THE NORTH BOUNDARY GREENWAY

Ms. Mushy and I took another little 3-mile stroll along a portion of the North Boundary Greenway today as we often do. The weather in East Tennessee was once again beautiful and in the 70’s, a wave of high pressure leading a change coming by the weekend.

This area was once part of the Gallaher-Stone Plantation, way back before the Government took it from the Wheat Community farmers in 1942 to build a bomb to end some little World War. Remnants of stone steps, house corner stones, and flower gardens can be found along the Greenway. Often a buck, following a couple of does will peep out of the pine thickets along the way and watch you as you approach, then dart across the road, white “flagged” tail waving goodbye.

You can also find well-groomed old family cemeteries that the Government still maintains. These cemeteries have very old headstones ornately marked with names and dates, while slave graves are noted only by a single large stone indicating which end the head was laid – no name, no date, just a stone to proclaim the hard work they provided their owners.

Today we walked a bicycle path into an old rock quarry area where limestone was once blasted out to build roads, concrete pads, footers, and compressor stands for the huge K-25 Plant near Oak Ridge, Tennessee. The plant is being torn down today by Bechtel Jacobs Company, a subcontractor to the Department of Energy, and buried nearby. The K-25 site, along with Y-12 and X-10, was once a bustling worksite with over 12,000 men and women (my dad included) working on the world’s greatest secret – so secret they didn’t even know what they were building. Only General Groves and a select few knew the full mission.

At some point, workmen hit an underground stream and the quarry flooded, probably covering equipment that couldn’t be removed in time. The water today is beautiful, reflecting the blue sky above and the green cedar trees that line the quarry’s edge. Only a few scraps of iron and a pile of concrete fence footers remain to bare witness to the work that went on there.

Since most people never get back in this area, I thought you might like to see a couple of pictures. I hope they brighten your day as they did ours.

THE WORLD REVOLVES AROUND BEER

The six of us, the three sisters and us guys, went to see Irvin Berlin’s “White Christmas” at the Cumberland County Playhouse last weekend in Crossville, Tennessee. The playhouse has professional productions there and we attend two or three events annually. Our tickets for the evening were for 8PM, which is an hour earlier than our time zone.

Anyway, the discussion came up about where we should eat prior to the show. Someone mentioned a place and before I could stop myself I said, “You know they don’t have beer there?” Everyone looked at me and then to Ron.

Since Ron is a man who enjoys a good dark beer and prefers to eat at places that have a good selection on tap, I expected him to present our case. However, no further arguments were presented from either side and other places of interest were suggested.

I should have learned my lesson from the first looks I got from the “dragons,” but went on to say, “You know, next time we go to a play, let’s pick an earlier time so we can eat casually afterwards and have a couple of beers.”

Terri, the fork at the end of the dragon’s tongue, turned toward me like a bird dog on a point, and said, “You know Mushy (not his real name), the world doesn’t revolve around beer!”

“Ah no, contrario” I said. “The world floats on it!

LOOK AT THE ASH ON THAT THING

We did our part for “Black Friday” today by going to the Leaf & Ale and Bailey’s Sports Grille in Knoxville. This allowed the wives plenty of shopping time in a completely different part of town!

The cigar store had a new stock of Macanudo Gold’s to come in and the one pictured was terrific. A slow smooth smoke that left a 2” ash that had to be sharply thumped before falling into the ashtray. A burger, Sierra Nevada draft, a Macanudo Gold, and family – don’t get any better than that!

Going around the table L to R - Nick (niece’s boyfriend), Becky, brother-in-laws Steve and Ron, Mushy and son (Corey)!

A SEASONED BOND

Uncle Tom was my hero, the youngest brother to my mom, and the last to leave home. He was there when I first remember going to grandmother’s house in Alabama, living in the back room where I was not allowed, because it was off limits to a little boy with too much energy.

Tom was almost ten years older than I was; just about the same number of years that now separates my brother and me. To me Tom was there to play with me, and when he did not want to, I would “try self” as I was known to say and do in those days. To “try” myself meant I would through a small fit – just a tiny one. The attractive fit consisted of standing in one place, stomping my feet up and down, and flapping both my ears with my hands as I screamed!

I suddenly stopped “trying myself” one day a few years later when a man, a stranger to me who worked with my dad, got into the backseat where I was engaged in one of my tantrums. I only became aware of him as he said in a loud voice, “Here son, let me clean you off a place,” as he took off his ball cap and made dusting moves back and forth in the floorboard near my feet. “Now, have your self a big ol’ fit!” and laughed.

That one moment shocked me so much that from that day forward I never had another tirade! I was just too ashamed to be caught like that again I suppose.

