Moon Pie Expectations

Somewhere I once heard that we really don’t change that much beyond a Junior High sensibility. I tend to agree. Our insecurities, petty opinions, judgmental attitudes, and selfish ambitions remain. They might be more refined, but they are still present. I would also add that these inner character flaws begin way before Junior High.

I have a distinct memory of being completely crushed by failed expectations at an age where most memories are completely forgotten. The setting was at our long ago house on Appleby Lane. It was a dark brown split level house with a crab apple lined driveway that wound up a hill and left of a level concrete pad. My older brother was pushing a basketball toward a low rim fit for the elementary-age children (or less?) that we were. My mother had recently returned from the grocery store and surprised us with the spongy delight of ochre-yellow banana Moon Pies.

I love banana Moon Pies. Chocolate are fine too, but banana somehow hug my sensory receptors more tightly. If you have never had a banana Moon Pie just know that they don’t taste like banana in the slightest. That’s probably a good thing. They’re the one gas station snack that could go completely stale and it just doesn’t matter. They will still be as good as the day they were wheeled down the ramp of the Lance van and situated next to the unnaturally red peanut patties.

With the Moon Pie wrapper successfully peeled and the yellowish circle delivered to my expectant hand, I turned to go join my brother. Distracted by the ball that had deflected off the rim again, I suddenly tripped an awkward second grader trip; the kind that is beyond balanceable recovery . . . the kind that takes a perfectly delectable banana Moon Pie and smashes it between your hand and the concrete.

I was undone. Not a bite had been taken. My Moon Pie was undone . . . smeared into the fine concrete crevices. I cried uncontrollably. My expectations were so high, and now so defeated, that when my mom brought out a second Moon Pie (she had bought a box of Moon Pies. Yes.) I was still inconsolable.

Inconsolable doesn’t look good on a child or an adult. When I was called to my very first church pastorate, I decided I would take Fridays off. Nothing would interfere with that day. It would be the day I would plan something adventurous and fun and accomplish things I desired to accomplish. I would hike, or mow, or build something. But more often than not, I would fail to proactively plan out my day. My wife would ask, “What are you going to do on your day off?” “I dunno.”

As the sun would rise every Friday, I would wake up with the “I dunno” as my daylong mantra. Like a well-smoked pork shoulder a low and slow heat smoldered into my conscience. I became angrier and angrier as I failed to accomplish anything of any significance throughout the day. I was, like my pre-Junior High self, inconsolable in my aggravation, even when my wife would offer up the freedom to go do something and a list of things I could do.

We actually do change. Or, we should change. Albeit slowly, we begin to set our expectations a little lower and raise our awareness of our reactions. I plan my days a little bit better and don’t get quite as frustrated if things don’t go as planned. Crushed Moon Pies don't crush me quite as obviously. Both losses certainly disappoint me. We change. But not much. In the words of Jimmy Buffett, I’m apparently, “growing older but not up.”

If you have read this and get a hankering for a banana Moon Pie, I beg you, do not even entertain a so-called mini Moon Pie or a single layer Moon Pie. Oh, please. Go ahead and do the double-decker. If not, you’re expectations will certainly go unmet and I will not be held responsible for your childish tantrum.

Lizard Snatcher

Growing up there wasn’t a reptile, amphibian, mammal, bird, or fish that I didn’t want to observe or catch. I was infatuated studying them and, of the reptile and amphibian bunch, procuring them to admire their skin, color, habits, and movements. When I wasn’t seeking them, I spent hours sketching these creatures on paper and in my mind. Many of these drawings included elaborate creeks, ponds, and cattail marshes developed for the animal kingdom’s prosperity and my mental dreamland.

My father would often take his boys exploring in areas that were much like my dreamland. One of these areas was a large woodlot owned by the University of Tennessee and within hiking distance of our house on Appleby Lane. The highlight of our walk was a shallow pond at the very far end of our hike. For me, it was the destination. Here one could witness all sorts of wildlife. In the summer frogs would go leaping into the cattails and the occasional snake slithering into the lily pads. Numerous species of birds clung to the branches of shrubs guarding the pond while herons stalked crawfish and minnows along the edges.

On one particular day we were hiking to the pond in the winter. It had been unusually cold and ice covered the shallow pond. Because my dad was a biologist and a professor in the field of wildlife, I pictured that he knew everything there was to know about the creatures we might encounter. I never doubted his infinite wildlife wisdom. Per usual he had been making observations along our route. When we arrived to the pond my dad pointed out the muskrat paths now channeling under the ice. In curiosity I asked, “Do you think they use those paths when there is ice?” His reply was, “I wouldn’t think so. It’s too cold.” Case closed. I learned something new . . . until a few seconds later we witnessed a muskrat swimming under the ice in his channel. I learned something newer: My dad, and all professionals, aren’t omniscient.

Similarly, grown and now a father of my own kids, it was a proud day when my oldest son, at that time about six years old, developed a method of lizard capture that I thought a farce.

At our home in Hot Springs, Arkansas we had a back flower bed lined with stacked railroad ties about four ties tall. Often five-lined skinks, fence lizards, and anoles would lounge there in the day’s warm rays or lurk in the safety of the crevices. Not understanding the request, my son asked me to tie some fishing monofilament to a stick he had procured and a mealworm to the other end. I was curious.

My son snuck to the edge of the railroad ties and lowered the on-line mealworm to dangle near a crevice. I stood back and smirked fatherly and endearing pessimism while he “fished.” Not thirty seconds into his first attempt a skink appeared slapping its tongue up, down, and around catching scent of the mealworm. In quick, jagged movements the scaled herp closed the distance and snatched the mealworm into its jaws. My son simply lifted his prey to waist level and, due to the lizard’s voracious appetite, was able to nonchalantly grasp the creature with his free hand. Simple as that, lizard snatching became a thing. I stood back and smiled incredulously, my herptile expertise dismantled.

A Bird in the Hand is Worth . . .

The sky was pewter gray when I quietly pushed my truck door closed. The trees bent and clashed their limbs and leaves so that I couldn’t hear the groggy sunrise birds or barred owls that haunted those Arkansas mountains. How was I going to hear my quarry?

