Bill's First Column:  The Art of Fatherhood

As the father of two small children, I am receiving quite an education in the art of fatherhood.  I have found out on more than one occasion that the simplest of tasks can become huge adventures of magnificent proportions.

As a new parent, one of my first adventures occurred when my son Jacob was eight months old. My Yankee schoolteacher wife Laurie and I had taken him on our weekly pilgrimage to the fish camp.  Jacob, who didnt have a tooth in his head  wanted a French fry in the worst way.  Over his mothers objections and rantings about how millions of children choke to death every year because of stupid people like me, I gave him one anyway. I assured her everything would be fine. But it is the curse of the male to always be wrong in such dealings, Jacob of course choked.

Being well trained to handle such emergencies, I snatched the boy up and gave him the Hiemlich maneuver.  There wasnt a dry eye in the place. I was a hero. I had saved a life.  My new fans were shocked when my wife, the mother of this child I had just saved, began to loudly profane my name. That is of course until she pointed out the fact I had caused all this in the first place.

My dog and I got well acquainted with each other that night.

In my next adventure some three months later, the sequel to this fiasco unfolded in our kitchen.  Laurie, a cross between Betty Crocker and June Cleaver, had neatly peeled and cut an apple for Jacob to eat.  She had ritualistically peeled the apple and had cut it into the geometric proportions required for the safe feeding of apples to three-toothed children.

I had missed the cutting ceremony and had been blissfully ignorant of such things up to this point.  But times change.

When I arrived home, all I saw was Jacob happily eating his apples.  Laurie immediately retired to the far reaches of our house and left me alone with our son.

When he finished his apples he wanted more. Loudly.

So I did what any other father would do. I pulled out my pocketknife, wiped it off on my overalls, and cut him some more.

And to my amazement, he choked again.

And I gave him the Himleich maneuver. Again.

And then my wife yelled at me again.

She came flying down the hall screaming like a high water haint. "Are you arent really that stupid?  "You never feed a baby whole hotdogs or whole grapes, and you always peel apples!

Now how was I supposed to know that?

I calmly replied, ever so lovingly, "Woman, I was there in the delivery room when you gave birth to our son by Cesarean section. I saw things come out of you and go back in you I never wanted to see. I know more about you than I ever wanted to know.  But of all the things I saw taken out and of all the things I saw put back in, I never saw an owners manual at anytime. 

Sometimes you have just have to say it and deal the consequences.

It was on that very night I learned Alpo and dog biscuits are quite filling. That is after I fought the dog for my supper.

The final chapter in this ordeal unfolded several years later in the delivery room at the hospital.  It was during the birth of our daughter, Kathleen, who was also delivered by Cesarean.  After the birth, the doctor finished up and announced she was ready to close.   I know I shouldnt have done it, but I did it.  I called a time out.  I really did.  I just had to ask it. "Doc, I got in some trouble the last time we were here. Will you check around in there and see if there is an owners manual."

Ladies and gentlemen, I owe my life today to an epideral. Laurie came very close to levitating off that operating table.   She tried awful hard.

I suppose I still have a lot to learn about the art of fatherhood. And when to keep my mouths shut.

I have learned one thing though.   In preparation for the printing of this column, I have already stocked the doghouse with potted meat, Vienna sausages, crackers, and cold drinks.

I figure the dog and I are fixing to bond again. 

What It Means To Be A Good Ol' Boy 

More than a year ago, I began writing a newspaper column with one goal in mind: to aggravate my wife. I am happy to report that I been successful in that endeavor and have even become quite accustomed to sleeping in the yard.

Now, with all the finer papers in the Piedmont carrying my column, I have found that my routine references to good ol’ boys tend to confuse some Yankees and other foreigners. For many, the term conjures up images of smelly Southern males named Goat, Tire Iron or Billy Ray who lie around the yard drinking alcoholic beverages and trying to out-burp each other.

So in an effort to educate, I will attempt to explain some of the things that make good ol’ boys good. Here goes.

First, good ol’ boys don’t just live in the South. We occupy every state in the Union. The exception to this rule is California. The most recent confirmed sighting in California was in 1979 near Goose Lake when the last good ol’ boy was seen fleeing the state following the death of John Wayne.