Meanwhile, back to Uncle Tom who was about to fall victim to my mischievous spirit.

Having turned down my plea to play with me, he went into his sanctuary and lay back across his big feather bed. Once he entered the safety zone I knew it was useless to beg anymore, so I sat down and waited.

Several minutes later I tiptoed into his room and sprinkled black pepper onto his eyelids. To my surprise this did not awaken him. I got between him and the door and bumped his foot, screamed, and ran as hard and as fast as I could.

Uncle Tom woke up, blinked his eyes, and then suddenly jumped up yelling and rubbing his eyes! As soon as he could see his hands he knew exactly what had happened and with his eyes watering and his sight still blurred, he ran after me.

Around and around the house we went with Tom yelling at me and me screaming for my mother. I had “tried myself” one too many times and I figured he would kill me when he caught me, but I was a little faster and quicker than he was. The chase was not the fun I had hoped for, but at least he was playing with me – even if it was a weird kind of “catch me if you can!”

Tom joined the Air Force a few months after that and spent twenty years traveling around the world. He was always someone I looked up to and I actually entered the Air Force years later with a thought in the back of my mind to “be like Tom”, but because of Vietnam, I decided not to make it a career.

Nowadays I look forward to his visits and our trips to Alabama to watch his team play Tennessee. He raps his elephant on the head, it says “Roll Tide,” and I rap ol’ Smokey and he plays “Rocky Top!” We tease each other a lot and we love each other even more, because we have a special bond all seasoned with black pepper and no one can ever take that away.

BREAKING INTO THE OUTHOUSE

The photograph of the six-holer above is from DaNang South Vietnam. On a day off touring the base, again, because we were restricted to base unless we rode an escorted 6X6 to China Beach, I took this shot from atop an old French bunker for entertainment. If you look closely, you can make out one lonely occupant, taking care of business! The little flaps in the back was where you slid out the “crap” barrels, poured JP4 on the contents and set it ablaze if you were unfortunate enough to draw “shit detail!”

This story has nothing to do with this particular “crapper”, but it did remind me of the times the County Fair came to Humphreys County when I lived in Waverly, Tennessee. Three or four of us teenage boys wanted to save the cost of admission for grander things like rides, cotton candy, hotdogs, and games of chance! So, we devised a break-in scheme, and the one we came up with seemed foolproof.

The first day we went down to the main gate in the hopes someone would take pity on us and let us in free, but nobody did, and they actually seemed irritated that we stood there so long and watched them work. In retrospect this was our downfall.

Finally we walked off and started down the side of the poplar board fence kicking at cans and looking through the cracks and smelling the aroma of what we were missing. As we leaned against the boards near one particularly large crack, we noticed that people were walking toward the fence and disappearing just below where we stood. After a few minutes they reappeared and walked off into the crowd again. Upon closer observation, we realized we were near the outhouses that used the fence as a back wall.

I do not remember who first got the bright idea, but soon we were prying at a loose board on the back of the men’s outhouse. When someone came in, we jumped back away from the cracks and waited. Finally, we had a single board, about seven to eight inches wide, free at the bottom so that it would hinge to either the left or right.

I was the first one to slide between the planks and into the outhouse where I quickly locked the door. I looked through a crack in the door afraid to go out. The others whispered encouragement and “chicken” at me from the other side of the fence. It occurred to me that no one would think anything about it if I just acted naturally. I pushed open the door, and walked straight toward the crowd pretending to finish zipping my pants!

It worked like a charm – no one was the wiser or even looked at me. I stood near the corner of a concession looking back at the fence. Sure enough, soon there came one familiar face, then another, until we were all standing there giddy with delight and barely able to contain our pride in our covert accomplishment.

That day and the next were terrific adventures. We roamed the fairgrounds like proud outlaws that had gotten away with robbing the biggest bank in town. Each day our mom’s would give us the price of admission, to keep us out of their hair probably, and a little extra with which to eat and have fun. Each day, we saved the admission and came out of the outhouse one at a time zipping up our pants as if we owned the place.

However, on the third day the youngest member of our “breaking in the outhouse gang” panicked when a fair employee, who had remembered the kid standing at the front gate, looked questioningly in his direction. The terrified kid bolted to the outhouse and back through the fence. Before we knew what was happening, there was a man in the outhouse inspecting the swinging board, and two others were running around from the gate toward us. Like chickens being chased by a dog, we scattered in all directions. Our ruse was up and worse yet, we could not even come back with our parents!

The fair was over for us but we decided that there was always next year. However, when next year came, there were brand new outhouses sitting far away from the fence. From that year on, it was a slow fair year!