I was new to these mountains and had not done any pre-season scouting to figure out where these surprisingly wary birds might roost. Grabbing my gun from its case I already felt defeated and almost got back in my truck and drove home. But I was there. I knew I might as well explore a little to redeem the early waking. I dropped off the side of the gravel road to try and get out of the wind. Gripping sapling after sapling I descended carefully placing my feet parallel like on a wintery bunny slope.

Two hundred yards below I reached a saddle slightly out of the wind and got out my call. Yelp, yelp, yelp. Yelp, yelp. I felt silly even trying to seduce a bird. Unfamiliarity with the place, the constant wind, and my novice calling rained down on my confidence. At the end of a deep sigh, an answer came.

I called again. Answer. This time it thundered back. It was closer. There is something primal about deception of another species, whether with a trout fly you have tied yourself or a vocalization from your own throat, that is deeply thrilling. Somehow - in that moment - I had communicated with the animal kingdom. This Tom was hearing and responding to my synthetic, animalistic longings.

My back against a tree and face mask pulled up to cover any naked skin, I waited. Two minutes later I heard leaves rustle and barely audible clucks. Gun up and ready, the bright blue head with red wattle draping over its beak came into view.

Wings flapped thudding against the forest floor. In the tumult of dying I watched in wonder, not for the hard lingering itself, but for the four wings I witnessed. I didn’t fully understand until I approached the scene. I had not killed a turkey. I had killed two turkeys. Striding side-by-side in a race to find the hen, one was tucked behind the other when the pellets flew. I sat down beside them and ran my hand over their iridescent feathers in awe. Their twin beards felt like Spanish moss between my fingers. Convinced the morning was true, I hefted them over each shoulder and began the ascent.

Sweat came in streams as I lumbered up the steep under the awkward weight of two large avians. I didn’t care. I had just shot my first and second turkey. In those joyous moments of disbelief I came to the realization that Arkansas only allowed two turkeys per season. My season was over in the first fifteen minutes of day one.

Poke, poke

“I’ve got to know what it is now.” Trey was poking a limb at the pile of leaves in curiosity. We had entered the North Louisiana lowlands that morning with high hopes of my bird dog doing what she is supposed to do best, which is find birds. Particularly, we were after a small, fat-bodied upland game bird called a woodcock. They have other colorful names like timber doodle, brush snipe, and bog sucker. They are an awkward looking bird. If they were an insect they would be more like a bumblebee. Sporting stubby wings and a plump bod, they don’t look like they could take to the sky at all. They migrate at night only to land in fields and woodlands to suck the moist soil for earthworms with their beaks as long as a dollar bill is wide. Bird hunters like them because they flush like a quail and fly like a dart and make a tasty woodland meal.

To watch the mating ritual of a woodcock is much like watching Jack Black dance. They waddle to and fro making a meeeep sound turning every so often to face a new direction with their big eyes placed too far to the back of their heads. This earthbound display is disrupted by a quick shot into the night sky only to come back down in concentric circles like a downed helicopter making a high pitched twerpling sound. That’s not a word but it is a descriptor.

Well, we didn’t find any of these birds. Instead, my dog treed the five squirrels we harvested and was now intrigued by the thing Trey was poking with a rotten stick. Whatever it was found itself burrowed under leaves in the crook of a fallen oak’s limbs with the snout of a Wirehaired Pointing Griffon in its face. The yip in my dog’s voice revealed it was not a squirrel or a woodcock. We were curious.

I held my dog’s collar to keep her from getting skunk-sprayed or lashed by a raccoon while Trey pressed on the pile of leaves. Whatever it was made a guttural grunting sound neither of us had heard before.

Trey pushed further in and got physically closer, his hand toward the base of the stick for leverage. “Maybe if I pry under . . .”

When the swear word came flying, Trey’s gun and his feet were simultaneously in mid air and in different directions. The armadillo came straight at him like a small pig lunging for its life. Trey’s eyes revealed the terror of it lunging for his life. The armadillo hit the ground and made the decision to veer between Trey and me and into the thick palmettos and briars.

My dog twisted under the pressure of its collar to get at the armored ‘possum as I doubled over in hysterics.

Crushed

The microscopes were strategically placed on the counter just below the window sill of Mr. Horne’s fifth grade classroom. The windows looked out on the parking lot and playground utilized by the whole elementary school. Lucky for me and a friend, our science class coincided with the kindergarten class recess.

It was spring. The weather was warm and the windows open. We knew when the kindergarten class would bust through the double doors and hit the playground. We made our way to the microscopes. Stating the obvious, microscopes are not telescopes. But we weren’t really seeking to dissect any molecular cells between slides.

Mr. Horne was a tall lanky teacher with a mustache and unfortunate premature hair loss that was trying hard to cling to the sides of his head. He reminded me of Mr. Kotter on the seventies sitcom, Welcome Back Kotter. Apparently Mr. Horne was not oblivious to our early interest in microbiology. A young, attractive, student teacher had taken up a student teacher position and daily herded the tikes onto the playground. He noticed what we noticed as our eyes scanned the kickball field.

In those days many of my male compadres had Farrah Fawcett posters plastered on their bedroom walls. I was far too timid to attempt such blatant adolescent publicity. Plus, Olivia Newton John was far more intriguing to me than Farrah. This young blond educator was more Newton John than Fawcett.

I gulped when Mr. Horne startled us out of our staring stuper and asked the question: “Would you two boys help me with something?” We left our scientific post and obliged. He walked us out of the classroom. The assumption was that he needed help carrying something from another classroom or rolling the cart donning the film strip projector. He used us often for such tasks. We were surprised when he led us out to the playground. “Miss Jennings, I wanted you to meet two of my students. They are your biggest admirers.” The sly smirk on Mr. Horne’s face was only matched by the embarrassment on ours.

It took years for me to realize that we were his scapegoats for meeting our Olivia.

Fignation

Boyhood clubs can be ruthless. The initiations, the marginalization of others, the inside jokes, and the judgmental attitudes are all apart of young boys trying to establish themselves over and against other boys. Our club was no different.