Good ol’ boys are found among all races, and even in both sexes. There are as many good ol’ girls as there are good ol’ boys.

And good ol’ boys are not to be confused with rednecks. Rednecks also come from all backgrounds and are found in both sexes. They come from all parts of this great country, to include California. Rednecks are usually found to be greasy individuals who rarely bathe and are in fact named after animals, tools, or even several people at once. Rednecks are also known to shun practitioners of the dental profession and lie around the yard — anybody’s yard — indulging in the aforementioned drinking and burping.

Let me enumerate some, but not all, of the traits of the typical good ol’ boy:

Fashion. For good ol’ boys, function and comfort come before style. The good ol’ boy actually makes his own style, which can include wearing black shocks with tennis shoes and short pants. And no good ol’ boy would ever wear anything with the name Tommy or Hilfiger on it — unless, of course, his name actually was Tommy and it was stitched over the breast pocket of his work shirt.

Vehicles. Good ol’ boys like trucks. All makes and models, from pickups to eighteen-wheelers. The Country Cadillac is our preferred method of travel.

Eating. A good ol’ boy will not touch, much less eat, any food that is not fried or barbecued. To do so, we are told, will result in immediate death.

Silverware. A good ol’ boy typically considers silverware to be optional. He is thoroughly confused by the fuss his wife makes over which side of the plate he puts the silverware if he happens to help set the table. He is even more confused by the need for more than one fork at the same meal. If he uses a fork at all, it will be the big one, from salad course to dessert.

Civic duties. All good ol’ boys have at some time in their lives been a member of a volunteer fire department, rescue squad, or other organization whose official mission necessitates the blowing of a siren, whistle, horn or other obnoxious device. While serving in the above capacity, the good ol’ boy will employ the use of so many red flashing lights on his vehicle that at least one marine battery will be needed to keep it running. These accessories are typically worth more the Blue Book value of the vehicle itself.

Pocketknives. The general rule of thumb is if he has his pants on, the good ol’ boy has his pocketknife. Chances are it won’t be far from him if his pants are off. An exception to this rule is made if the good ol’ boy is visiting the airport or the schoolhouse.

Headgear. Good ol’ boys love hats, especially Stetsons. And every good ol’ boy also has at least one Bass Pro Shop hat in his collection, which is reserved for formal occasions such as weddings, funerals and all NASCAR-sanctioned events.

So, there you have us, good ol’ boys in a nutshell. I hope I have cleared up one of life’s mysteries here today. I will continue to provide periodic infusions of knowledge on this subject in future columns.

In the meantime, further information on good ol’ boys can be obtained by simply visiting your local hometown hardware or feed store, most barber shops, or any place where fishing tackle is sold.

Real Men(and Women) Drink Tap Water

Bottled water makes me sick. Everywhere I go, no matter what function, gracious hosts and hostesses are providing bottled water along with the other beverages they serve.  Now being a Southern good ole boy, I am not one to spurn hospitality, but I have had it. What ever happed to a cup, some ice, and water out of the spigot?

It seems all us good ole boys, and girls, are finding ourselves smack dab in the middle of a culture that forces use to drink water out of a bottle if we are to conform to the norm of society.  Just try asking for water in a glass at a bottled water affair.  I did that once and those people treated me like the outlaw in-law at a family hoe down.

Maybe its the cost that gets me most because it is absolutely ridiculous. Do you remember that old Merle Haggard song that began "when they find out how to burn water and the gasoline car is gone?"  Well, dont tell Merle, but we sure couldnt afford to do that now.

A while back I went into a restaurant and noticed bottled water selling for a $1.00 a bottle. I asked the waitress how much a glass of water would cost. She replied, "you mean the complimentary water?" Guess that answered my question. So I had the option of paying a $1.00 for a bottle of water, or I could have an unlimited supply, with ice mind you, for nothing. Boy that was an easy choice.     

This summer on a trip to the mountains I decided to get some water to take on our picnic.  At the gas station I stopped at to fill up the van, I decided to buy some water.  It seems I could buy a gallon of water for $1.20 or I had the option of buying a 20ounce bottle of water from the same company for $1.29.  The gas was a dollar a gallon.