A SHOOTFEST

One thing I enjoy best in this world is when my brothers-in-laws and I have a shootfest! We all have several weapons apiece and we swap out taking turns shooting up all our ammunition at targets we’ve placed down in the woods.

Often times we take turns shooting the capped ends of plastic beer bottles full of water with a scoped .17 or .22 caliber rifle – you don’t think we’d waste a beer do ya! Another favorite “tack driving” competition we have is to see who can shoot the primer out of a 12 gauge shot shell! Steve has devised a plywood sheet that allows us to insert shells up to the rim pointing away from us. It takes a direct hit to set them off – it’s not as loud as you would think, but fun nonetheless to see all the smoke fizzle out.

Steve has a great little shop for working on nothing but firearms and reloads most of what he shoots. His favorite thing used to be to load some strange experimental load, hand it to me, and say, “Here, try this in your gun.” I usually obliged him, but I would hold the pistol around the trunk of a tree and squeeze the trigger. If it didn’t blow up the gun, we fired the rest! It’s awfully hard to blow up a Ruger, but that never kept us from trying.

My best Steve story is when we broke a “cardinal rule” of ours and did a little shooting while drinking beer. As he loaded a .22 revolver with some sub-sonic rounds off the tailgate of my '83 Blazer, he let the hammer fall on a full cylinder and shot a round into the back! We never did find that round! Ever since then, I’ll point out boxes of sub-sonics at gun shows and say, “Look! Blazer killers!” He hates that!

Last week, Ron, one of my other brothers-in-law purchased a new Taurus 1911 at a local shop’s “no tax sale” and so we all had to shoot it and compare it to the one’s we have. Steve likes the el-natural Colt 1911s, while I, being more technically advanced in my taste, like the modern improved Springfield “carry” models (see photo).

Anyway, we blasted away and finally succeeded in breaking the extractor out of the brand new Taurus! So, after Ron and Steve decided they couldn’t fix it, Ron took it right back to the store, same day he purchased it, and got another one. This Friday we’re going to see how it holds up!

FROM ONE VET TO ANOTHER

TWISTED ROOTS

What does it take, what prize do you desire to keep you going? What is the bottom line, what is it you seek? Does it glitter, or does it just answer you back? Nothing, is it nothing more than that? Does it take so little or so much?

Truthfully, it takes so little to keep us all going. Just a grain of attention, a drop of perceived affection is all it takes to lead us on.

I once had a little white dog whose name nobody remembers, that would jump upon the couch where I stood and allow me to throw it to the floor time and time again - just to be touched, just to be held that moment before release.

Sometimes we are all like that little dog – we just want another moment of someone’s awareness to nourish our desires at any cost, and then we jump back onto the couch. As these trees with twisted roots, we hang on, thriving on just the smallest bit of nourishment.

However, when we have to give so much with so little in return, we grow gnarled and tangled, living in the unhappiness of our lives. Even if the problem is removed we remain changed inside forever, even if our outward appearance is a disguise.

Unlike these trees, we have the ability to foresee our destiny when first we try to grow in certain situations, if we only had the will to make the change. If we find the will, then we must fill in life’s scarring with the fresh dirt of promise, hope, and love so that we do not become an obstacle to others.

LEARNING LESSONS THE HARD WAY

Back in 1962, Mushy had no idea his decision to take typing classes would serve him well in his career, not to mention BLOGDOM.

All he really wanted was to be where the pretty girls were! I guess chasing the pretty girls profited me some after all!

Did you ever make life-changing decisions over boys or girls in school?

My granddaughter is right in the middle of this time today, and will not listen to my free advice. As my daughter once said, “I guess I have to learn the hard way.” Why do we always do that? Why do we always think we are smarter than those that trod the same roads before us?

Update 07/13/17:

I was going over my past employment, with nothing much else going on, and I realized that typing in high school helped me more than a degree from UT.

When I came back from Vietnam they sent me to Sewart Air Force Base, near Smyrna, TN. When I reported to the First Sergeant's office, he was raising cane about the need for someone who could type. He turned and looked at me and said, "Can you type?"

Well, I spent my last year and a half in an air conditioned office processing ...traffic violations instead of standing in the heat and cold waving cars through the main gate.

For the rest of my life, I had jobs that required writing and typing; advertising manager at both the Harriman Record and The Roane County News, writing procedures and RFPs for Union Carbide and Lockheed Martin, and finally organizing an IT department for Bechtel Jacobs, etc.

All these opportunities would not have presented themselves had it not been for Ms. Robinson's typing classes (2 years) at South Harriman High School.