It was called the Fignation. In my mind it has always been one word. So there it is. One word. Fignation. We were obviously avant-garde. Our name was based on a commercial ditty celebrating and advertising Nabisco’s Fig Newton cookies. It involved a creepy man singing and dancing in a fig costume. We knew the dance moves. It became an initiation rite.

Funny thing about initiation rites is that they really seek to serve only those who establish the rites. I mean . . . we didn’t have to actually be initiated because we were the genesis of the Fignation. Any and all others requesting membership were required to perform the dance sans fig costume. Honestly, the song and dance was the least of their worries. The driveway initiation was the real identifier of serious inquiry.

When one of our nemesis asked to join the Fignation the driveway initiation was birthed. A side note is in order here. Anyone we did not like was known as a Monkmayer. In my mind . . . one word. Monkmayer. Where that name came from I have absolutely no idea. Anyway, this request to join was from a Monkmayer. We had the perfect initiation.

My older brother and I lived at the end of a gravel driveway maybe an eighth of a mile long. It was a climb to get to the mailbox. To make matters worse, a crazy lady with three German shepherds lived next to our driveway. To make matters worse, she would release her three German shepherds on whomever sought to ascend our gravel driveway. To make matters worse, these three German shepherds had teeth and they would use them. It was a problem on more than one occasion.

During our Fignation council meeting to determine the Monkmayer’s request for entrance to our elite club, we concluded that a fitting initiation rite (not withstanding the dance moves) would be to climb our driveway in broad daylight. Upon delivery of this news, the Monkmayer slinked off to his lonely hole never to ask again. The Fignation, though separated by years and continents, remains true to its original five members to this day.

Nabisco Fig Newton - Big Fig Newton from Zurmak on Vimeo.

The Power of Chambray: part III of the break-up trilogy

Three months is a short time when drawing a severance. Three months feels like ages when you are in love and cannot speak to or see the one in which you are in love.

Knoxville’s long spring with its blossoming dogwood trees, verdant lawns, and short skirts went unnoticed as I clung to slim hope of gaining back relational commitment. Like a guillotine, summer decapitated all possibility. She was moving to Florida to stay with her mom and I was going back to work at the summer camp where our love first grew. The commitment we made to each other was no contact all summer. No phone calls. No letters. (Email and texting did not yet exist).

I entered camp with an apathetic attitude. She and I had been head counselors together for two prior summers there. Now I felt lost and alone but for her best friend and roommate who was working as a counselor and was my one link to Florida. I knew they would be communicating on occasion.

With dim hope I befriended another female counselor and tried a go at some semblance of interest but couldn’t muster any lasting affection. Even with her I spoke of my longings to be back with my former girlfriend. Miserable and lost I spent my days going through the motions of a camp counselor while waiting for the fall University semester to begin. I knew that misery might only deepen if nothing changed.

The last week of camp I had made plans to have lunch with my ex-girlfriend’s roommate. As noted before, she was a counselor at the camp that summer. We were also friends from early childhood. Outwardly, it was a friendly gesture to hang out. Inwardly, it gave me the opportunity to sit in the lobby of the apartment complex on the off chance that I might run into my ex-girlfriend. That I used her for selfish gain is a real possibility.

The night previous I was an emotional wreck. Excitement and dread coursed through my heart bumping the walls like shards of pottery. I didn’t know what to do or think so I prayed: “Lord, please either take away these intense feelings that I have for her, or change her heart towards me. I certainly don’t know how to continue to live in this struggle.”

I sat on the firm vinyl couch that the lobby provided for suitors and pizza delivery drivers, my knee bouncing up and down waiting for my friend so we could grab lunch. The elevator doors opened revealing book-bagged students heading to their next class or to the library to study. At the back of the small mob came my ex-girlfriend. Instead of following the group out the double doors, she broke off and came toward me.

She grabbed my hand, came in for a long hug, and began an explanation. The evening before, her roommate had displayed a framed picture from that summer at camp. In the picture was a group of counselors including myself. *She saw me in my summer tan from the daily coaxing of kids upon water skis. I was wearing a blue chambray shirt. All resolve from the past three months of continuing the break-up fell apart. She knew that she wanted to be back with me. Having confided such to her roommate, they made the plan to switch places. I would now be going to lunch with Holly.

Thanks to Jesus and chambray, I’ve been going to lunch with Holly for over 30 years.

* But for Jesus, it could have been a fever-induced decision since she was diagnosed with strep throat soon after. It could have been any dude in a summer tan and chambray.

Which is Faster . . . a ‘79 Super Beetle convertible or a 1980 Renault LeCar?: part II of the break-up trilogy

When I saw her in her light blue convertible Super Beetle she was turning left at a stoplight about to exit toward I-40. My pump at the gas station had just clicked indicating "full" as I watched her, and him, drive past smiling with the wind mussing their hair.

When last I wrote, I was telling the story of the heartache of broken relationship. Fortunately, I had friends with whom to grieve. One friend was two years younger than I was. We'll call him, Stephen, because that is, in fact, his name. Friendly guy. Nice guy. We had become quick friends. Because I tend to wear my heart on the plastic lip of the button of my cuff, I had confided in him the misery and sorrow and stupidity of breaking it off with my girlfriend. His sympathetic eyes were like a Basset pup’s. This guy was awesome!

With tank now full, I slammed my car door, buckled my seat belt, and gunned it for the interstate.

An hour earlier I had seen my girlfriend . . . ex-girlfriend . . . at church. Church was along the ex-girlfriend trapline that I had learned to run each week in the expectation of catching a glimpse of her. We happened to walk out of the building at the same time so I felt compelled to ask her if she wanted to grab lunch. She would, but she was driving the 45 minutes to her childhood home for the weekend. Okay, maybe some other time.

As I was driving up the entrance ramp to the interstate I questioned whether I could catch up. My lighter-than-a-Tonka car was a small four cylinder and French. A detail that might help with the overall picture is that this car had a small rubber bulb to the left of the clutch that you had to stomp on to squirt windshield washer fluid onto the windshield. French ingenuity. When I crested the slope I could just barely see the light blue as they yielded to the center lane up ahead.

