required them to be fleet of foot and in excellent condition to track a gazelle or bison, attack it with their bare hands (it was a time before tools after all), kill the beast, and then drag it home to gnaw on the remains. It is during this time that we are introduced to our hero, Grog, the fat caveman. Evolution was good to Grog because even though he could smell a herd of bison and gain ten pounds, Grog was still successful because all the extra weight he carried around with him must have contained a few more ounces of brain than the average skinny caveman. Grog’s intelligence made him able to survive and endure the other average skinny cavemen who used to laugh and call him names like “Ugh!” which translates into “Fat Cave Guy.”

Grog was an inventor of sorts because as we all know “Necessity is the mother of Invention.” Grog didn’t know much about necessity, but he knew that chasing around after bison and gazelles just didn’t cut it. It was tiring and made him winded and frankly, there had to be a better way. Grog began to hang out at the cave sometimes when the other cavemen when out on the hunt. The other cavemen laughed at him and talked about him while they were gone, making gestures with their hands to describe his rotund size. Grog was hurt, but his feet hurt more so he stayed behind.

One day while the hunters were out, Grog was at the cave mixing different berries together and accidentally invented the cold compote. All the women tried his new dessert and they loved it and all said, ‘Ugh!’ which translated means “Man, this is great! Can I get the recipe?” Just as Grog’s self-esteem began to rise, he heard a noise outside that he knew instinctively. It was a saber-toothed tiger coming to try out the new fast food cave and grab a quick cave dweller burger.

Thinking quickly, Grog looked around and saw a huge boulder near the cave entrance that was so large that no one had ever tried to move it. Grog was feeling encouraged from the success of his compote so he moved as quickly as he could to the boulder and began to put his weight behind it and to the amazement and relief of all the cave women, he rolled the stone in front of the cave entrance effectively closing the fast food cave off from the saber-toothed tiger and saving all of the cave women from becoming the first quarter pounders. The prettiest cave woman of them all came up to Grog and said ‘Ugh” which translates into “Wow, you big strong caveman! You’ve saved us all from the terrible saber-toothed tiger. I think I like you!” which made Grog feel very special indeed.

When the hunters came back empty handed, they found the saber toothed tiger slinking around the cave entrance still trying to get in so they killed him for supper instead. Then the stone began to move away from the cave entrance and out came Grog with the prettiest cave woman of them all on his arm after having just invented the door. The other cave women all told the exciting story of how Grog saved the day and gave the hunters some of his cold compote to eat with their tiger dinner. And the hunters never laughed or called Grog names again.

Oh, there was some jealousy from the meaner, less intelligent hunters because after all Grog had won the affections of the prettiest cave woman of them all. But all in all, Grog’s new life as an inventor was going pretty well. He decided that his efforts were best focused on inventing since there was so much job satisfaction in creating new things. Everyone in the tribe benefited from his expertise and though he still had a weight problem (his sedentary work habits contributed to this I am sure) life was good for Grog and his new cave wife.

At first, Grog would simply look around and see the different jobs that the women were doing and he tried to do them too. Very quickly he would become tired of the work and invent something else to help make the job easier. For example, when Grog first joined the women, they would go out each morning and gather berries. Unfortunately, they had nothing to put them in, and so would fill both their hands and then walk all the way back to the cave and drop the berries in a pile on the cave floor. Besides the obvious health hazards, it took a lot of trips to and from the cave to gather enough berries for even a small cold compote and Grog figured there had to be a better way. So, the next morning instead of going with the women to gather berries, Grog went off in the opposite direction to be by himself and think about the problem.

As he walked through the woods, he came upon an empty turtle shell that was all that remained of a pre-historic turtle that had fell upon hard times and died there many moons ago. Since the shell was upside down, Grog instantly recognized the value and said, ‘Ugh!’ to himself which translates into “Gee whiz! If we fill that with berries we can carry more berries at one time and thus save us many trips to the cave!” From that day forward, Grog spent a lot of time looking for dead turtles and other things that he could potentially use as bowls. The cave women were very happy with Grog because now instead of picking berries for most of the morning, they could finish that job a lot earlier and do things they liked much more such as sitting around and complain about their husbands and admire Grog’s bulk, oops, I mean brain.

One evening, as Grog watched everyone gnawing on the bison the hunters brought home, Grog began to think that it would be a lot easier if everyone could gnaw on their own piece of bison. He saw the biggest hunter pull off a leg that had been gnawed pretty well and move away from the crowd of cave gnawers and sit by himself and he seemed to enjoy his meal much more away from the hustle and bustle of the bison buffet.