Am I missing something somewhere?   How in this world could gasoline, drilled from the oil fields of the Middle East, shipped to a refinery in this country in a big old ship, piped to Paw Creek, and trucked to that gas station, cost less than a jug of water?  And how does less water cost more than more water? Now I will admit I wasnt too good at math in school and I slept through more than a few logic classes in college.  Even the dimmest bulb on the Christmas bush can figure out that this is just plain stupid.

Of course I will grant you that if this was some special kind of water I could understand the price. But read the labels.  That high dollar water at the gas station was "from a deep, protected well".  Go figure that, water from a deep well. I thought thats what a well was, deep.  And how do you protect a deep well anyway, with a shotgun? 

It would appear that those silver-tongued devils who market bottled water have used some mighty curious notions to convince us to pay so much for so little. They stick labels on the jug that claim their water comes from a deep well, an Artesian well, an aquifer, or from a spring high up on some far away mountain. Or how about charcoal filtered? Try pouring some water through a bag of charcoal sometime and see how that tastes. The fact of the matter is it all boils down to this: it doesnt matter what type of hole it comes out of water is still water.

Let me offer some good ole boy logic to lift us out of this river of ignorance. The next time you get a water craving flung on you, get a cup and go to the spigot. Be wild and put some ice in it if you want too. You cant do that with bottled water, I tried. Couldnt get the cubes through that tiny hole. But if you just have to drink your water from a bottle I have that one figured out too.  Get a canteen, fill it full of water from a deep well, and you will have bottled water. For free.

For those of you still want to pour good money down the drain I am working on helping you too. I am going to invent diet water. It has half the calories of regular water, is just as wet, and I will only charge you twice as much for it.

With This Ring

I am one of those fortunate individuals who married his childhood sweetheart. It is a rather romantic tale, too. One I am sure the folks down at the Harlequin Romance factory are dying to get a hold of.   

Our romance started the first time I laid eyes on Laurie. She was fresh from the North, a vision of young Yankee womanhood, sitting smack in the middle of the lunchroom at East Gaston High School.  She did to my heart what Sherman did to Atlanta.

It was love at first sight, too. For me anyway. The fact Laurie didn't care for me at all didnt bother me in the least. 

You see, Laurie had this strange notion I was a nerd. It could have been the polyester pants or my Ronald Reagan hairdo that turned her off. I dont know.  She didnt even like my car, which was a volunteer fireman's dream. It was a custom 72 Ford Maverick complete with a souped up engine and covered from one end to the other with red lights and radio antennae's.

It only took me seven years to finally wear her down.  We ended up in college together and ultimately became best friends. It was only after I graduated and went into police work that I won her over. My polyester uniform finally did the trick.  I proposed to her the day after I caught her reading a brides magazine.

The 1 year engagement that followed was rather long but it had a practical side. Laurie's daddy told us we could get married just as soon we wanted to, but there was a catch. I would assume all her liabilities once we married which included paying for her last year in college.

Love is one thing. Reality is another.

When our wedding day finally did arrive it was not without incident. My best man informed me he was going to play a "good 'un on me."  I never in all my life would have believed just how "good" a one it was going to be if I hadnt been there and seen it for myself. And I wish I hadnt been. 

The service began and proceeded without incident, until IT happened. All of a sudden, out of the clear blue, my buddy did something so bad, so utterly terrible, that neither my wife nor the editor of this fine family newspaper will let me say what he did.

All I have been allowed to say is that what happened at our wedding is still talked about to this day, on both sides of the family, and then only in hushed tones.  It raised the ire of that preacher to the extent he took that fool into his office and gave him his very own personal dose of fire and brimstone.

After all that, we roared off into the night to our honeymoon, which we were soon to find was ripe with its own set of adventures. Audie Murphy actually starred in a movie based on our honeymoon. It was called To Hell and Back.

We had very little money, so we had planned a beach trip. Trouble was, the only beach we could afford was the one at Lake Lure. In December.

We stayed there in an old bed minus the breakfast. We couldnt afford the breakfast. The place was a meandering, spooky old inn that had the charm and smell of your grandmother's attic.