I drove faster.

With my gas pedal making an indentation in the floor mat and engine screaming like an elementary school playground girl, I crept up in the right lane ever nearer to the unsuspecting duo hoping my engine wouldn’t blow. Now, side by side, my horn wheezed out a weeeeeeeep weeeeeep. My girlfriend . . . . ex-girlfriend . . . stared straight ahead gripping the German wheel. I waved a curt hand with a sarcastic toothless smile on my face. Stephen, now a big open-mouthed goofy Labrador, waved enthusiastically. Feeling satisfied and justified in my outrage I took the next exit.

Allowing the temperature of my car and my blood to simmer to a rolling boil, I drove aimlessly through west Knoxville neighborhoods. I recounted the morning line by line. Church. Girlfriend. Ex-Girlfriend. Stephen. Anger. Church. Sermon. James. James? That morning’s sermon was from James 4: 1-2.

What causes quarrels and what causes fights among you? Is it not this, that your passions are at war within you? You desire and do not have, so you murder.

Big Loss. Big Dummy: part I of the break-up trilogy.

It was completely on me that my college girlfriend and I broke up. We had dated seriously for about two years. Unfortunately, I got the wondering itch that maybe there was another relationship out there that I was somehow missing. There was a specific itch with an actual name, dark hair, and blue eyes. Plus, she had pet iguanas.

The deed done, I was backing out of my girlfriend’s driveway only to see her stick out her tongue and smile flirtatiously. I had made a huge mistake.

I committed fully to my plan and that next week I asked the herpetological female out on a lunch date, picked her up in my gas-fume-saturated Renault LeCar, and drove to Chili’s. Fitting name for a date spot. She ordered absolutely nothing. I ate my verde burger by myself trying to keep the guacamole from sliding down the corners of my mouth. The first and last date lasted about an hour. Not long after, Chili’s stopped serving verde burgers altogether.

Soon after the sting, Christmas break found me in Alabama in a tree stand shivering the cold mornings and striking out looking for does to fill the freezer. Meanwhile, my ex-girlfriend was at a multi-college ministry retreat warm and cozy and spying bucks from every school in the SEC. As I wiled away the hours pining over bygone love, I became more and more convinced that my lost girlfriend was the one for me forever. Upon my return, I found out that she, on the other hand, was more and more convinced that my itch might have been contagious.

Our break-up was a miserable on again off again relationship. We verbally committed to not seeing each other, but somehow managed to see each other. Knowing her class schedule, routes to and from her apartment, and phone number didn’t help. Like a small blister on the end of the tongue I scraped my misery relentlessly against the edge of my teeth to feel the pain.

To exacerbate matters, my roommate and I had moved in with two Campus Crusade for Christ staff guys. One was cheesy in love with his fiancee and the other a big goofy former Auburn football player who loved Jesus way too much and way too early in the morning. All that spring, while I spun the slow dirges of old Jackson Brown and Neil Young albums, they would wake up with big grins singing Maranatha! praise songs. Don’t get me wrong. I love Jesus. But I also love music that speaks to the reality of life. I relate to King David screaming “Why!” far more than Paul experiencing the third heaven. The closest I got to praise music was Larry Norman . . . the righteous rocker who pushed Fundamentalist’s hot buttons by singing, “Why Should the Devil Have All the Good Music” and (for my slow dying painful pleasure) “I’ve Got to Learn to Live Without You.” That last one drove me to sweet, sweet heart-wrenching tears more times than I can count.

Today I thought I saw you walking down the street
With someone else, I turned my head and faced the wall
I started crying and my heart fell to my feet
But when I looked again it wasn't you at all

Why'd you go, baby? I guess you know,
I've got to learn to live without you
I've got to learn to live without you

Oh, man. Learning to live without her was more difficult than I ever imagined.

To be continued . . .

Pecos, TX

Outskirts of Pecos, TX. @coreypeltonphotography

Packing up our campsite under the shaded mesquite trees in Mesa Verde National Park, New Mexico, we got on the road for a lengthy drive to Carlsbad where we planned on a hotel for the first time in eight nights. We were looking forward to not unpacking a tent and stove, but rather getting a hot shower and a restaurant meal.

Though the aliens lining the streets, yards, and gas stations in Roswell were tempting backdrops for family photos, we were too tired and road-worn to stop. We pressed on for the not-too-distant hope of rest in the cave city.

As we approached Carlsbad, we began looking for our respite. What we saw was, “No Vacancy,” “No Vacancy", “No Vacancy.” Every hotel was booked. We pulled over and Googled for a vacant room. Not only were there no rooms in any inn, the prices were astronomical. Rooms began at $250.00 per night. At the edge of town we pulled into a hotel parking lot. My wife went in to ask of any known rooms and why they were all so full. She returned to the family van with a forlorn sigh. “Apparently, there are no rooms for miles,” she informed us. The oil-field workers filled the towns and jacked up the hotel prices. Their employers were willing to pay and the hotels were willing to receive. Texas gold.

We drove on.

Grumpy and tired, the deserts of New Mexico and West Texas we so wanted to experience became a monotonous drudgery. Nodding donkeys and tumble weed became to us as the assembly line bottles of Shotz beer to Laverne and Shirley. Dusk and a gathering dark sky to the East were descending quickly. What looked like a thunderstorm became a wind-strewn dust storm creating an ominous yellow to dark brown lighting. Our Odyssey was blown side to side. Blood was still absent from my knuckles when we reached the southern end of the storm. It was then that our van started hesitating like a fuel pump gagging on sediment. A few more miles and we would reach the town of Pecos, Texas. I would need to find a mechanic in the morning.

In college, my roommate and I lived about a mile from an abandoned rock quarry. We had heard stories that a human torso had been found in that quarry, discarded by a psycho killer. Entering Pecos was like my roommate and I exploring the old metal framework building of the rock quarry with that torso haunting our brains. The street lights in Pecos were out. A haze of dust lingered in the air. The streets were spookily quiet. We searched for a hotel and found a Best Western. Best Western. Ironic. They had one room available in their motor court for $250.00. We took it.