The next day, Grog began to experiment with sticks and stones to see how they would work on the remains of the bison. Fortunately, he picked up a flat, sharp stone and discovered quite by accident that it would cut the meat and bones very nicely. If he could just find more of those flat stones, then everyone could have their own and use them to cut their very own pieces of bison meat. Frustrated by the lack of flat stones, he began to idly hit one stone with another stone listening to the interesting sound he heard as one stone clicked against the other. Grog began to experiment with the rhythm as he struck the stone and discovered that he really liked the new sound. And just as he began to play a tune, a sliver of stone broke off the rock he was hitting and it was very sharp indeed. Grog said to himself, ‘Ugh!’ which translated means “Wow, not only have I figured out a way to make our own sharp flat stones, we can enjoy the music while we work!”

The hunters and the women were very happy because their lives had been improved again, especially his cave wife, the prettiest cave woman of them all. Since they had all the extra time he had saved them from gathering berries, they had plenty of time to make sharp flat stones to save them even more work. The hunters liked to have their own pieces of bison to gnaw on and everyone appreciated Grog even more.

One day while making flat stones, one of the cave woman screamed ‘Ugh!’ which translated means “Ouch! I hit this stone and a spark came off it and landed in the dry grass and smoke came up and when I touched the grass it burned my finger!” Grog raced over to the burning grass which happened to be right next to the remains of the last piece of bison the woman had brought to gnaw for lunch and he saw the meat turning brown and sizzling. Grog’s mind went into overdrive as the chef within him began to formulate his newest recipe. He picked up the piece of brown bison meat and gnawed on it a little bit and found it tender and tasty and very much something he wanted more of. And Grog said to himself, ‘Ugh!’ which translated means, “Hey! I think this grilled bison is excellent and tasty and we should have more of this!”

The next day, Grog began to work out the details of fire and grilling and within a week or so, he was inviting everyone to try his Cajun grilled bison and they were all saying ‘Ugh!’ which translated means “Grog! This is wonderful! Can we get the recipe?” and everyone was proud of Grog especially his wife, the prettiest cave woman of them all.

One day after everyone had eaten and they were sitting around the remains of the glowing, grilling coals, Grog noticed that everyone was getting bored. They had no work left to be done because all of the inventions he had created saved them so much time that usually after dinner there was nothing left to do except chase the kids around the room and that was tiring work in and of itself. Grog figured that he could probably solve the problem if he could just put his mind to it and so he sat alone with his cave wife and began to think upon the problem. At that moment one of the hunters spoke up and said, ‘Ugh, Ugh, Ugh!’ which translated means “Boy, what a hunt we had today! The bison was very angry and he chased us up and down the plain before we turned on him and threw our spears that Grog made us and we were able to kill him before he killed us.”

Grog thought about that story and it made him remember all those hunts he went on before he changed professions and became an inventor. He remembered the thrill of the hunt and tried not to remember how winded it made him. And while he remembered those times he imagined them in his head and saw the pictures of those moments and he wanted to remember them forever because in his heart of hearts he truly missed being out on the plains chasing gazelle and bison. His heart longed for those times, but he knew that he was too heavy and that his life was too good with his cave wife, the prettiest cave woman of them all, for him to go back to being a hunter.

He realized after a few minutes that he had a stick in his hand and that he had been scratching on the ground with the stick while he remembered. And, he realized that the scratches resembled a bison, so he scratched some more and drew a gazelle. And he said to himself, ‘Ugh!’ which translated means, “Hey, that’s pretty cool! Perhaps I can do more of this for everyone to enjoy!” So, the next morning as all the hunters went off to hunt and all the cave women went off to gather berries, Grog stayed in the cave and using a left over piece of charred wood from last night’s grill, he began to draw pictures on the walls of the cave.

That night after everyone returned home and ate their grilled gazelle, Grog took them all into the cave and showed them his pictures of the hunt that he had drawn and all of the cave people said together, ‘Ugh!’ which translated means “Wow, TV!” And everyone was proud of Grog especially his cave wife, the prettiest cave woman of all. And they all elected Grog the leader of the cave tribe and they became the most successful cave tribe of them all with everyone wanting to join their tribe because they were so wealthy and their lives were so rich.