STANDING THE TEST OF TIME

Will your character stand the test of time?

Will you leave more than your memory behind?

Will you wear your battle scars proudly?

Will your good character proclaim your teacher loudly?

Will what you’ve done stand the test of time?

SILENT PROMISE

Excuse me if I write about my Ma once again. It was sometime back that I first mentioned her in a post called Does It Really Take the Entire Village? Ma was my dad’s mother. She was a skinny little snuff-dipping lady with about 4 feet of graying black hair rolled up in a tight bun, and held in place on the back of her head by long brown plastic hairpins. She was tough as they come. Pa did not dare cross her, and neither did her seven kids - six of which were good size boys.

With two boney little fingers pressed tightly against her lips, she could hit a tin “spit” can ten feet away! She ruled the roost with those boney little hands and even “whooped” her son Bob after he was married, and threatened to another.

She and her daughter Lois cooked with lard every meal, and without a doubt the best tasting seasoning a southern woman can use. Never mind that it is total artery clogging grease, you just do not care even knowing full well what it could do to you because it made things taste so darn good!

Together they made the best biscuits and cornbread the world has ever known. All of the children ate lard everyday, and if they had stayed on the farm, most of them would have lived as long as their parents did. Once they left, they got sedentary jobs like electricians, heavy equipment operators, and business owner/operators. These crafts just did not work the lard out off them, as farm work would have.

Ma came to East Tennessee once to visit. She was used to the flat land of lower Middle-Tennessee where you can see to the horizon and watch storm clouds coming your way for hours. The mountains were a new phenomenon to Ma and perplexed her greatly. I remember her running into our house one morning hollering, “Christine, come quick, the mountain is on fire!”

Mom went with her outside and quickly explained that it was only the clouds hanging low over them. She studied it a bit, spit out a stream, accepted it, and moved on.

I can only remember Ma telling me one thing, besides that she was going to whip me if I did not behave! She once told me “If you do as good as you look son, you’ll go a long way.” Well, I may have looked good as a kid to her, but if she could see old Mushy today, she might take that statement back!

I remembered those words as I watched them open the lower lid on her casket, adjust the quilted drape that was ran around the edges of the coffin, and close it again. I was shocked that Ma did not have any shoes on – just her usual thick stockings lying loosely against her boney little legs. As a pallbearer, I was standing very close awaiting instructions to assume my position at her feet, and as a fourteen-year-old boy, that struck me as very strange.

As we made our way down the front porch steps, which were only about three feet wide, I had to hang in the air from the coffin handle, momentarily allowing my side to dip to one side. As soon as the taller cousins reached the ground the coffin leveled out and I again attempted to carry my part of Ma.

I wondered if Ma had been rolled around much during the inadvertent tilt, and again about her little stocking feet. I silently made her a promise to do my best at that very moment.

I believe I did pretty good Ma, and it was partly because of what you said. I always wanted you to be proud of me. I sure hope you are.

SOUTHERN BRAIN-FRIED EVENING

I see the yellow leaves of the beech tree to my left, the red-orange dogwood, the orange of the oak, the green of the pines, and finally the mirrored sheen of the lake etched by a fall breeze, and the ripple made by the gentle touch of the Egret’s wing as I pan the view before me. There is a white arrow streak from a northbound jet and Billy Powell runs the keys to “Tuesday’s Gone” in time with the wind rustling the leaves around me. I sip my George and Coke, toke my Ashton, exhale, breathe the cool autumn air, and feel secure in my little world.

In the distance a chest thumping sound takes me back to Southeast Asia and awakens me from my contentment. Life Star is coming from UT Knoxville to pick up someone at the Harriman Hospital - the weekend has started early.

Silently I pray, “God, why am I so blessed? Thank you, but please be with whoever they are going after, and their family.”

For those of you that cannot understand “sipping” and “praying” in the same thought, I pray for you too.

THEY JUST KEEP HANGING ON

Fall just keeps hanging on this year and I, for one, am thrilled! Even through three rains, two frost, and gusts of wind up to twenty-five miles per hour, the leaves have stayed put. However, today I have noticed that they are beginning to brown, so the end is close at hand.

Yesterday, my wife and I drove up to Potter’s Falls, which is near Wartburg, Tennessee (couldn’t they change that name?) to do some more last minute “leaf peeping.” There was plenty of water and color left to enjoy.

Just moments after taking this shot, I slipped and cracked my knee hard against a big rock. I thought hiking boots were good for rock hopping, but quickly learned that tenni-wackers are probably best!

Anyway, it has been a very good year leaf photography.