I backed our van into the parking spot right outside our door so it would possibly be within earshot if anyone tried to break in. Upon entering, I quickly realized that the A/C unit’s whir would block out even a gunshot.

The interior of the room was what you would expect from a $39.00 room. It smelled musty. The beds sagged in the middle under the cheap polyester-filled comforters decorated in a maroon floral pattern. The sink dripped. The shower had remnants of hair from who knows whom or what. The peep hole in the door was missing and had been filled with twisted tissue paper.

Rather than a restaurant meal, Holly procured some cold muffins in plastic. We ate, laid out our sleeping bags on top of the beds, and tried to sleep as quickly as possible. The long day, the money spent, the potential parking lot creeps, the needed van repair, and the safety of my family filled my head as I stared at the stained popcorn ceiling.

As dawn approached I set my feet immediately in my shoes so not to touch the moldy carpet and peeked out the window. The van was still intact. We woke the kids and walked to the diner attached to the hotel for our “free” breakfast. As we entered, there was not a female in the room but for the lady behind the counter. Every male eye turned and looked as we entered. They were looking at my wife and daughter.

“Come on. We’re not eating here.” My kids didn’t complain. I think they felt the eyes and the weight of the place. We clambered into our van to try and find an automotive repair.

The door was cracked but it was difficult to tell if they were open yet. I peaked through the door and saw the scruffy man behind his desk with grease under his nails. “Excuse me. I was wondering if you could take a look at our Honda van. It’s hesitating . . . like maybe the fuel filter is clogged.” Looking up from a paper and over his reading glasses, he finally spoke, “I don’t work on Jap shit.” He lifted the paper and went back to reading.

Infuriated, I got back in the van. Not caring if I stranded us fifty miles from nowhere and had to be towed, I got back to the family and we just drove. And drove. And drove. The van never resisted. Pecos scared the dust out of it and out of us.

Trick Question

August for my family means two kid’s birthdays, a dog’s birthday, my wife’s birthday, and our wedding anniversary. It’s a full month. Back in 1993, though, August was merely my wife’s birthday and our anniversary. That particular year it was the first birthday of hers that we would celebrate as a married couple. I determined to try my hand at buying her a new dress and taking her to dinner.

Twenty eight years into marriage it is still awkward perusing the women’s section for a piece of clothing. In 1993 I was petrified. My eyes scanned the department store’s carousel racks while they also hovered over faces of women who might be smirking at my strange locale. I found an all white dress and started to the register when, somewhere in the back of my cerebellum, a thought entered. Richard Buckner’s Gauzy Dress in the Sun had yet be written, but somehow I knew a white dress backlit was taboo.

A silent sigh slipped through my nostrils as I approached a young lady hanging clothes back on a rack. I had no idea how to buy a slip. “Can I help you?'“ “Um. Yeah. So. I think I need a slip for this dress. Is that right?” I courageously stammered. “Sure. I can help you with that,” she said with a ton more confidence than I had. “You’ll need a full length slip. What size is she?” I knew the answer to that question. I had just picked out the dress. “Size 4.” I was gaining confidence. “Not the dress size. Her cup size” she returned. Have you ever poured Coffee Mate powder creamer over a lit match? It vanishes in a ball of flame. That was my confidence. I had no idea what her cup size was and didn’t really feel like talking about it in public. I must have had visible soot from the flame all over my face. This kind and attractive young clerk then asked the unthinkable. “Is she my size?”

How are you supposed to answer that question? For one, there is no way to not look at her size. Once drawn in to the vortex you have to give a response or stare pondering for too long. If you say, “No. She’s much larger than you,” you’ve offended your help. If you reply, “No. She’s much smaller than you,” then you have probably lingered too long already.

At that point I just wanted to leave the store to save embarrassment no matter what the cost of the slip so I answered, “Yes. About your size,” while looking directly into her eyes. Dress purchased I stumbled dazed through the automatic mall doors and to my car.

The evening arrived. I laid out the dress on the bed to surprise Holly when she arrived home. She was surprised . . . probably more in the fact that I would risk purchasing a dress than at the actual dress itself. “I’ll go turn out the lights so we can leave for dinner, “ I said. Actually, I left the room so not be around if it were an awkward fit. She walked out in the dress. “It fits perfectly. How did you know what to buy? Thank you so much, honey.” “My pleasure, babe. It was nothing.”

Turned Around

My trucked lurched and bounded over the rutted forest service road.  In previous weeks I had studied the boundaries of this tract of land via Google maps and Google Earth.  It looked like it could hold some ruffed grouse . . . an upland game bird.  South Carolina is not known for its grouse population nor should it be.  There are mountains in the northeast corner of the state but the vegetation for this species is very limited.  A few of the birds had been spotted before and I had heard their early spring drumming ritual.  I was hoping to eventually get my bird dog on the trail of a grouse.

To get to this plot you drove out of South Carolina up and over a mountain into North Carolina, and angled back into the wilds of South Carolina again.  It was tucked away and rarely visited.  

I broke several cardinal rules.  My wife was out of town and I didn’t tell her, or anyone else, that I had decided to make this spur-of-the-moment trip into the woods.  It was impulsive.  Even if I told someone the name of the area, it was not easy to find.  Adding to the stupidity of my incommunicado, I had no cell phone coverage.  Zip.  No bars. Not even a chance.  It was cold when I left the foothills of Travelers Rest. Now that I was at a higher elevation, my breath blew white. I didn’t bring any water.  I almost always have a full water bottle with me.  Not this trip.  

I pulled my truck over to the side of the dirt road and started into the rhododendron and laurel thickened woods.  The one smart thing I did, on almost a whim, was hung a compass around my neck when I left the truck.  Unsure I really remembered how to use it, I checked true north and made note where the sun was and where my truck shown red through a break in the underbrush.  240 degrees south, southwest.  I began to explore.  Small creeks ran everywhere in the lush moss-bound undergrowth.  Valleys and hills were like serpents meandering in every direction.  

I soon realized that I was turned around.  I walked a direction I thought I should go but didn’t recognize any landmarks.  Where was that rock slanted like a runaway truck ramp? There was a tree . . . where is it? . . . it had orange lichen clinging to its skin. Reality began to sink into my brain just how unprepared I was to be lost.  