Grog, The Fat Caveman, became famous in his day and his work produced a legacy that we all take advantage of today. Perhaps, evolution has a sense of humor and perhaps survival of the fittest simply means much more than we think it does. Either way, I’m proud to be a descendent of Grog, the fat caveman, and you should be too. All Grog knew was that inventing got him everything he always wanted in life and he didn’t have to chase it down and he didn’t have to get too winded doing it. And best of all, it got him married to the prettiest cave woman of all the cave woman which by the way is where I get my good looks.

Ugh!

All I have to do is start my mower and start to cut and I instantly connect with my childhood. Back in the days when gas was 65 cents per gallon, my dad made me an offer that I couldn’t refuse. Instead of giving me an allowance, he offered to let me use the family push mower to mow yards in the neighborhood to make money. As a bonus, he promised to supply me with all the gasoline and oil I would need and all I had to do was mow the family yard free of charge. Learning how to sell myself to others and how to be an entrepreneur were not what I thought I was doing, I just wanted to earn a little spending money.

I trolled the neighborhood, knocking on doors and offering my mowing services to anyone who would open their door. In just a few days, I had seven yards to mow at $5.00 per yard, with the exception of the big yard on the corner where the guy that owned it paid me a whole $10.00 because he thought it was worth more than just $5.00.

Making $35.00 per week doesn’t sound like a lot now, but for a 13 year old kid it was like winning the lottery. The fact that it came with a lot of sweat wasn’t a lot of fun, but ultimately I realized that my father had given me much more than an allowance. He had given me the opportunity to become self-reliant. If only he had also taught me to save my money rather than spend it, I’d probably be a millionaire.

When I mow grass, I connect with myself. Listening to the dull roar of the twenty-one horsepower Briggs and Stratton engine under the hood of my mower, I escape to a world within my head. Thinking about life, tomorrow’s work, last week’s mistakes I am able to review them all without interruption and I get to wish, imagine or dream for as long as there is grass left to mow.

While mowing, I connect to nature. From the smell of the spruce tree when I cut really close to it, to stopping in the shade of the pecan tree at the back corner of our lot to take a swig of water from the water bottle that I keep in the cup holder on my Craftsman riding mower I am reminded of nature at every turn. I know exactly where the limbs on the old oak tree hang so low that I must lift them so I can pass under without knocking off my straw hat. At the same time, I am aware of the different creatures that live within the boundaries of my yard and am even manage to feel a little guilty about the crickets disturbed by my mower unfortunately eaten by the robin that follows me as I make my laps. I do not feel guilty about the fire ants I run over. I know I’m being selectively moral, but I still can’t help hating fire ants.

When I mow my grass, I connect with the land. I know the roots that have grown large enough to stop my mower cold, because I’ve hit all of them more than once. I know just how far to straddle the small ditch that crosses my property and when to pull out before I get stuck because I’ve been stuck in that spot before. I know where all the rows from gardens planted in the past are and I know to back off on the speed so that I can stay in my seat as I pass over those areas.

When I find an old brick or an old bottle, I’m connected to history and I can’t help but wonder about all the people who have walked in this place before me. I wonder if they thought about the same types of things I do, and I know that they cared about this place as much as I do.

More importantly, when I mow my yard, I connect with my God and in spite of the roar of the motor, I am able to be still and listen to that quiet voice that speaks to my soul, forgives my transgressions and points me toward newly opened doors in my life. Blessings often come in small packages, but sometimes the small ones are the most important. For all around me I am wrapped in the steamy heat of the deep South under a bright blue sky and all is right with the world.

Today, as I made the turn under the oak with the droopy limbs, I saw a terrorist running through my neighbor’s back yard. He was dressed in camouflage with a facemask and a very strange looking and big gun. At least that’s what I thought for a few seconds in this post-9/11 world we now live in. Then I realized it was just my neighbor having a paint-ball war with a friend.

But as I continued to mow my grass, the sight set me to thinking about terrorists and I realized that all the terrorists I’ve ever heard of come from countries that are mostly deserts. Maybe that’s the problem, they have no grass to mow. I’m betting that if they did, there would be a lot fewer suicide bombers because they could connect the same way that I get to. Maybe the government should take bio-warfare research in a new direction and figure out a way to create a grass seed that will grow really fast in sand, direct sun, with very little water. Then we could bomb these countries with grass seed. Then after a few weeks, we could send over a boatload of Craftsman, John Deere, and Cub Cadet lawn tractors. Who knows, maybe with all the terrorists mowing grass they won’t have time to think up new ways to terrorize the world.