MY TWO BEST HALLOWEENS

Well, here is the only “ghost” shot I could get to post - it was horrible folks! That hideous face, raising out of the ground, and the moans it made! It reminded me of …

The most memorable Halloween I ever had is a compilation of memories from the three years I lived in Waverly, Tennessee. I lived there in the years between the seventh and ninth grades. Besides where I live now, Waverly was the longest period of time I ever lived anywhere. I left grade school and entered high school there with many friends and a comfort level for belonging that I never acquired any other time in my education history, including college.

These Waverly years were my Elvis years. In 1958, Elvis was just beginning to hit it big and sock hops, TV dances, meeting girls at the movie house on Saturdays, and parties that included playing spin the bottle with girls was the “in” thing in those days. I loved this time and whenever I think about school days or think about my Happy Days times, this period is it.

It was a time I first became aware of fast cars and can still recall the sweet sound of a black 1958 Chevy 409 going through the gears heading out of town, with its 4-barrel wide open and sucking in the cool night air. It would be years before I could duplicate that in my own “hot rod.”

It was a classic time, a time of finding yourself, of discovering where you belong, and of losing your innocence. It was a time of my first broken heart, my first rejection, and my first realization that living in a trailer was not exactly what your new girlfriend’s parents wanted in their daughter’s future. I do not know why people always think that the way a person starts out in life is the place they will remain. In truth, that is rare, more often than not such an environment pushes people to do their best in life.

But this was my life at the time, my comfort zone, and I took everything in and remember it most. I once even sneaked back into Waverly late one night while driving to Memphis. It had changed, but there was enough remaining that I could see me riding my bicycle down its Elm canopied Main Street on the way home.

I remembered sneaking down this street on a Halloween night, hopping from tree to tree until I made it up to a red light. Behind me were two fellow mischievous boys carrying water-filled balloons. We hid ourselves from the oncoming cars and waited for them to stop at the light.

Halloween nights are usually warm and that night was no exception. You could hear rock’n roll and girls giggling coming from the open passenger side window just before we released our barrage of water bombs. Then, just gasps from cold water and screams of surprise!

As we ran, we could hear soft core cursing (not the filth you hear today) and someone calling out one of our names! We lay in the grass beside Warren’s house and rolled with laughter for several minutes. But soon, we were brave enough for another car bombing.

As I drove along I saw a familiar porch with its white washed steps and thick concrete block walls and low hanging flower baskets. It was on this porch and all around the yard where a neighborhood lady created the scariest Halloween she could imagine.

I could see myself walking reluctantly up her sidewalk, past the lighted pumpkins, dummies in rocking chairs with strange noises coming from behind them. Fake spider webs draped her hedges, and hung from the eaves of the house. Little orange and red lights flickered and the “Monster Mash” was playing off in some dark corner of the porch.

Just as you made the first step up, the lady, dressed in a very authentic looking witch’s costume, greeted you, and took your hand as she helped you onto the porch. In order to be rewarded with candy, you had to perform a few rituals. “Now, stick your hand into this bucket my sweetie,” she hoarsely instructed. “Feel the eyes?”

The power of suggestion works greatest on young minds and I could actually visualize the wet gooey grapes as actual eyeballs. I would quickly jerk my hand back and await her next command. “Now feel these cat guts!” Warm noodles and spaghetti in the dark can be imagined as most anything gory!

There were other things to feel as you ran the gauntlet to the candy. However, it was the most exciting times ever for a young boy during his Halloween season.

Last, but not the least scary, was her husband who suddenly rose up from one of the rocking chairs and screamed “Boo!” as loudly as he could. After the jumping around and screaming stopped, he held out his huge bucket of candy, or pointed you toward candid apples (in the days before razor blades sliced into our innocence) and popcorn balls. The two spared no expense.

I do not know if they had children or not, but if they did they probably stayed right there the entire evening and joined in the spooky fun. If not, we were their children for a night and they seemed to love each of us. They took time to compliment our costumes and ask our names and pushed us back out into the Halloween night saying, “See ya next year, my sweets!”

Number two in my memories of Halloween was not in Waverly, but in Harriman, Tennessee where I was by then a seventeen year old in heat!

We were past the age we could legally dress up, but we still roamed the neighborhood streets as the little ones trick-or-treated their way around house to house. There must have been about a six of us teenage boys prowling around on “sort of” dates with our best girls, trying to impress them with our stupid antics.

I was with a girl that was wearing a big white fuzzy coat and her “grand Tetons” as we referred to them were teasing me and calling my hand in the dark as we walked. She wore bras that remind me of Madonna’s gold metal sharp pointed stage bras – sharp enough you could stick paper notes down over to keep them from flying away!