The human body has a strange way of handling fear. The immediate response feels like fever. With the sudden outbreak from sweat glands comes an onslaught of worse case scenarios. Though it was mid day, my mind went to late evening which meant certain cold, lack of fire, and no form of communication. It’s as if someone had put me on a Tilt-a-Whirl in Nebraska and I got off in Nagoya with no money, translator, or knowledge that it was indeed Nagoya.

Eventually, sensibility pushes its way through the crowd and takes center stage. My conscience told me to breath deeply and trust my compass.  I set it to north and looked to find 240 degrees south, southwest.  That surely couldn’t be right.  I started walking a new direction that I thought might present some more familiarity.  Again, nothing.  I said it out loud to myself, “Trust the compass.”  I re-set it to north, found 240 degrees south, southwest and began to walk doubting each step of the way.  Ten minutes later and I was back on the dirt road with my red truck shining like a beacon. My nerves re-attached to my system as I turned the key in the ignition and the motor whirred to life. 

State Fair

1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . .

It was a simple song. The fiddle, banjo, mandolin, and guitar all came in right on time. People were tapping their feet by the time we hit the B part.

For several months we had gathered every third Thursday at Chimneyville BBQ to play an hour for ribs and banana pudding. We were known as the Hinds County Revelers, named after an early 1900’s Mississippi string band called the Leake County Revelers. Our fiddle player, Tim, was the Jackson, Mississippi guru of all things Celtic and Old-Time. For a living he taught multiple instruments to wannabe players of all ages. One of the geniuses of his method was teaching his students many of the same tunes no matter what instrument they played so that, when and if they ever got together, they could play as one.

The first time I witnessed the fruit of his labor was at a Mississippi Old-Time Music Society meeting that we hosted at our house. Our living room vibrated with energy from the deep thud of a washtub bass and the bum-ditty of the banjos. The cadenced guitar rhythm with alternating bass notes filled any gaps while the fiddles and mandolins sang out the melody lines. The realization of the beauty of the event struck me as I watched our very young son bounce to music for the first time.

Licking the remnants of Chimneyville pudding from the paper dish, Tim informed us that we were entering the Mississippi State Fair string band competition. All we had to do was play two songs before judges and wait for the results. Sweet. That sounded fantastic and intimidating.

The day having arrived, we sat a couple of rows back from the tented stage listening in nervous awe of the bands that played before us. We had reason to be nervous. Our guitar player was a college student who really didn’t know much about playing the straight style of guitar rhythm that was desired in old-time music nor did he listen to old-time music. Our banjo player struck nylon strings on his Banza . . . a banjo made out of a gourd. Occasionally his banjo would shock us when the tall bridge would collapse onto the hide head with a BAM! and then its owner shout out an expletive starting with the letter F. I was a music memorizer. I memorized the notes and learned to play them faster and faster on my mandolin. If, for some reason, we needed to improvise, I was lost. Tim was the only professional among us.

I remember standing on the stage silently praying for my hands to work. It felt like we were fifteen feet off of the ground looking off a cliff at the small crowd gathered to hear us. It was mostly other bands and their families. A few fair-goers were there out of curiosity or just way too early for the evening Allison Kraus show.

Tim started in: “1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4”

We played. We ended. People clapped. Other bands played.

“And in first place in the string band category . . . the Hinds County Revelers!” We had won the Mississippi State Fair string band competition.

Though the notoriety would be miniscule it was in the Clarion Ledger the next day. I believe it was in section 3 on page 7. That was back when papers had sections . . . and pages.

A year later, our band was still gnawing weekly ribs at Chimneyville BBQ after playing an hour, but we did have an occasional cash paying gig here and there. The largest was playing for a fall college ministry kick-off in the famed Grove at Ole Miss. We each got $100.00. To Oxford, Mississippi and back probably cost us $32.00 in gas. Again, the notoriety was miniscule. Again, our banjo player explicated an f-bomb on stage and mic’ed.

As the fall temps dropped from 94 to 92 degrees we started dreaming again of our victory and the opportunity to defend our title. I secured our entry form and contacted the band members for conformation before I sent in their names. Tim, our one professional player who had taught us all how to play, was out. Another band he had formed claimed him for the competition. Our best player was now our fiercest competitor. We changed the name of the band for the competition to Hop’n Gator String Band. It didn’t feel right to maintain the same name without our best player.

The only other fiddle player I knew played violin for the Mississippi Symphony Orchestra. The only time we had to practice together was the evening before the competition. We ran through the two songs twice.

“Tell us the name of your band.” Into the mic, I said, “Hop’n Gator String Band.” “ What two songs will you play?” “Barlow Knife” and “Angeline the Baker.” “You may begin.”

1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . .

I barely remember playing. I do remember thinking, “Just get through the song without any embarrassment or expletives.” We played. We ended. People clapped. Other bands played.

“Runner-up in the string band competition is the Mississippi Possum Hunters!” I thought there was a mistake. How could my instructor’s band not win. They were by far the most experienced of the bunch. We continued listening.

“First place in the string band competition goes to the Hop’n Gator String Band!”

Honestly . . . I felt terrible. Our unpracticed, non-historical, rag-tag band had energy for sure. We were so nervous we played fast. Maybe we covered our unfledged slights. The other bands had played together for months. We certainly did not get the back slaps and handshakes of the previous year.

Thus ended our state fair competitions. We did pick up a coffee shop gig. Free BBQ and free coffee. Notoriety? Meh.

Pink Cap Erasers and House Flies

Mount Olive Elementary School has since been renovated but when I was in the fifth grade it still had creaky hardwood floors. In the winter, the cast iron radiant heaters would belch and groan to reach their poorly regulated and often sweltering hot temperatures. It was a yearly guessing game for administrators. If you turned the valves too soon the heat would become unbearable on warm fall days. Too late and the entire school body would freeze. Even in the dead of winter the windows would be cracked open to release some of the stifling heat and the smells of fifth graders. Accompanied with these odorous vapors was the scent of melted wax from the array of Crayola crayons hues melted like draped afghans accidentally or purposefully over the hot metal.