A fellow named Bates ran the place and he gave us a corner room on the second floor. It was a large drafty room that had two big windows on each side that overlooked a community porch. The fact that neither window had curtains set the mood for the rest of our trip.

If it tells you anything, the place burned down not long after we left.

I am the only man I know of who came home early from his honeymoon and was happy about it.  I still owe Jerry Adams for getting me out of it. He was then the assistant principal at North Belmont Elementary and he sent word he wanted to interview Laurie for a schoolteachers job. Bless his heart, I have never been so happy to hear from anybody in my life.

There is a happy ending to this love story. Just like in an old Randolph Scott picture, I got the girl.

And even better than that, all these years, I still have her. And as aggravating as she is, I am still just as in love with her now as I was the first day I laid eyes her. 

The Mt. Holly PHD Society

In days of old it was the custom in towns and villages for the elders to gather at the gates of the city so that they could dispense wisdom, knowledge, and justice to folks who came to seek their wise counsel.

Times have changed.  Today our elders don't assemble at the gates of town anymore.  Our towns don't have gates. 

But here in the South our stalwart elders have not let the changing of times keep them from their duties of gathering and dispensing wisdom and knowledge.  

We did stop them from dispensing justice some time back because most of their judicial remedies tended to involve a short rope and long tree.   

These days, our modern elders have left their fences and gates behind to gather mostly at places where biscuits and coffee are sold.  

In my hometown of Mt. Holly, one of our chief gathering spots for the wise is Charlie's Drug Store. 

Charlie's Drugs offers a welcoming atmosphere and a group of ladies known as Charlies Angels who cook hot dogs and hamburgers for lunch. They also sell coffee for a quarter a cup which draws in elder sages like an outhouse draws flies.

Charlies Drug Store is one of my favorite places on earth.  It is a place stuck in time-a pretty good time.

I spent a great deal of my childhood going down there with my Mom while she bought medicine to treat every kind of illness and rash my two little brothers and I could find to catch.

I used to sit around hoping and praying one my brothers would break out with something so we could go to Charlies because Mom never took us that she didn't buy us all a Cherry Smash- a drink made only in Heaven and only sold in Mt. Holly at Charlies Drugs.

If we were exceptionally lucky she might even let us get a comic book or a toy from a little metal rack that had balsa wood airplanes, cap guns, plastic jewelry, and those paddles with a rubber band stapled to a rubber ball. 

Today Charlies still has Cherry Smash's and that toy rack. They also still sell medicine, both the modern and old-fashioned kind.

Charlies still carries Castor Oil, Black Draught, Red Oil, and Bag Balm, not to mention Father Johns Cough Syrup and Sloans Linament.  All of these were important remedies long before the days of the co-pay prescription card.

Saturday morning a week ago I happened to be passing through town when I observed a called meeting of the group of wise guys who roost at Charlies.  A quorum was present and consisted of Dwight Dellinger, Al Norton, and Jack Warren. Gene Painter, the biggest pill pusher in town, dropped in as well.   

Gene, not Charlie, owns the drug store.

This group of old gomers is part of an official sect known up until recently as the Sanhedrin.  The name was changed in part due to negative Biblical connotations given it by the first group to have that name. It was also changed due to the fact that the vast knowledge and wisdom of this auspicious group dictated a name more befitting its stature be devised.

It is now known as the Mt. Holly PHD society.  

PHD in this case stands for Piled High and Deep, an understatement given this groups membership. 

The Mt. Holly PHD Society, which has several other members, meets each morning either inside or standing out front of the store. They can be found each day embarking on their never ending quest to solve all of the worlds problems.

People of all ages come from far and wide to visit these wise old devils to find the answers to age old questions like who is buried in Grants Tomb and what time do the monks at Belmont Abbey really hold midnight Mass. 

On this particular morning I was allowed to sit on the group while it dispensed with its official business. I have to say my brief visit amongst such an august and noble band was worth every minute. I left happy, enlightened, and full of Cherry Smash.

I plan on stopping in on one of their regular meetings this week to follow up on a research project Dwight Dellinger has been involved with for sometime now.

Dwight claims he is finally going to get to the bottom of the age-old mystery of just how many licks it takes to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop.

If I know Dwight, he will too.