Well, that is another story. Do not know how that snuck in here, but memories are strange roving entities that can materialize anywhere they want.

My attempt at impressing the pretty gal came as an opportunity to pound the rear quarter panel of a slow passing car. I banged the side of the car and fell down in the middle of the road holding my leg hollering.

A man stopped and jumped out of the car and flashed his Constable badge in our direction and wanted to know if I was all right. I pretended things were find and walked off into the dark to escape the embarrassment! He finally drove off after telling everyone to stop walking in the middle of the road.

Everyone got a good laugh at me, but hey, I was a bit of a clown then (and now) and liked it when they laughed, for whatever reason.

As I have stated before, I do not personally celebrate Halloween and the reason is mainly because I think the observance has changed from a celebration of life, where families enjoy it together, to one of evil or death. Life should be celebrated not death. If you carve the pumpkin, welcome the neighborhood children accompanied by their parents, and take the time to recognize each child’s creative effort, as a family, then go ahead, have a Happy Halloween.

BETTY DAVIS EYES

The Goddess asked me the other day how my wife got me to vacuum and other things around the house, well; I learned from my first mistakes how to appreciate my wife (see why they call me Mushy). I’m intent on keeping her!

Plus, she never says no, even with a headache!

That bit comes from a long time back when I was between marriages and when a friend and I wore polyester shirts, gold chains, and discoed our butts off! We were “wild and crazy guys” who loved “big American breast!” We consoled each other on the weekends, if we didn't have dates, playing Lynyrd Skynyrd, Ted Nugent, the Stones, etc., burning a little hemp, and downing mass quanitities of alchololic beverages!

He and I used to compete at writing “poems”, or rather weird song lyrics, but one night we compiled a list of 10 things a girl had to know, or have, before we would step back into matrimony.

This idea was spawned by the movie "Semi-Tough" starring Burt Reynolds back in ’77. In one scene, the main characters, Billy Clyde and Shake, discuss their rating system for women.

The ones we made up were based on the movie’s list, however I can only remember three of ours:
1. Never says no – not even in a coma.
2. Knows about Pavlov’s dog.
3. Knows all the lyrics to “Free Bird”.

The rest is lost to 28 years of partying!

My friend Steve and I haven’t seen each other in almost that long. I sure miss him – we were a roit together, but his wife made him settle down and I was out. We used to call the other one up and through the phone over in the bed if we were gettin’ lucky and we’d both just laugh our butts off no matter where we were. Good times - we are lucky to have lived through it all!

My wife passed the test, except for the “Free Bird” part (hey, I can’t remember them sober), but she did walk into the Time-Out Deli bare-footed one night and I just thought that was the coolest thing ever! I had never known a woman that down to earth and unpretentious, besides, she had “Betty Davis” eyes.

And, in my eyes, she is running up the beach with her braided and beaded hair dancing in the sunlight.

If someone can remember, or has seen the movie or read the book (Semi-Tough) lately, please post or send me the list from the movie. I searched but could not find it. It might help me remember more of “our” list!

CONFESSIONS OF A TRAFFIC WHORE!

“Hi. My name is Mushy, and I’m a “traffic whore” (sobbing).

It all started innocently enough – I registered my blog URL on blogexlosion (don’t click on the embedded link or you’re doomed) and began to play their silly little “Blog Rocket” and “Surf Member Blogs” games. Soon I had accumulated points and began to wager on “Battle of the Blogs” and doing “ScratchCards.” To my surprise I began to win and as of a few days ago I was the 14th top blog challenge winner of the month – rated 274 overall with over 1400 points! I was hooked and my hit counters were clicking away – driving me forward, telling me to “Explode your BLOG traffic.” Now, I’m purposely trying to lose all my points!

I began to lose weight (writer’s license to exaggerate here), miss my favorite TV shows (Ugly Betty, Desperate Housewives, and Greg’s Anatomy (more license use)), and lay awake at night plotting strategy (this is actually true)!

As of today, both my blog counters say I’m over 10,000 hits, and God I feel so cheap I can’t even celebrate! Worse of all, I’ve cheated my readership. Seeing that a site has that many hits compels readers, who would not normally give me time enough to click through, to stop, and read just to see what they may have been missing.

“Hi. My name is Mushy, and I’m a “traffic whore” (still blubbering).

Today I ordered T-shirts from Zazzle with my picture on the front and my blog address front and back – oh God help me to do better.

“Hi. My name is Mushy, and I’m a “traffic whore” (sniffling).

Today I ordered “Blogness Cards” from VistaPrint with my picture and blog address and a cute little comment under my “real” name – is there no hope.