In the summer the windows would remain open. There was no air conditioning. The ventilation allowed flies into the classrooms. My classmates and I would have bounties on the black house flies. Our weapons were Trusty No. 2 pencils with pink cap erasers which we would flick down on a settled fly smearing it between eraser and desk. Throughout the day you might hear a thud followed by a numeral whispered to the other participants. We got pretty good. The flies were sluggish until the heat of summer reached its high pitch noon performance. By afternoon, the flying nuisances became a true challenge.

Although our fifth grade memories were long enough to keep count of our downed prey, they were too short for more important things. I’m not talking about science facts or spelling words. More critically, or hygienically, was remembering to keep the pink cap erasers from between our teeth. There were many a day that I found myself spellbound in contemplation with pencil in hand and eraser wet with saliva remembering suddenly where it had landed an hour previous. In the end, I guess the flies had their nasty revenge.

Write Again

The shame camped on my conscience as soon as the deed was done. Some things seem like they are innocent fun until you step back a few feet and spy the potential harm. I went to sleep that night still heavy in the disturbed thought of it.

Spiders have never been on my top ten list of cool creatures to admire. Snakes, bats, even rats rank far higher than spiders. Macro photographs of their multi-eyed hairy faces creep me out.

Maybe it was from childhood memories of hearing Charlotte’s Web read out loud to me, but there is one spider that I admire; the writing spider. That’s the name I learned as a child. She comes with many different names: yellow garden spider, black and yellow garden spider, golden garden spider,  zigzag spider, zipper spider, hay spider, corn spider, or McKinley spider. That’s one of the reasons for taxonomic identification. Different people in different places call the creature different names, but scientists identify them by genus and species so that identification is universal. Her proper name is Argiope aurantia. A distinct characteristic of this yellow and black spider is the zig-zag pattern created at the center of her web.

I was in elementary school when we lived on Appleby Lane. We had a brick patio at the back of the house lined with flower beds. In one of these beds was the large web of our very own Charlotte. Summer afternoons were often spent finding ants, crickets, or moths to toss into the web and let the show begin. The spider would make a dash to the struggling insect and, using her lanky limbs, spin it round and round encasing it in web released from her abdomen. It was free and enchanting entertainment. Free to me. Costly to the non-arachnids.

In the front of our house we had a small creek that was lined with cattails. The cigar-shaped tops of cattails house an amazing amount of fluffy goose down-like seeds that eventually disperse in the wind when the cigar breaks down or is beaten over your brother’s back. For innocent fun I decided to break open a cattail and toss the floating white fluff into the spider’s web until is was full to sagging. That’s when my conscience was torn.

Upon wakening the next morning, I went to pay my respects to the spider and somehow eulogize and grovel over the demise I had caused. The web was completely clean. Not a fluff of seed was found in the web. It was all in a pile on the bricks below. The spider was seated dead center on her zag. Amazing.

That’s why I admire the writing spider, yellow garden spider, black and yellow garden spider, golden garden spider, zigzag spider, zipper spider, hay spider, corn spider, or McKinley spider.

122s

1966 Volvo 122s @coreypeltonphotography

It was cooler in the darkness. With all four windows down the summer air felt bearable at 4:00 a.m. What would it feel like at 3:00 p.m.? That was one of many unknowns that haunted my thoughts in those early hours.

What was I thinking driving ten hours with my young son in a vehicle I really knew nothing about. The tools I brought were minimal. Per usual, my optimism was at a high when the journey began, but now it was waning. In the dark my fears were heightened. The car was an oxidized gray 40 year-old Volvo. Surfing the unlit curves of the Cumberland Plateau, I became increasingly unsure that an eighteen wheeler would even know I existed. The headlights yellow glow cast about cow length before us. I could have taken comfort in the fact that Volvo was the first to install seat belts. But that was 40 years ago. This was 2006. They had upped their safety game since the lap belt I was wearing.

I kept driving, my son grinning and content to be sitting in a moving oven. Every hour or two I would stop and check the oil. She kept chugging her max of 55 MPH as Saturns and Ford Fiestas blew past us.

I had always romanticized purchasing a classic vehicle sight unseen from somewhere across the nation and driving it home.  There’s a warmth in the smell of old vinyl seats and a nostalgia to simple engines and no-nonsense crank windows. I love the mechanical click of my left foot pressing the floorboard headlight dimmer switch to dim and back to dimmer. To experience that in a semi-transcontinental trip seemed like a worthy adventure.

The allure of these ancient mechanical beasts started at a young age. Early memories of my childhood were watching the asphalt of the road blur by through the rusted out floorboard of my dad’s Volvo; the same model I was now driving with my son. I remember a rusty old railroad spike clanging out through that hole after a fishing trip to Doctor’s Pond. We had walked the tracks and picked up however many spikes we found. One escaped and is most likely still somewhere very out of place to this day.

My father had found the car in which my son and I had set off for this great adventure. It was located near him in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. He offered to trailer it to Knoxville, Tennessee where I would meet him and drive it off the trailer. That my dad trailered it revealed his hesitancy in my plans.

Now I knew why. With every town we entered, and every mile closer to home, I became more and more relieved to have made it that far. The what-ifs were constantly on my mind. Belts, radiator, water pump. I watched the temperature gauge as if it would spiral out of the dash at any given moment.

After twelve sweaty hours we pulled into the driveway of our Hot Springs, Arkansas home. We made it. The dream made landing. My wife came outside to celebrate with us. “Huh. This is it?” I could almost swear that she glanced around to see if there were any hidden cameras or Al Funts.

Bra-less

“Someone stole my bra off my car.” What? The thoughts that ran through my mind in the milli-second after that statement were varied and many.

Nan was a tall, thin, athletic girl in my freshman biology class at The University of Tennessee. She was on the pom-pom squad and could be seen any given fall Saturday pom-pomming her way through the famed Neyland Stadium before 102,455 rabid orange fans.

What I asked in that moment was, “Why would anyone steal your bra off your car?” I was genuinely dumbfounded and I think that came across pretty clearly. What I wanted to ask was, “Why was your bra left on your car?” but I was afraid of the answer that a freshman pom-pom girl might give. My naive ears wouldn’t be able to handle the lecherous explanation and she would be forever etched in my mind as another female victim gone to the dark side. I left the conversation shaking my head.

It wasn’t until weeks later that I was flipping through a JC Whitney catalogue, scanning the unaffordable mods that I could wrench to my ‘73 Jeep truck, that it clicked. Eyes winced closed, my head dropped to my chest like a wet sponge. My mind again raced through a milli-second realization of that conversation with Nan. Just how bewildered had I seemed when Nan broke the story? How much did I lean in on my incomprehension? Had she calculated my ignorance?

I’ll never know. I do know that you can buy a bra for your car that keeps road debris from pecking the paint on your grill.

eBay

I’m not much of a gambler. Even in elementary and junior high I never participated when my brother and friends entered the mall arcade. I didn’t understand sending quarters down a slot for a thrill that lasted through a five minute game of Galaga. But I do like nice things and often invest when I can. To be honest, I call it investing to appease my conscience.

Late in the 1990’s I sold off my entry level Kentucky mandolin and got a Gibson f-style mandolin. Gibson mandolins are like the Martin of guitars. They are well-built, sound terrific, fetch a hefty price, and retain their value.

I paid $1000.00 for my Gibson. That was cheap, though it had issues. Some of the pearl inlays set into the neck had fallen out and were missing. Worse, it was a 1970’s model which, unbeknownst to me, weren’t great years for Gibson. It didn’t have the deep bark sound for which Gibson’s were famous. I was happy just to have it in my possession and played it for several years.

When my ear became more discerning, I decided to stir the value waters and put my frumpy Gibson on eBay. It sold quickly for $2500.00. I was shocked and thrilled. But I didn’t intend to be without a mandolin, so my dreaming began.

Why not use the total amount to get another nicer mandolin? After all, I was playing regularly with the Hinds County Revelers at a local Jackson, Mississippi BBQ joint. This seemed like a good reason to go big. I began my instrument research.

The Westel exit is one of the first as you top the Cumberland plateau heading west between Knoxville and Nashville, Tennessee. Not far off the exit lives an older gentleman named Charles Horner. He is known for his excellent luthier skills for both fiddle and mandolin. $2500.00 later and I was the proud owner of a brand new Horner mandolin. To this day the remembrance of the fragrance upon opening that case brings me joy.

In 2002 we moved to Hot Springs, Arkansas. I was dismayed when I searched and found very few people who played the old-time music I was accustomed to playing. Bluegrass, yes. Old-time, no. It’s not very thrilling to play a mandolin solo. My beautiful Charles Horner mandolin sat brooding in the corner of the closet.

If I couldn’t play mandolin out solo, I could learn clawhammer-style banjo. After all, I did like the softer thwump sound of old-time banjo as opposed to the twang of the bluegrass banjo. I went on another investigative binge and tested eBay for larger fish by putting my Horner mandolin on auction. $3800.00 later and it was on its way to Alaska hopefully to be played by an Eskimo in mukluks.

I then bought a clawhammer banjo for $800.00 and a 1966 Volvo for $2000.00. With $1000.00 in the bank, I would call that an investment.

"My Boats"

“I love boats.” She hugged her stapled cut-out pictures of boats to her chest and grinned with a rapturous affection.

Cindy was special. Our class of sixth graders knew that she was different. She wasn’t like the rest of us. Years later I would realize that she was a special needs student. I was naive and in a class of boys who were competitive jerks trying to one-up each other.

Every day Cindy would show up to class with her wrinkled stack of magazine cutouts grinning that she loved boats. Ski boats, fishing boats, yachts, sailboats, it didn’t matter. “I love boats.” The guys would roll their eyes in disgust, tease her relentlessly, and the teacher would admonish them daily.

Cindy made a fatal mistake. After months of cradling her boats, she left them unattended for a brief moment. “My boats! Where are my boats! My boats! My boats!” She pleaded and cried and rocked back and forth in desperate anguish.

The boats were buried in the boy’s bathroom trash. Only two people knew it and nobody was confessing because the teacher was livid and it could mean big trouble . . . call your parents kind of trouble.

I regret it to this day. I’m sure the other boy does too.

Merely a Flesh Wound

“Plate number GGS 654. Plate number GGS 654.” I was chanting the mantra trying hard to assess the turmoil of what was going on around me while remembering the license plate of the silver Cutlass.

My summer days of a string of house-sitting jobs had come to an end and I had recently moved into an apartment complex. The only thing going for this brick box of rooms was that it was located almost in sight of the church where I was working as a youth director. Other than that, it was a crappy apartment.

The day I moved in I immediately regretted living there. It smelled of seven layers of paint, roach spray, and mildew from a drippy window AC unit. The roach spray was obviously a ruse since the neighbor’s beside, under, and above also had roaches. They just moved around avoiding the aerosol can.

My neighbors across the hall were a very friendly Indian family who did not, apparently, speak English. There were days I wanted to be invited to dinner to escape my routine Kielbasa and Ramen, and days I wanted to stitch up my nostrils to hide from the pungent smell. The whole hallway wreaked of chick peas and cumin.

One morning, after descending the hummus-scented staircase, I heard a distant commotion in the parking lot. As I got closer I saw neighbors yelling at a man who was, what I thought, violently hitting a woman. I picked up my pace to get closer and see how I could help. It was then that I realized that he had her by the hair and was stabbing her.

Because the crowd had grown, the man dropped the woman and fled to his car. I ran to the woman and looked up to see the back end of the car as it drove away. No one was doing anything. I could see blood on her chest, so opened her blouse slightly to see a puncture wound. I yelled for a rag. Everyone seemed stunned. Finally, a guy took off his t-shirt and handed it to me so I could press it against the wound in her chest. A small kitchen knife lay with broken blade on the ground. I tried to comfort the lady as she moaned, praying for her out loud. I was quietly petitioning for myself too.

When the ambulance arrived, they noted that the knife had not penetrated beyond her skin. Fortunately, it had broken. She was lucky and would be okay.

They found the car and man was arrested.