So, now…now I’m on the wagon. I promise from this point on I’ll increase my hit count the old fashion way – one reader at a time – the slow legitimate way. I’ll visit blogs and leave comments, true heart felt comments, and maybe I’ll win a new friend or two.

I don’t feel too bad however, SiteMeter says readers average 2.34 minutes a visit and I try to keep most of my post within that anyway. So maybe you are reading – “You do love me!” (talk like Sally Field while reading this part). Another good sign is that I’ve swapped links with over 20 FRIENDS, and honestly, if no one but them ever read my blog again I’ll be happy. The best I can do now is “stay on the wagon” and keep up their interest.

I suppose 10,000 was a magical number I wanted to reach to give me some since of legitimacy to my blogging. The sad truth is I was too blind to see that my Blogrolled FRIENDS was all the legitimacy I ever needed. Thanks friends, and if I have not linked someone, please let me know.

This is what I do…pass on lessons learned - from a reformed “sixties” kind of man.

“Hi. My name is Mushy, and I’m a “traffic whore” (head held high).

God grant me the serenity

to accept the things I cannot change;

courage to change the things I can;

and wisdom to know the difference.
Blogging one post at a time;

Enjoying each hit at a time;

Accepting negative comments as the pathway to growth;

Taking, as Ron and the Goddess do, this blogging world as it is,

not as I would have it;

Trusting that hits will come even if I don’t surrender to the darkside;

That I may be reasonably happy in cyberspace

and supremely happy with simple blogging -Without BlogExplosion.

Amen.

LAST DAY OF LEAF PEEPING IN TENNESSEE

One of my brothers-in-law and I did a “leaf peeper” hike at Frozen Head State Park near Wartburg, Tennessee today. I think today was “peak day” especially since there was a heavy frost last night. So, today may have been the last day to enjoy the great colors of fall. The summer, like life, seems to end so quickly, but it sure goes out with a bang! That is my plan as well!

[CLICK TO ENLARGE]

LOSING MY INNOCENCE

We start out in this world trusting those around us – taking them for face value. Everyone was to be taken at their word with no second thoughts or doubts. However, there comes a day when you start to be leery of people and second guess their intentions – you start keeping an eye on them.

I was still small enough to have to sit on the padded board in the barber’s chair the day I began to mistrust adults, and two people regretted the incident for the rest of their lives.

The first visit to the barbershop in the 50’s was a “coming out” for a young man and it was a rite that only a man and his son should share. It was a dad’s way of welcoming you to his world and introducing you to his friends.

My dad proudly opened the door and let me walk into the smoky little red-bricked building first, and my face immediately began to glow hot from the attention as all eyes looked my way and seemed to dare me to enter alone. As soon as my dad appeared, smiles came to those faces, and greetings were exchanged, telling me that dad was known and welcomed there.

Little red vinyl padded chairs, with chrome curved arms and legs, lined one side of the room, separated by brown painted metal ashtray stands, folded newspapers, and stacks of Argosy and Field & Stream Magazines, while the other wall was grandly displayed with giant mirrored cabinets and shelves arrayed with strange electric devices, bottles of blue water soaking dirty combs clean, and big white haired brushes and cans of powder.

In front of the workstations were the stately padded and arrayed barber chairs with their chrome and porcelain pump handles and padded footrest. They were grand, magical things to me that rose and lowered at the barber’s command, or whirled from side-to-side as the customer was shown the barber’s experienced touch in the mirror.

My dad decided to go first, to let me relax and watch the show, and to see that there was nothing to getting a haircut. I watched and listened as the men all talked and laughed. It was all innocent enough and I could hardly wait my turn to climb on the big chair give it all a try. I listened to the clippers click on and off, the slap of the straight razors against leather straps, and the snip, snip of the shinny scissors, and the hydraulic sound the chairs made.

Finally, it came my turn and I stood waiting at the foot of the chair, one foot upon the footrest, until the “booster seat” was added across its arms. “Hop up son…you’re next!”

The barber gently put the traditional neck paper in place, then popped the white barber sheet clean of old hair and draped it around my body. The sheet, with my knees up under it, covered my entire body, and I was ready for the first real man haircut!

The barber clicked the electric clippers on and touched the warm face of the shears against the back of my neck. It felt good and I loved the hum and buzzing it made inside my skull – this was going to be good. The barber went round and around, and side-to-side, did some clipping with his scissors over his long black comb and finally completed his masterpiece on my little blond head. The final touch, so I thought, was the powdered brush across the back of my neck that made me blink and cough.

My dad walked behind me, out of view, whispered something to the barber, and then walked back in front. I should have known something was up, but remember, at that point I trusted all mankind!

I heard another louder buzz click on and thought nothing of it until the barber’s hand; complete with scalp massager touched the top of my head! Down from the chair I sprang and out the door I ran terrified! My dad chased me about a block before catching the barber sheet with me in it!

He carried me back into the barbershop where everyone, except for the barber, was still laughing. The barber looked sheepish and immediately began to apologize to me. “I’m sorry son, you’re dad put me up to it.”

I never again let that barber cut my hair. I went back to the shop for years, but I always used the second chair and kept a watchful eye on the barber when he moved away from the chair. No matter how much my dad pleaded I would not let barber number one touch me. Both the barber and my dad always regretted their little surprise, but never failed to tease me about it every trip back.

I lost my innocence that day, and three people learned valuable lessons for life – never let a stranger get behind your back and a kid never forgets or forgives!

MY “ROCKING CHAIR” DAYS

Fall has come to Mushy’s backyard, as it does each year at this time – strange how that works! As my dad always wanted to do when he retired but never really got to enjoy it, I am blessed to sit in my rocking chair drawing my “rocking chair money,” as he called it, and look out upon what God hath made. I just hope, as age continues to creep into my bones and loved ones are given up, that I will continue to see the beauty of the world through life’s pain.

The beauty of this view will never change, as life will. I just pray that my appreciation for it will always remain as unchanged.

"WE’VE GOTTA GET OUT OF THIS PLACE, IF IT'S THE LAST THING WE EVER DO"

I came across this old 35mm slide tonight, had to be the 70’s, of the Beacon Drive-In on the left and the big ESSO sign on the right during a winter snow (back when it used to snow in Tennessee). A flood of memories, smells, and tastes washed over me as I looked at this one. The Beacon was the last great drive-in restaurant in of the 50s, 60’s, and 70’s era in our area and when it went most of my teenage memories went with it.

The Beacon sat just on the west side of the bridge leading out of Harriman. I watched many drag races coming across that bridge, saw them whip off behind the Beacon to avoid police observance, and quietly slip into a parking bay, punch the speaker, and order a cherry coke and a cheeseburger with fries. It was a great meeting place for kids on a date, or a place to troll for one.

Hot-rodder’s ready to leave after refueling on the Beacon’s “basket specials” had a passenger jump out, knock off the “cut out pipe” caps, and hop back in as the big blocks roared to breathy life. The loud chugging and backfiring was a call to others that the game was on again. Usually, some contender took the queue, went through the same ritual, and brought their throaty beast to life – a new heat across the bridge was on! The challengers met at the side of road, looked up and down the highway, as the Beacon’s eaters froze in place, anticipating. Engines revved and strained against brakes until the coast looked clear. Then in a V-8 bellow they charged off in a cloud of blue rubber smoke. It was wonderful and the smell of burning rubber made a chilidog taste all the better!

As the engines went through synchronized gear changes, peaked RPM, and then backed off in distant popping and a halo of red taillights, the patrons resumed smacking and licking their lips. “Who won?” someone would shout.

Sometimes you could catch a fistfight further up behind the ordering bays, and inside a semi-circle of car headlights. Later, loser and winners broke up into small groups went somewhere to drink and brag.

Inside, the pinball machines beeped, clanged, whistled, popped, flashed, and chirped their wild sounds to cigarette smoking, gum chewing, and coke swigging boys bent on doubling their allowances. Many times I put my five-dollar allowance on the counter, ordered a cheeseburger and fries, a cheery coke, a pack of Winstons, and got the rest in nickels. If I hit the pinball, we all went across the street, played snooker, bought beer, and sat out back later laughing and talking about girls.

Of course if one of us did not hit, then we were left with deciding whether to walk home, or stand on the street, hanging off parking meters, hoping some body would pick us up, and ride us around. Riding around consisted of cruising up and down Roane Street, slow chugging (pretending your car had a cam) around the Beacon, and back down the main drag again.

It was this circle of life, the summer we graduated, that got to us. “Man! We have got to get out of this place guys. We’ll die here if we go around this damn Beacon one more time.”

So off we went the next day and three of us joined the Air Force on the “buddy system.” After basic training, I have only seen those guys once in forty-two years!

Ironically, I thought I would die if I circled the Beacon for the rest of my life – not knowing that I would be going to Vietnam where dying was a very real possibility. Stupid kids!

Someone, somewhere out there in America tonight is having that same thought. They do not know when they have it made. They spend most of their time wishing their lives away.

How I wish I could circle the old Beacon one more time or taste that wonderful cherry coke and cheeseburger combination – wearing that younger man’s shoes, but feeding this older man’s face.